by Kirk Jockell
I was really kidding about calling the FBI. That would have been dumb, but I needed to feel him out. If he was thinking about it, I would want to intervene. I wouldn’t want him to do anything stupid or embarrassing.
“Okay, you’re right,” I said. “Calling the FBI wouldn’t be the best of ideas. This probably needs to be handled internally, without the authorities. Sometimes the legalities of things get in the way.”
“That’s what I was thinking. Will you help me?” he asked.
“I’ll do what I can. I can’t promise anything, but I think we can figure this thing out. Sit tight, go home, get some rest and let me work on a few things. If you get any new ideas, give me a call.”
I left him there at the bar. I stood up and pulled a sweaty, folded-over twenty out of my pocket. I gave it a spinning fling towards Candice, the barkeep. “Give him a fresh one and this is for his tab. Don’t let him drive if he’s not fit to do so.”
“Do you think you know who did it?” Candice asked.
“I’m not sure. At this point it’s all speculation. I have ideas, but that’s about all. Will you call me if you should hear anything come across the bar?”
She gave me a smile and a nod. I was almost to the door when she stopped me, “Hey, Nigel.”
I turned around.
“Thanks for coming in.” With a wink and subtle lick of her upper lip she added, “And for wearing those shorts.”
I rolled my eyes as I turned and walked out the door.
I got home and took a shower, nice and hot; cooled steam dripped from the mirror and ceiling. I toweled off, put on a pair of cargo shorts and grabbed a cold beer out of the fridge. I sat out on my front porch under the ceiling fan, no shirt. I thought for a bit, and then chuckled. The Great “KID”-napping. The local cops were funny but unprofessional. They should have shown a bit more respect and saved the humorous comments for locker room antics.
I took a sip of beer and considered the goofy ransom note, the picture, and the situation as a whole. These guys are either really dumb and want to get caught, or the whole thing is nothing more than a bad joke. My bet was on the latter, but how far were they willing to take it? That was the question. All I knew was the old man was at wit’s end and needed help.
The picture provided much in the form of evidence. There was the great shot of the captor’s hand: skinny, bony fingers holding the newspaper under Maxine’s chin, complete with a clear view of a senior class ring. From under a magnifying glass I could read, Port St. Joe High, Class of 2010.
Then there was the background scenery and the angle of the shot. The camera has been low enough that it allowed for plenty of sky and treetops. Not any treetops though, treetops I had seen before. They were signature treetops with two big nests in close proximity to each other, resting in the top of two old dead hardwoods. I couldn’t place where I had seen them. Damn. It was driving me crazy.
I also started to consider some of the potential problems our kidnappers might face. The first being, where would you best hide a goat, especially one that was sure to be pissed off? Maxine is spoiled. She lives in the house with Luke and has her very own bedroom. She has her favorite television shows: Duck Dynasty, The Voice, and Project Runway. Luke has never been able to figure that last one out, but it’s what she likes. And she has a couple cans of cold beer before bed. As it goes for goats, she is used to living the Life of Riley. Anything out of the ordinary would undoubtedly set her off.
I took another sip and closed my eyes. I thought about the picture and the nests. It was starting to make more sense, and I was able to eliminate several locations. I couldn’t nail down the one spot I had floating around somewhere in my mind.
I was starting to put together a few pretty good ideas when I heard my back screen door open, an unmistakable squeal. My eyes opened. The spring of the door slammed it shut, bouncing free against the frame. I heard the unmistakable sound of my refrigerator opening, then closing. Heavy footsteps were crossing my hardwood floor, then the unmistakable sound of carbonation escaping a bottle of beer, the top quickly twisted off.
“I’m out on the porch.”
I looked over my shoulder to see my buddy Red standing in the doorway, a blank look on his face. “Come on out,” I said. “Grab yourself a seat.”
He stood there for a moment or two and said, “Dang!”
He took a seat on the swing.
“What’s the matter?”
Red took a long pull from the beer, released a refreshing gasp and said, “Ah, yeah. Man that is cold. You must have the coldest beer in town.”
“You mean I had the coldest beer in town. That was my last one.”
Red wasn’t too far from the truth. If it isn’t the coldest beer around, it’s damn near. My refrigerator is from the early fifties. It’s old-school with a latching door, probably the original unit that came with the house.
Such refrigerators were outlawed in 1956 because of their danger to children. It’s a classic and works a little too well. It either cools to perfection or over-compensates. More and more these days I’m waking up to half-frozen provisions. If I keep my beers towards the front of the box they will stay above freezing, the perfect temp. I can deal with a little frozen milk, but the minute I lose one beer to an over-zealous refrigerator, the door comes off its hinges and off to the dump it goes.
“What’s bothering you, Red?”
“It’s frustrating, that’s all,” he said.
“What is it?”
“It’s this CRS, that’s what. It seems to be getting worse. It’s driving me crazy. Seems to be flaring up especially bad these days ... Anyway, I came over to bring you something, but…”
“Whoa, Whoa, Whoa, Buddy. Slow down,” I said. “Don’t change the subject on me. What’s with this CRS stuff? Is it serious, contagious?”
“Well, it can be I guess,” he said. “It all depends on the circumstances. That’s what I was trying to tell you. I came over to bring you something but I left it at the house.”
“I’m not following.”
“Damn, Nigel. This is embarrassing enough without you making it worse. I left it at the house. I forgot it, okay. It’s the damn CRS: Can’t Remember Shit!”
I shook my head. “Ah hell, Red. You ain’t right. Forget about all that for now. You can give it to me later; we’re going for a boat ride. Come on.”
“But we’re out of beer,” he said.
“Red, as long as the CVS drug store is open, we’ll never be out of beer.”
He smiled.
I bought an old powerboat, a Key West 1700, center console. I call it Chum Bucket. It’s powered by a 90hp Johnson outboard which I affectionately refer to as Johnny. I bought it as a platform for an idea that I had been tossing around. When I retired from the Navy, I wasn’t actually ready to retire. To have my druthers, I’d still be steaming along on some rusty war bird in the middle of the Mediterranean. But it didn’t work out that way; those plans got cut off early. In the end, I still wasn’t ready to retire. I wasn’t prepared to don a pair of sexy Rockport shoes, sport an old ship’s cap and daily walk the corridors of some Panama City Mall. I needed something to do, something to occupy my mind and time.
There is little occupational opportunity in Port St. Joe, so if I was going to do something, I was going to have to create something for myself. I turned to a side passion, photography. I’m a sailor of boats. I like boats, love them actually. I love sailboat racing. I did plenty while in Norfolk. I figured, why not travel around as a regatta photographer, shoot boats and peddle my work to the skippers and crew. Chum Bucket would serve as the perfect platform to work a race course and the boats.
Chum Bucket also serves as the perfect boat to play in St. Joe Bay. She is small and fast. If I needed to get somewhere quick, she can make short work of it, but at a significant cost. When you open up the horses in Johnny, the old girl gets mighty thirsty and ethanol-free gas isn’t cheap. I was reminded of that as Red topped off the tank at the Exxon statio
n.
As promised, we swung by the CVS to recharge the cooler with ice and beer before heading to the boat ramp to launch. We lucked out. There was no wait. We splashed, parked, and had the girl fired up and easing out into the channel in no time. And as quick, Red began working on the ballast transfer operation, moving one beer at a time from the cooler to his own personal holding tank.
“You want one?”
“No thanks,” I said. “After awhile, maybe.”
“Where we headed?”
“I don’t know. The tide is running. I thought we might drift the channel behind Pig Island and get a line wet. Catch some dinner. A little fresh fish in the belly sounds good.”
That wasn’t altogether a lie. I did need to catch something to eat, and a big, fat speckled trout on the grill sounded pretty damn good. It would also give me a chance to pay attention to the tree line.
“Oh, is that why you brought me? Who’s going to do the catching? You can’t fish for shit.”
“Thanks, Red.”
It was true. I would starve if I had to rely on my own catch for survival. Some days were better than others, but, more often than not, I spent more time cleaning other people’s fish than my own. Sad, but true.
We were about an hour and a half past high tide. The water this far back in the bay gets pretty thin, so with a falling tide I had to be careful. We were on a nice easy plane, zipping along towards the back of the bay and the south end of Pig Island when Red gave my heart a start. “Put it back, dammit! Put it back. Let it go!”
“Damn, Red. What is it? You scared the shit out of me.”
“The son of a bitch is going to keep it, Nigel. He caught a trout too small and he hasn’t turned it loose. You know the rule, a fifteen inch minimum,” he said.
Red barked one last time. “Did you hear me? You bastard! I said to let it go! Play by the damn rules.” Red took a drink of beer, stood next to me at the helm station and chuckled.
I was confused. I looked around and couldn’t see any fishermen, none close enough to see their catch anyway. I scanned around and almost asked him what in hell he was talking about when it caught my eye. There it was, flying low across the water but gaining height. An osprey, in its talons was a trout, head pointing forward for aerodynamics. It was a catch too small for humans but big enough to serve as a raptor snack.
I watched as it gained altitude, heading towards the island. I cut the wheel to follow. I checked the depth then told Red to hold on to something other than his beer. I leaned on Johnny to give chase.
Red looked at me and over his signature chuckle he said, “You’re wasting your time. He’s not going to drop it for you either.”
I looked over and smiled as the boat ran wide open. There was little wind, so the water was flat, making for a nice ride. We were catching up, and for the first time since leaving the dock, there was something on board drinking faster than Red. Johnny was doing a number on the liquid dinosaurs in the tank.
After a while I began to feel the bottom of the bay through my bare feet. The water was getting thin and it would only continue to get worse the closer I got to the island. I trimmed the motor up a bit to keep the prop from mowing the sea grass, a fragile part of the bay’s ecosystem. Plus, a good boat prop isn’t cheap, nor is the lower end of a motor.
Through my polarized sunglasses I could see it was going to get worse real quick. I told Red to hold on. He squeezed his beer tight as I quickly throttled back and trimmed the motor up even more.
At idle and the boat in neutral, I grabbed my binoculars and found the bird. Its wings were still flapping hard, gaining height with every powerful stroke. As I followed the bird of prey through the air, Red said, “Does he still have it?”
I didn’t answer. I kept tracking the bird. I saw its destination and adjusted the binoculars for better focus. It was a nest, his partner patiently waiting. I watched as the proud fella landed on the edge. She seemed to be a little miffed, raising hell, like he’d been out all night drinking. Truth was, she was happy to see him. They tore into the fresh catch. I smiled as I watched.
I handed the binoculars to Red. He’s lived here most his life and has seen this spectacle of nature many times, but he never tires of it. He gazed in amazement like it was the first time. From underneath the glasses he said, “You never get tired of it, do you? The marvels of nature that can unfold right before your very eyes.” He pulled the binoculars down and continued talking. “Like dolphin, you know? We see them almost everyday, but we never ignore them. We always stop to watch, even if for a bit.”
“Red,” I said. “I love it here, Dude. Finding this town, this coast, and you folks. It’s one of the best things that could have ever happened to me. It isn’t only wildlife that finds refuge here.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” Red skipped a beat and then said, “You know. I don’t know what heaven is like, or what to expect. But if it’s anything less than the Cape, I’m going to be disappointed.”
“Me too, brother,” I said. “Me too.”
I put the boat back into gear to work it towards deeper water and said, “You know. I think I’m ready for that beer. Dig deep down in the ice and get me a cold one. Let’s go get a line wet.”
The depth of the water behind Pig Island was like the fishing: thin. I wasn’t looking or expecting to catch much. I wanted to see the tree line from behind the island. Red had already caught dinner and put his rod away. I kept fishing.
I continued to cast and work the shore towards the island. Red sat on the bow and watched me as he drank beer. He was concentrating on each cast. He never said anything. He sat there watching. I tried to ignore him but he continued to sit there, intently watching my every move. This went on for a dozen casts or so and started to annoy me. Then, in mid-cast, I dropped the rod tip into the water and said, “What? What is it? What are you doing, Red? You’re creeping me out sitting there like that.”
“I’m waiting,” said Red.
“Waiting on what?”
“Waiting to see if it can really happen.”
Frustrated I asked, “What in the hell are you talking about? Waiting to see if what really happens?”
Red chuckled, “Miracles. I want to see if miracles really come true.”
“Really. Miracles?”
“Yep!” he laughed and chuckled saying, “You catch a fish. It’ll be a fucking miracle.”
Red gave up on witnessing any divine intervention and turned around and sprawled out on the bow of the boat, head over the side to focus on the bottom. We were in about two feet of water, perfect for viewing the blue crab, mullet, stingrays, and other creatures that make up the waters and bay floor. Every now and again Red would reach down and snatch an unsuspecting scallop from the sea floor and make quick work of picking the sweet meat from its shell. They make the perfect snack, much better than the tins of sardines or smoked oysters I kept on board.
Red had a beer sitting next to him, a sweat line made a perfect ring about halfway down the can. Red won’t use a Koozie. He claims no need; beers don’t stick around long enough to get warm. Either way, the sight made me thirsty.
I made an extra-long cast towards shore and, while the bait was still in the air, I reached down with one hand to open the cooler. At about the same time my bait hit the surface, my hand hit the ice and reached deep past the three trout Red had caught and found me some blue mountains on a can of Coors Light.
With the can in my hand, I used my palm to turn the crank a half turn and closed the bail on my spinning reel. Then I gave the crank a quick, hard turn, allowing the reel to spin freely to take up the slack in the line. The reel spun freely as I lowered the rod tip to reduce the line tension allowing the bail to recover as much line as possible. At the same time, I was at work bracing the bottom of my beer against my hip to get a nail under the tab.
Opening a fresh, cold beer makes me smile, especially when really thirsty. As the tab pulls up and the scored aluminum tears away, the release of carbonatio
n is easy on the ears. Plus, as the compressed gas rushes to the atmosphere, the top of the knuckle almost always gets a cool, refreshing, misty spray, always worthy of a little finger lick.
I was about to take my first swig when in the distance I heard the clang of a bell. It rang twice, or so I thought. I stopped to listen. I was quiet. Nothing.
I took my first sip of beer and raised my rod, bringing the bait off the bottom of the bay. The stink bait hadn’t taken flight six inches when the line violently went tight. I hadn’t even swallowed yet. I was caught unprepared and unaware. I almost bit my tongue. My grip was light and the rod was nearly pulled from my fingers but I clamped down around the Ugly Stick and instinctively went to set the hook one-handed.
I put my beer down to settle into battle. But by the time I put my hand back on the crank, the line went slack. I raised the rod tip over my head quickly, looking for the fish’s presence. I made a couple turns on the reel. Nothing. He was gone. I lowered my rod tip in disappointment, looked to the heavens and screamed, “Son ... of ... a ... Bitch! Dammit!”
From the bow of the boat I heard an unexcited Red say, “You probably won’t get any miracles like that. You have to have patience. Patience, Grasshopper.”
I turned to look at Red and smiled. He hadn’t even looked up. He was still gazing at the water over the bow. I was about to give him a ration of shit, not for his grasshopper wise-crack, but for the crack of his ass. Half of it was on display. The elastic waistband on his swim trunks was worn and the drawstring untied. It wasn’t pretty, but the crack of another man’s ass never is.
I was about to say something when the tip of my rod took a quick and powerful turn to the left. My eyes opened like coffee cup saucers. I hadn’t lost the fish; he had swum towards the boat and was now making a run down the channel.
“Patience my ass, Red. Fish on!”
It was a great fish and a great fighter. The curve of the rod tip pointed down and out towards the fish’s location. It was beautiful. I kept reminding myself not to get too excited. Easy now. Steady pressure. Let him do the work. Easy now. I wanted to see it. I wanted it in the boat, but I took my time reeling him in, trying my best to exercise great patience. I kept telling myself. The fight is half the fun.
