Chapter 35

False dawn. The sky turns from its nightly diamond glittered black and takes on a deep deep blue. There is that calm between the night breeze flowing off the sand and the day breeze blowing to the land ... it is a twice a day mini front when the exhaust of the fish tug engines make perfect smoke rings that follow like bereft halos seeking their fallen angels.

Seagull cries, the gentle swash, swash, swash of the outgoing tide against the shore. The putt putt rattle putt rattle rattle putt putt of a make-break two cylinder engine in a Pentwater port Lake Michigan fish tug coming in from a night of net seining for whitefish.

They must have been successful, I could smell hickory smoke coming from the Clotitier's smokehouse. Odd name that, Clotitier ... French ... pronounced Clue-chi. They are long time Pentwater people ... Came from Quebec ... commercial fishermen ... bought their fish-rights from the Indians ... oh... 1770 or thereabouts.

The smell of their hickory smoke mixed with the wonderful smell of the last stand of first growth one hundred to two hundred foot tall white pines nestled in a little valley between the dunes north of town told me the light wind was out of the north.

Daybreak.

Anderson Salvage steam tug number 2 must have a contract for a tow because they saluted the Lifeboat Station as their massive bow slowly assists the tide leaving the lake.

Another morning ... weird dream ... gently rocking sailboat. Thinking about getting up and going for a swim. Oh ... cast ... no swimming. Grace ... or Carole Ann ... was poking me and nuzzling my ear ... god ... I hope that's Carole Ann and not Grace...

I shooed..."Carole Ann, stop that ... I'm getting up and the last thing I need from you is a woody ... I have to pee ... and I don't need you licking my chin. Carole Ann ... you need a SHAVE?"

Damn, damn, damn, damn, DAMN! A very cute bobcat kit had climbed on my chest and head-butted my chin.

Feed ME!

I had so hoped that the weird dream was just that ... the product of a State Park driftwood beach fire burning underdone hotdogs and too many Girl Scout S'mores.

It was that too ... but the all too real adventure of Isabelle, the Mom Bob, and her five kits slapped me in the face.

"I'm up, I'm up," I complained as I tried to burrow deeper and reclaim the dream of naked Girl Scouts doing...

You are not! I need to pee ... in five ... four ... three

I snatched the crouching kitten and ran for the shore.

You are too easy, she smiled her kitten smile and thought, Are you going to watch? There was just that much indignation in that statement that I turned away.

"What is your name?" I asked.

"Jeannie," said the petite redhead making the cut across from the beach to the town. "What's yours?"

Jeannie suffered from 'Trouble.' Trouble is halo curly hair that always looks like a pile of wind-blown wet straw ... Grace has that identical hair. Tighten it up and paint it black and it's an Afro.

"How did you break your arm?"

"Is that your parents boat?"

"Are you from around here?"

"What's the best place for breakfast?"

"Is that your kitten?"

"She's cute. What's her name?"

"Not very talkative, are you?"

"Weren't you at the fire last night?"

"Is there something wrong with my hair?"

"Aren't you going to answer?"

I opened my mouth...

"We're camping at the beach."

"I hate tents."

"Too much sand and not enough shade."

"Is that your girlfriend?"

"That's a big cat."

There was a long pause and I thought maybe she had run down...

"That's a BOBCAT!!!"

She took off back the way she came ... Grace and I could hear her screaming for at least two blocks.

Grace looked at me, I looked at her.

"That was interesting," she said. "Who was that?"

"Jeannie," I replied.

"Do you know her?"

"No."