Carl Hiaasen – Basket Case

“You’re confused,” I told him. “It’s prizefighters who give up sex. Not writers.”

“The sex is the least of it,” he said, most seriously.

Clewiston is on the southern rim of the lake, in the heart of sugarcane country. The land is as flat as plywood. As instructed, we seek out a garishly appointed facility called Ernie Bo Tump’s Bass Camp. Ernie Bo is an internationally famous conqueror of largemouth bass. He has his own syndicated television program, and a product-endorsement package that would be the envy of an NBA all-star. Ernie Bo’s fish camp, however, has fallen on tough times. Farms and cattle ranches have dumped so much shit-fouled runoff into the lake that miles of prime bass habitat have been transformed into impenetrable cattail bogs. The decline in sportfishing commerce has been exacerbated by water levels so treacherously low as to discourage navigation by highspeed fanatics with 175-horsepower outboards—Ernie Bo’s bread-and-butter clientele.

This glum tale is related by a young dock hand named Tucker, with whom I am negotiating the rental of a bare fourteen-foot johnboat. While Tucker is gladdened by the sight of a paying customer, he’s concerned that I’m launching so late in the afternoon. He advises that the craft must be returned no later than one hour after sunset. I hope he doesn’t intend to wait.

“Dusk is when they bite the best!” I say, which is what my mother always told me.

“There’s thunder boomers out to the west. We sure as hell need the rain,” Tucker says, “but you better keep an eye out. The lightning gets hairy, this time a year.”

“Thanks, I’ll be careful. How much?”

“Fifty bucks, plus the deposit.” He snatches my credit card. “You need some shiners?”

I ask him to scoop me a dozen. “Did anybody else head out of here this afternoon? I was supposed to meet a couple of friends who were driving over from the west coast.”

“Naw, you’re it,” says Tucker. “Maybe they put in at Moore Haven instead.”

“Maybe so.”

So far I haven’t spotted anyone at the marina who is behaving like a lookout, but I’ll take no chances. I stow Jimmy Stoma’s hard drive, the compact discs and the Lady Colt in the waterproof tote before loading it with the rest of the gear on the johnboat. The engine is a Merc 25, which barks to life after a few yanks on the cord. With one hand on the tiller, I putter innocently from the docks, heading out toward the big water. If someone is watching, he will report to Cleo’s bodyguard that I am en route to the rendezvous, and that I’m alone.

Juan is waiting at a pre-arranged location a half mile away, by a drainage culvert below the levee. He slips into the bow and conceals himself beneath the yellow tarp. Without a breeze the August heat is strangling; the lake steams like a vast tub of gumbo. It’s not so bad after I goose the throttle and the boat planes off, creating its own breeze. Soon no other fishermen are in sight. Juan partially emerges from under the tarpaulin and intently begins working the keypad of the GPS, talking to satellites high in space. Flawlessly they divulge our latitude, longitude, ground speed and direction, as well as our lengthening distance from the marina. The only drawback of this astounding technology is that it enables virtually any knucklehead to blunder into the deepest wilderness, with little or no chance of getting lost. So much for natural selection.

Jerry’s directions have put us on a course of almost due north, with deviations around flats and grass islets. Using the satellite readouts, I am to fix my speed at precisely twenty-two miles an hour. After passing Observation Island, I’m supposed to run for forty-five minutes, then shut the engine down and wait. Only one-eyed Jerry and the amazing GPS will know where we are.

Young Tucker was correct about the weather. A colossal thunderhead blooms over the lake’s western shore, cooling the air but robbing us of a sunset. Later the wind kicks up and a fresh chop spanks rhythmically against the aluminum hull. Juan’s gaze is locked apprehensively on the purple-rimmed clouds spilling our way. I’m trying to push Emma out of my mind, trying not to imagine her on a boat out here with Cleo’s brutish bodyguard.

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