Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2)

by Jeanne Glidewell

  * * *

  Sitting in the back seat of Milo's Dodge Ram, I watched as Rip helped Milo with the boat. Milo had backed the boat down the ramp into the water, and Rip was going to park the truck and trailer in the parking lot. After floating his boat off the trailer, Milo had tied the boat up to a wooden pole beside the concrete bulkhead, waiting for us to climb aboard. With his light green eyes, well-trimmed mustache, and medium-length sandy-colored hair, held in place by an embroidered Seaworthy Marine ball cap, my six-foot-three, lanky son-in-law looked like a natural mariner to me. He was definitely easy on the eyes but I wasn't sure yet how I felt about his personality. Or if he even had one.

  If one were to judge Milo by his boat, one could only surmise the guy liked to be the center of attention. The shallow-hulled fishing boat had a custom paint job and a black bimini top to shade the passengers. It was painted bright purple with loud orange and red flames down both sides of the hull, and had a decal depicting a pastel yellow skull on each side at the bow of the boat. "Maverick" was painted across the aft in a glittery gold color. Milo's fishing vessel was quite gaudy, but definitely an eye catcher. Of course, who am I to talk? Our self-painted travel trailer could hardly be classified as inconspicuous either.

  While we'd been traveling next to the banks of Little Bay in Milo's truck on our way to Rockport Beach, he'd told us the free boat ramp at Rockport Beach was the closest, most convenient place to launch the boat. As I mentioned before, I'm always game for anything that's free, whether I have a use for it or not. But in this instance, it was the only thing Rip and I didn't have to pay for all morning.

  Earlier, at the Fleming Bait Shop, we'd paid for forty-two bucks worth of bait; two quarts of live shrimp, and three dozen finger mullet, along with a ten-dollar "bubbler" and batteries to supply the necessary oxygen to keep them alive. Milo had explained the aerator in the boat's bait well was not working properly and he hadn't had time to have it repaired.

  After acquiring the bait, Milo had pulled the truck and boat trailer alongside a Valero gas station pump to fill the boat's fuel tank. At his request, I'd gone inside to purchase two large bags of ice to keep the fish we caught fresh in the large cooler under the bench seat in front of the helm. Not surprisingly, the boat's live well was not working properly either. Milo had also asked me to pick up two six-packs of beer to quench our thirst out on the water. On each occasion, he had suddenly needed to use the john or make an important phone call, and was already occupied when it came time to pay for anything.

  Rip shrugged his shoulders and told me, "I guess it's only fair we pay for the bait and supplies. After all, we're using his boat."

  Although I found Milo's vanishing acts a bit irksome, I figured we'd already spent hundreds of dollars for our gear. What was another seventy clams? I was discovering more and more about the high price of being an avid angler.

  As I placed the ice and beer in the boat's cooler, which also served as a seat, Milo was holding the gas nozzle while filling the fuel tank. I heard him gasp. I turned to watch him, with his hand on his empty back pocket, say, "Gosh dang it! I left my wallet on the kitchen table."

  I whispered to Rip, "Tell him we aren't in any hurry and don't mind taking the time to go back to his house to get it."

  Rip shook his head and grumbled to me, "I have a hunch this station is not going to accept moths as a form of payment. I think we'll just have to accept this as one of those live and learn situations. Besides, as I said before, we are using his boat."

  Live and learn, my sagging behind! I thought, as I watched the numbers on the gas pump mounting so rapidly I couldn't keep up with the total. Finally I asked Milo, "How much gas does this thing hold?"

  "Sixty gallons," he replied without batting an eye.

  Good grief! I thought. Who'd have ever thought a boat could hold twice as much fuel as the vehicle you towed it with. Is there anything involved in angling that isn't detrimental to one's net worth?

  "You do know the definition of 'boat', don't you?" Rip asked me as Milo instructed the attendant to include a bottle of fuel additive on the bill. When I shook my head, Rip continued. "It's a hole in the water in which you pour money."

  I'd have laughed if the escalating expense wasn't so painful. I would have at least responded had Milo's next comment not taken the breath out of me. "I guess I better fill up the truck too, or we'll be driving on fumes before we get to the boat launch."

  Eighty-seven gallons and almost two-hundred dollars later, Rip, with a barely discernible amount of steam coming out of his ears, leaned over and grudgingly told me, "I'll have to use the credit card, Rapella. I used the last of my cash at the bait stand."

  I bit my tongue until it nearly bled to keep from making a spiteful remark. We hadn't even got a hook wet yet, and the already exorbitant cost of a grilled redfish steak had just increased substantially. Rip began to walk away from me, then stopped and turned to make another cutting remark.

  "At least Milo filled up at a gas station instead of the marina, where the price of fuel is even higher. If he hadn't, we could have had to cough up another Ben Franklin."

  "Gee. How thoughtful of him."

  * * *

  "Rapella!" Milo hollered. He was guiding the boat, Rip was standing next to him at the helm, and I was sitting on a cushioned cooler on the bow of the twenty-four foot bay boat. "Throw the anchor out for me!"

  I did as requested and then joined the men, who were stepping into their chest waders. A few seconds later, Milo turned to me and asked, "Why are we drifting? Didn't you throw the anchor out?"

  "Yes, of course, I did. Right after you asked me to."

  "You did tie the rope to the boat before you pitched the anchor into the water, didn't you?"

  "Oops!" I replied in embarrassment. "Sorry, Milo. I guess I assumed it was already tied to the boat. After all, you said, 'Throw the anchor out,' not 'Tie off the anchor and throw it out.'"

  "Oh, don't worry about it," Milo said with a chuckle. "I'll wade over and retrieve it later. For now we can lower my new power pole. It buries itself in the sand and mud and keeps the boat in place."

  I wondered why he didn't just use the power pole in the first place. The electronic device obviously cost a great deal more than the anchor. And if it didn't work better than the anchor, why would anyone pay to put one on his boat? It seemed clear to me at that point that neither Reggie nor her husband had a lick of sense when it came to spending money.

  * * *

  I followed the men into the water by ungraciously swinging my butt and legs over the side of the boat and sliding off. Rip attached the nylon cord from the bait bucket to a metal loop on my wading belt. The belt had been a last-minute purchase he'd felt driven to buy for each of us at the tackle store, as if we needed one more cumbersome accessory.

  The bottom was soft, and my wading boots sank several inches with each step, making me ungainly and a little uneasy. I tripped and fell to my knees at one point, and it wasn't an easy task to get back up to my feet. I was on edge, thinking any given step could land me in a quicksand-type hole that'd have me up to my eyebrows in water before I knew it.

  Propelling my body through the thick grass in the water was a chore. Milo, wading beside me, appeared unfazed by the thick underwater foliage and mucky bottom. In comparison to me, he looked like a kid running through a field of clover. After I regained my foothold following my fall, he was courteous enough to help me restore my balance and get my bearings before letting go of my arm. He warned me to be more cautious, as if I were rushing recklessly through the muddy and grassy water to get to my fishing spot as rapidly as possible. In actuality, I was doing nothing more than doing my dangest to keep putting one foot in front of the other without doing a face plant into the muck.

  "You need to tread slowly, Rapella," he said. If I moved any slower I'd be drifting backward and be back at the boat before the men reached their fishing hole. "There are potholes out here where there's no grass, and it's hard to tell how deep they a
re. Those potholes are a great place to catch a redfish that's waiting for a bait fish to swim by in the clearing. But they can also be deadly if they're deeper than you anticipated."

  "How so?" I asked, not sure I really wanted to know. I felt anxious enough as it was, scanning the surface of the water constantly for menacing dorsal fins moving on a direct path toward me. I swear I saw at least two humongous bull sharks swim by about thirty yards out. When I anxiously pointed them out, Milo laughed. I let him know I wasn't amused and he promised me all I'd seen were a couple of large bait fish. They were skimming the surface, occasionally flying out of the water like tiny sailfish, as if fleeing a larger fish hunting for its breakfast.

  Milo explained. "Those are mullet, just like we'll be using today for bait, only larger. Keep an eye out and you'll probably see another one breaching the surface soon."

  I watched for a few moments until I spotted another mullet, probably a foot long, flying in and out of the water five times as it scooted swiftly away. It was like watching a shiny rock being skipped across the top of the water.

  "Don't forget what I told you earlier," Milo said, after the bait fish had at last submerged and not resurfaced. "If you were to accidentally step into a pothole over your head, your waders would instantly fill up with so much water you likely wouldn't be able to surface. There aren't too many really deep ones in this area, but there are a few scattered out there, so it's always a possibility. And it seems like at least one wade-fisherman drowns out in these bays every year."

  "Oh, swell. Thanks for bringing my anxiety level down a notch. You're making wade-fishing sound like more and more fun with every comment you make."

  "You'll be okay, Rapella. Just be careful and walk slowly. You'll feel more at ease as you get accustomed to wading," Milo assured me. Rip was already twenty feet ahead of us, not a care in the world. "Soon you'll be perfectly at ease out here. And trust me, if you fish for any length of time at all, it will get into your blood."

  After Milo felt confident I could get along by myself, he picked up speed and was soon wading side-by-side with Rip, who had forged ahead as Milo assisted me. I was carrying a fishing pole, and had a hand net, a bait bucket, and a stringer to put the fish on, attached to the fishing belt. I felt weighed down by all the pricey but, according to Rip, necessary, wade-fishing accessories I was dragging around.

  A few minutes later, I was in water up to the top of my thighs. I had absolutely no desire to get into even deeper water, so I decided to tack in a different direction. I was hoping to find shallower water which, thankfully, I quickly did.

  When I arrived at the general location Milo had pointed to, he hollered loudly enough I could just make out what he was saying. "Right there's a good place to start! Make sure you scoot your feet as you wade around in the water so you don't surprise a stingray and get stung. They have sharp barbs on their stingers and are difficult and painful to get out of your leg."

  Seriously? Now you tell me that? I was beginning to feel a sense of dread, as my mind filled with visions of Steve Irwin, the Crocodile Hunter, who'd died from a stingray's barb imbedded in his chest. Rip and I had always assumed it'd be a huge croc that'd take him out.

  Instead of responding with the first caustic remark that came to mind, I tried to still my jumpy nerves and shouted back, "Swell. Now please stop pointing out every conceivable way I could get injured—or worse—today. Just tell me what I need to do next."

  "Bait your hook and cast it out toward one of those light greenish areas. Those are the potholes I was telling you about. If you feel a tug, wait a few seconds and pull the rod back forcefully enough to set the hook. I already sat the drag on your reel, so just fight the fish, reel it in, net it, and put it on your stringer. That's all there is to it!" Milo's voice reverberated across the surface of the water, which had small ripples due to a slight breeze. I had to admit it was a beautiful day to be outside.

  My first order of business was to bait my hook, Milo had said. So I opened up my bait bucket and saw a dozen slimy mullet about five inches long, and an even larger number of medium-sized shrimp darting here and there. When I opened the lid of the bait bucket, two of the shrimp flew out unexpectedly, nearly causing me to lose my balance again. I couldn't decide which of my two choices seemed less icky to handle. Since the leaping shrimp had startled me and looked more menacing with their pointed snouts and black beady eyes, I chose the mullet.

  It took me at least forty-five seconds to snag a mullet. They swam faster than I could move my hand around in the bucket and were able to evade being caught until I finally trapped one against the bottom. I pulled it out and reached for my hook. As soon as I grasped my line, the slimy mullet slivered out of my hand into the water. I swear it sneered at me as it scurried away.

  It took thirty more seconds to capture another elusive mullet, only to have it spring free from my hand, as well. Finally, on the third attempt, I squeezed one of the little buggers so tightly its eyes were about to pop out of its head. I wasn't sure where to shove the hook in him and couldn't bear to watch such cruelty. So I just shut my eyes and forced it in. Opening my eyes, I discovered I'd hooked him squarely in the tail fin. I figured that'd work as well as any other place, and I didn't want to torture the poor thing any further. I couldn't bear to look the little feller in the eyes for fear I'd see the agony I'd inflicted.

  Now to cast. It was a complicated-looking reel, for sure. I recalled Rip instructing me to open the bail before I cast, allowing the line to fly freely out over the water. On my first attempt, the bail closed as soon as I began to cast the line out. My hook and lead weight splashed down and sank to the bottom about two feet in front of me, but not before my mullet broke loose and sailed another fifty to sixty feet through the air.

  Poor little critter. And I'd thought I was having a bad day. Crap! Now I have to start this whole ordeal over again. I baited the hook and tried again. The mullet landed on the sandy shore behind me. After many disastrous attempts, and spending at least an hour untangling the rat's nest of fishing line that resulted from an errant cast, I managed to land a mullet within a foot or two of the pothole. It was close enough that I wasn't going to mess with it again unless I had a bite.

  The next hour-and-a-half seemed to last a full week. My back was already beginning to ache from the awkward position I'd assumed in order to maintain my balance in the undulating water as I waited impatiently for a tug on my line. I set the hook on more than one imaginary fish, not exactly sure how it'd feel if I got a bite. When each of those imaginary fish failed to take off in a frantic attempt to shake the hook, I let my bait lie where it had landed after my spastic yank.

  Finally, I decided it was time to check my bait, only to find the mullet was long gone. It occurred to me then I might have spent the last four hours fishing with no bait. Apparently one of those earlier bites had not been just a figment after all.

  After another taxing effort to bait and cast my line, it hit the water at least a city block from the closest pothole. Although no one could hear me, even the brown pelicans a hundred yards away pounding the top of the water for fish to consume, I shouted out a long string of profanities. I cussed the "fish gods" for the suffering I was enduring. I was beginning to understand the old saying, "swear like a sailor."

  Later, I nearly fell into a coma from standing in the same place for yet another two hours with my boots buried six inches in the muck beneath me. I wondered exactly how much time it usually took for fishing to "get in one's blood," as Milo had assured me it would. The way I felt just then, I didn't think I'd live long enough for that to happen.

  I hoped Rip was having better luck and a better time than me, which wouldn't take a heck of a lot. The bar had been set extremely low on my end of this fishing experience. I finally decided my back couldn't take much more abuse. I told myself if I didn't get a bite in the next ten minutes, I'd head back to the boat, which now looked like a speck on the horizon from where I stood. Any energy I'd started out with was long g
one. I feared returning to the boat would require more oomph than I could scrounge up. I almost prayed for a dorsal fin to emerge behind me when I headed back, giving me the adrenalin rush I'd need to reach the boat.

  After checking my bait, only to find it gone again, I mindlessly cast out and finally landed a lively mullet just inside the edge of a large pothole. I began cheering out loud, as if I'd won the lottery, which was virtually impossible because I was too cheap to buy a ticket.

  To while away the allotted ten minutes before giving up, I mentally made a list of groceries I needed to pick up at H.E.B. and debated about what to cook for supper. Fresh redfish was most likely no longer an option. I had glanced toward where Milo and Rip were fishing on occasion and hadn't seen any sign of yanking going on.

  I then pondered how much longer my hair and nails had gotten since I'd flopped myself out of the boat what seemed like a month and a half earlier. Suddenly, I was jerked from my reverie by a solid tug on my line that nearly pulled the rod out of my hands. I'd been instructed by Rip to resist yanking so hard and fast that I'd reel in nothing but a pair of fish lips. But he'd also said there was a fine line between yanking too early and waiting so long I'd give the fish a chance to swallow the hook. He'd said, "Milo told me they're tough to get out when they swallow it. And if you're unlucky enough to catch a hardhead, don't let it prick you with its dorsal fin, or it'll burn like crazy for a good twenty minutes."

  "What's a hardhead?" I'd asked, thrilled to learn there was yet another hazard I'd have to be prepared for.

  "It looks like a little catfish, but is nothing more than a nuisance down here, a trash fish Milo called it, and the fin contains some kind of poison. It serves as a natural defense for the hardheads," Rip had explained.

  "Oh, okay. Good to know." And then, because I just couldn't resist, I'd added, "And here all this time I thought a hardhead was a roly-poly retired police officer who wouldn't get his throbbing, aching hip joint replaced until an unexpected accident left him no option."