| Gone Fishin' The skies were clear, wind easy and steady at ten knots from the southwest, and they were past the 20 fathom line. A quartet of Survivors were at sea, hunting the big cahunas. "Always pee to leeward, son," intoned Dad, as they dangled out the fishing lines. "Ol' Jim Croce taught me that, when we were engineers on the Peace Train, fighting the anti-trusts. Matthew sighed, wondering which story this was going to lead to. "Did you gas up the boat?" "Yes, I gassed up the boat. And the cooler and cupboard are well stocked, too. The girls don't seem to mind, King Charlemagne, Sir!" Matthew jovially responded. "Aye, aye, swab, well done, well done. An' soon the holding tanks will be full also, eh?" asked Cap'n Richard with a confirming wink. "We'll be a way into the briny soon, where ya can never ken what ye might drag up," he softly laughed. "Why do you always go into that accent, Dad?" asked Math. "Aye, 'tis a curious puzzle," Old Dick said as he scratched his chin. "Must be in the genes," he concluded, slapping the label of his cut-off jeans. Matthew really didn't want to hear the story of Levi Strauss again, who was German and not Scot/Irish, and had founded a denim empire fresh off the boat in San Francisco years and years ago. But then he got distracted, thinking about what was hiding under Theresa's own pair of shorts, and about how form fitting they were, and .... By then, the poles were out, bait wriggling at their ends. Theresa and Susan had been making sandwiches in the galley, firm sea legs bracing them against the counter. They all munched and drank sodas on deck while waiting for the first fish to bite. It didn't take long. There was a sing and bend from the Captain's pole; he seemed to have a big, long one, with fins that looked more like gnarly knobs, and it didn't fight much. Old tree trunks don't swim fast, after all, but this one had certainly drifted far from it's hillside birthplace ashore. "Ah, there's one for the barky!" laughed Old Dick. "Why, I remember when I tussled with my first tree, barely eight years old -- me, not the tree, kind of like Daniel Boone and the bear, I was -- but, alas, the fight was in the center of politics, with all that elbow bending, and I nearly lost me arm." "Oh, Dad, not Story #32 about your broken arm," Math pleaded. "Yes, son, Story #32," Susan sighed in resignation, as they both rolled their eyes. The sea was rolling too, a bit more than before, as they relaxed on deck after resetting the line. The waves caused rather amiable bumping of bodies, the young fry on the foredeck, elders aft, manning the helm. They all enjoyed the contact with nature's bounty, and each kept an ear waiting for the singing of success. It took a satifyingly long enough time. Then, suddently -- "svviinng!" Two lines had found not just nibbles, but two whatevers who were underneath had swallowed the bait. As luck would have it, both young Theresa and Susan had pole control. Cap'n Richard set the the navigation console for autopilot, and adjusted the sails. This could be a long ride, he thought. Matthew quickly gripped Theresa firmly from behind as he eased her into the chair, in part to keep her from going over the stern, in part because it just felt good, and in part because he, too, wanted to land this fish. Susan knew her way to the saddle, and smiled as Richard helped her buckle the safety restraining belts. They needed quite a lot of adjusting. She wondered how much was pretend fumbling, and how much was excitement over what lay below. Her smile and smooch back up at him when he was done were more brilliant than the sun. Just what creatures were at the end of their lines? Everyone though of the possibilities: marlin, tuna, shark? Shark didn't really eat so good. Would the lines hold? Or, had they dredged up the dreaded Yellow Monster? stay tuned next week .... (maybe) |