Chapter 2

The little twelve-volt fan keeps air circulating in front of my face while I wind down to sleep.

I’d ‘bathed’, where bathing consists of a quick violation of park ‘no swimming’ policies by jumping over the side of Dorable for a few minutes, then climbing back aboard and hosing down quickly with clean water from the hundred and fifty gallon freshwater tank.

I was isolated from a lot of the onshore noise by dint of my location on the riverbank down at the foot of the bluff. Besides, after eleven, things started winding down anyway. It was just me now, ably protected by Pickles. I stretched out on my bunk and turned my Kindle on to read.

Sleep came relatively easily, last thought being something about the bounce of a red ponytail after its owner kissed me. I was thinking, then ‘Nah ... Almost random event.’ Pleasant, but nothing to hang my hat on. Tomorrow morning would tell more.

Up when the cabin got light enough to see without artificial assistance. Dressed in my uniform of the day – canvas cargo shorts and a T-shirt and a pair of boat shoes.

Breakfast is simple. A couple of eggs, toast prepared the way toast SHOULD be prepared – on a cast iron griddle over the heat. And naturally, coffee. It’s hard to think of a better breakfast venue than mine here on the aft deck of my boat, the river quiet, serene, before the people show up with powerboats and the loud music that they seem to want to drag everywhere with them.

My river. A hundred decibels of hip-hop or plasticized ‘country’ music does nothing to enhance it. The sound of a redwinged blackbird with mating on his mind does enhance it. On mornings like this, even my library of classical music doesn’t offer anything to compete.

My mind wanders to the subject of Miss Gee. Nine? She said she’d call. We’ll see. Pickles’ movement catches the corner of my eye. He’s shifted to a resting place on the deck. Twenty hours a day. I think I tracked him one day and he slept twenty hours, getting up only for input, output, and I guess, to stave off bedsores.

But who am I to talk? I’m burning an hour, post-breakfast, sipping coffee, half-reading a book on my Kindle, soaking up the quiet on the river, which is now being disturbed by the approach of a motorboat. It’s still too early for the normal recreational boaters, so I’m guessing ... yes, he’s coming around the bend. Fishermen. Hard to fault fishermen, although I’m eyeballing about thirty thousand dollars of shiny fiberglass and two hundred horsepower and from the console, enough electronics to hunt Russian submarines. You have to catch a lot of fish to pay for that.

Of course I delude myself with that reasoning. There’s more to fishing than putting fish on the table sometimes. I wave at the pair in the boat as they zip past me. They’re properly trimmed, planing out, leaving little disturbance other than the noise, and they slide farther to the far side of the channel as they pass me. These are courteous ones. Most of the boaters who show up later wouldn’t know courtesy if it bit ‘em in the ass.

I just talked myself into a column for the regional fishing and hunting magazine. I’ve sold things to them on spec, you know, just write an article, send them an excerpt as bait. They’ve bitten a time or two, right up to the point of occasional emails starting ‘Would you be interested in writing on THIS subject... ‘

That’s why I can call myself a writer. Besides, it sounds better than saying ‘shiftless river rat’ in those occasional conversations I have with others.

Part of the early morning ritual consists of washing down the decks. I have a hose and a pump that draws water from the engine’s cooling inlet. A quick spritz gets rid of the dust and debris from the previous twenty-four hours, including a couple of gifts to Gaia from Pickles’ special corner. I was coiling up the hose when I hear my cellphone go off.

“This is Josh,” I said.

“Josh, this is Gee-gee. Does the offer still stand?”

“I’m still tied up at the same spot. Come on!”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“What do I need to bring?”

“Yourself.”

Giggle. “Okay. I’m trying not to be a leech.”

“I know what leeches are. You’re not one.”

“‘Kay! See you in a bit.”

Despite the instructions to the contrary, she showed up with a bag of ice (good call) a twelve-pack of ginger ale (always welcome) and a bag of crunchy Cheetos.

“Your car’s parked in a regular slot?”

“Yep!” she nodded. “And locked.”

“And you told somebody responsible that you were going out on a boat with some random guy and you expect to be back tonight?”

She eyed me. “Uh...”

“It’s a good idea. Just in case.”

“I don’t know anybody who’s responsible enough and who’s likely to note my absence, and I just have to trust you, okay? Am I wrong in that?”

“Just kind of trusting,” I said. “Since you’ve met me the one time, that’s all.”

“Shouldn’t I be trusting?”

“I could be some horrible predator...”

“Who has a cat named ‘Pickles’.”

“I could be.”

“I shall find out. Are we going anywhere? Or do we just stay here?”

“It’s going to be noisy here in an hour or so when the Sunday excursion crowd shows up. Of course, about that same time, the recreational boaters will start up, too. It’s going to be noisy on the river, too.”

“So take me somewhere...”

“Okay. Let me fire up the engine.”

“Okay.”

She followed me, watched me open the enclosure that held my working relic of an engine.

“I didn’t expect THAT,” she said. “What is it?”

“That, my dear, is a Norwegian fishing boat engine. They don’t make ‘em like that any more.”

“Belongs in a museum,” she said as I checked the oil level.

“Ah, it’s a sweet thing from a more civilized, less stressful time. Let’s get ‘er started.” My boat. I went to the operator’s position at the front of the main cabin, turned the ‘run’ switch on, walked back, reached and pulled the manual handle on the starter. With a grind and a couple of wheezes, the engine coughed to life, settled down at idle.

I observed the engine, looking for problems. Seeing none, I closed the enclosure, a move that dropped the sound level down far enough to allow conversation.

“Why THAT thing? I mean, more modern, just turn a key, and off you go,” she said.

“Quirky. I guess that’s why. Old thing’s reliable as the sunrise. They powered fishing boats in the North Sea for decades. I got a buy on one, thought it fit ... Old school. If I wanted or needed to do it, it will start and run without electricity, in case I find myself without battery power.”

“Lots of horsepower?”

“Eighteen.”

“Wait, didn’t you say this houseboat’s forty feet long?”

“Yep. And eighteen horsepower will push her at full speed. Actually, half that will push her at full speed. And I’ll burn half a gallon of diesel an hour.”

“I’ve seen houseboats go a lot faster,” she said.

“Not on a half-gallon an hour,” I returned. “I don’t get in a hurry.”

“I guess not. So we’re ready to go now?”

“Yep. Let me get us untied from the bank.” I single-hand this thing. Most of the time I tie to the bank by looping long lines from the boat, around a tree or a piling, and back to the boat. All I have to do is untie one end at the boat and pull it aboard. A pushpole I keep stored on hooks on the cabin wall came into play as I pushed the bow of the boat away from the shore.

I put the transmission into forward gear and we eased out into the river, engine still at idle.

I turned to Gee. “We can do this from down here or get up on the upper deck. View’s better up there.”

“Lead me.”

Ladder gets us to the cabin roof and the upper nav position. It’s a pair of swiveling chairs under a wide roof. I have a wheel, engine controls, engine gauges and a horn button. And when I turn the knob, a marine band radio.

I pull the sun covers off the chairs. “There you go. This is about as exciting as it gets.”

“Seriously?”

“‘Fraid so.”

“I’d have a camera...”

“You’re right. I usually do.”

“Where do you keep it?”

“Black camera bag. Looks like a backpack. Next to the nav station.”

“Table,” she smirked.

“Nav station.”

“I’ll be back.”

She bounced down the ladder, I heard footsteps, then she was back up.

“You know about cameras?”

“A bit,” she said as she unzipped the bag. She looked. “This one’s NICE!”

“I usually put it on a monopod and lean it against the instrument panel until I need to shoot something,” I said.

“You should have plenty of time to see something at this speed,” she said.

“I’m doing seven knots through the water,” I said. “Against a two-knot current. And it’s pretty quiet – different noise than the powerboats. The wildlife doesn’t get as disturbed.”

“Kind of nice, really. Big change over those other boats.”

“You’re familiar...”

“Yeah ... Friends talked me into going out for a day on the water with a guy who owns a boat. Wasn’t nearly as cool as they made it sound. And I was supposed to be the blind date for the guy with the boat. There are some things that are NOT to be compensation for a boat ride.”

“Wow! That’s subtle...” I said.

“Oh! Wait! No! I didn’t mean to imply...”

“Oh, here I am, gathering up random women on the S.S. Babemagnet...”

“Oh, gosh...” she turned bright red. “Josh ... I really didn’t mean it to sound like that. You’re not drunk, you’re not trying to get me drunk ... Oh, gosh ... I just let my mouth rattle on sometimes ... I’m soooo sorry.”

“Okay. I’ll buy that.”

“Can I still be your friend? Despite being an ass?”

“I like that,” I said. “All I was doing was offering a cute girl a boat ride. Sometimes it’s nice to have somebody to talk with who talks back. Pickles doesn’t say much.”

“I thought solitude was your thing...”

“Sometimes. Depends on who might be the other parties. Like you. Yesterday. Fun to chat with and mess around with ... cooking, that is.”