Julia, jumping to her feet. “That’s enough business talk. We’re here to fish. Now a big thank-you to Ray for a delicious shore lunch. What do we say?” She raised her arms as if directing an orchestra.
Everyone looked up in surprise. This was more animated than she had been all day.
“Thank you, Ray,” they chorused. Even Kitsy, despite the worry clouding her eyes.
Ray beamed. “Ladies, ladies. Bread feeds the body, flowers the soul. Now back on the pontoon, everyone.”
ten
Then do you mean that I have got to go on catching these damned two-and-a-half pounders at this corner forever and ever?
The keeper nodded.
“Hell,” said Mr. Castwell.
“Yes,” said his keeper.
—G.E.M. Skues
“Ray , how much longer?”
Dusk was falling, and Osborne was anxious. He and Lew had agreed to meet at nine for an hour of fishing, and it was already eight fifteen. It was obvious, too, that the women were tiring. They had fished all afternoon until five thirty when Ray docked the pontoon at Watersides, a small resort on Third Lake renowned for its cozy dining room and excellent food.
“Burgers, fries, Leinies all around—except for me, I’d like a Coke, and ginger ale for the good dentist here,” said Ray. Only Julia resisted, requesting water not beer. Then it was back on the pontoon for one final hour—or so Osborne had thought—of evening fishing. But dusk into dark was Ray’s favorite time to fish, and as the pontoon headed toward Fifth Lake Osborne realized their earlier agreement was being finessed.
“Ray …” he said, pointing at his watch for the umpteenth time and not a little irritated that he would have no time to shower and shave before Lew arrived. “I thought we agreed I would help out until six—it’s way past that now. Ray?”
“Okay, okay, Doc, I hear you,” said Ray from where he stood with his arms around Molly, helping her with a muskie rod. “Let’s try one last cast, Molly,” he said. “Remember what I told you. No reason to wrestle the rod—just aim for the horizon and let that Jitterbug fly. Good … that’s it … great!
“And from now on, when you’re fishing, what do you say to yourself? Repeat after me: Perfect is the enemy of good enough. Memorize that, let your lure fly, and I promise you will catch fish.” Molly grinned, repeated his words and, both hands gripping her rod, let fly a long, smooth cast. Ray beamed, Molly glowed, and Osborne checked his watch.
“Ray….” Osborne twisted his face into the grimace he used on Mike when the dog misbehaved. That got Ray’s attention. He gave a sad little shrug, making it clear Osborne was the party pooper of the day, and sat down to turn the ignition key.
Twenty minutes later, as they entered the channel returning them to First Lake, the western sky greeted them with a watercolor vista: streaks and swirls of lavender and rose tipped gold by the setting sun. The women oohed and aahed and begged Osborne to take one more photo.
They crowded together behind Ray, arms linked, the vibrant sky their backdrop. Checking the exposure and the angle, he made sure the sun didn’t turn them into silhouettes. Then everyone settled down to bask in the final moments of the cruise, expressions of bliss on their faces. Ray couldn’t have paid for a better finale to his first “Fishing for Girls.”
As they rounded the last set of channel markers, a cell phone rang. Carla had the grace to look to Ray for permission before unzipping her fanny pack.
“Go ahead,” he said, waving his hand, “we’re done for the day.”
She pulled it out and listened. “Are you shitting me—when did they call?” Carla jumped to her feet. “What? They came into the office?” A string of expletives filled the air. She slammed the phone shut and turned to Barb. “What the hell dumb thing did you do? Godammit.”
“What—” asked Barb, “what are you talking about?”
“That was Tomisue at the office. The IRS dropped in this afternoon.
Everyone looked up in surprise. This was more animated than she had been all day.
“Thank you, Ray,” they chorused. Even Kitsy, despite the worry clouding her eyes.
Ray beamed. “Ladies, ladies. Bread feeds the body, flowers the soul. Now back on the pontoon, everyone.”
ten
Then do you mean that I have got to go on catching these damned two-and-a-half pounders at this corner forever and ever?
The keeper nodded.
“Hell,” said Mr. Castwell.
“Yes,” said his keeper.
—G.E.M. Skues
“Ray , how much longer?”
Dusk was falling, and Osborne was anxious. He and Lew had agreed to meet at nine for an hour of fishing, and it was already eight fifteen. It was obvious, too, that the women were tiring. They had fished all afternoon until five thirty when Ray docked the pontoon at Watersides, a small resort on Third Lake renowned for its cozy dining room and excellent food.
“Burgers, fries, Leinies all around—except for me, I’d like a Coke, and ginger ale for the good dentist here,” said Ray. Only Julia resisted, requesting water not beer. Then it was back on the pontoon for one final hour—or so Osborne had thought—of evening fishing. But dusk into dark was Ray’s favorite time to fish, and as the pontoon headed toward Fifth Lake Osborne realized their earlier agreement was being finessed.
“Ray …” he said, pointing at his watch for the umpteenth time and not a little irritated that he would have no time to shower and shave before Lew arrived. “I thought we agreed I would help out until six—it’s way past that now. Ray?”
“Okay, okay, Doc, I hear you,” said Ray from where he stood with his arms around Molly, helping her with a muskie rod. “Let’s try one last cast, Molly,” he said. “Remember what I told you. No reason to wrestle the rod—just aim for the horizon and let that Jitterbug fly. Good … that’s it … great!
“And from now on, when you’re fishing, what do you say to yourself? Repeat after me: Perfect is the enemy of good enough. Memorize that, let your lure fly, and I promise you will catch fish.” Molly grinned, repeated his words and, both hands gripping her rod, let fly a long, smooth cast. Ray beamed, Molly glowed, and Osborne checked his watch.
“Ray….” Osborne twisted his face into the grimace he used on Mike when the dog misbehaved. That got Ray’s attention. He gave a sad little shrug, making it clear Osborne was the party pooper of the day, and sat down to turn the ignition key.
Twenty minutes later, as they entered the channel returning them to First Lake, the western sky greeted them with a watercolor vista: streaks and swirls of lavender and rose tipped gold by the setting sun. The women oohed and aahed and begged Osborne to take one more photo.
They crowded together behind Ray, arms linked, the vibrant sky their backdrop. Checking the exposure and the angle, he made sure the sun didn’t turn them into silhouettes. Then everyone settled down to bask in the final moments of the cruise, expressions of bliss on their faces. Ray couldn’t have paid for a better finale to his first “Fishing for Girls.”
As they rounded the last set of channel markers, a cell phone rang. Carla had the grace to look to Ray for permission before unzipping her fanny pack.
“Go ahead,” he said, waving his hand, “we’re done for the day.”
She pulled it out and listened. “Are you shitting me—when did they call?” Carla jumped to her feet. “What? They came into the office?” A string of expletives filled the air. She slammed the phone shut and turned to Barb. “What the hell dumb thing did you do? Godammit.”
“What—” asked Barb, “what are you talking about?”
“That was Tomisue at the office. The IRS dropped in this afternoon.
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