Chelsea and the Sea

With her lazy eye Chelsea could see the boat swaying in the breeze, the sail fluttering in the midafternoon sunshine. At one o’clock her uncle Slim would arrive at the docks, ready to take her out for a couple hours of trolling. Maybe they would catch a salmon, maybe a rainbow fish, but it wasn’t the catch that really interested her, it was uncle Slim’s stories. He was quick with a tall tale whenever the breeze was stagnant, or the fish weren’t biting, which was often on Stormy Lake in the haze of a mid-August afternoon. At this point of summer the fish stayed in the deeper water to keep away from the warmth of the surface, where the tepid winds blew constantly from the south.

Even though they were lake fishing, Chelsea liked to pretend that it was an ocean, a body of water so vast that one could easily get lost if a sudden squall came along, a sea inhabited by fish as big as school buses. It was these fantasy’s that gave her so much pleasure when she was just whiling the time away, waiting for one moment to end and the next to begin.

Clutching her Hello Kitty backpack, she shifted from leg to leg-as if she had to go to the bathroom-in anticipation of her erstwhile uncle. Glancing at her watch, she saw that it was ten past the hour-Slim should be here by now and, if not, he would be here any minute. He was seldom late, but when he was he always had a serious list to his stride and his eyes looked bloodshot, like he hadn’t got enough sleep. His speech patterns were slow and languid, his manner much less sharp than on the days when he showed up with his eyes wide, talking fast, movements as rapid as a jack rabbits. On those days he jumped at the slightest noise and often asked her to repeat whatever it was she said, relaxing when what she repeated maybe didn’t sound like what he first thought it was. She liked him best when he was mellow and he reeled off stories about his younger days, when he was captain of a ship in the waters off Alaska, doing commercial fishing.

“Chelsea!” A hearty voice greeted and the young girl turned around to see Uncle Slim advancing on unsteady legs, his face unshaven, his eyes masked by a pair of dark sunglasses. “How’s my favorite little girl?”

“Uncle Slim!” She cried and dove into his outstretched arms. Burying her face into his wrinkled t-shirt, she smelled the familiar scents of tobacco and chocolate intermingled with a sweet, pungent smell she couldn’t put her finger on. She’d smelled it once at a ‘Wiggle’s’ concert and endlessly in uncle Slim’s car and apartment, and it reminded her of a natural smell, something of the earth. Maybe it was his cologne, or maybe something that he worked with, as he said he was in the distribution business. She wasn’t sure what it was that he distributed, but from his accounts his clientele was always happy to see him.

“Are you ready to catch some fish?” He asked and she squealed with delight.

“We’ll catch our dinner!” She said enthusiastically and he laughed, a deep, full-bodied laugh. This was what she always said, and most times it was true, and it never failed to crack her uncle up.

“You bet we will!” He said and took her hand. “How long have you been waiting?”

Chelsea looked at her watch, did some mental subtraction, and reported her findings: “About twenty minutes.”

“Sorry to keep you waiting Chelsea, I just had to conduct a little business before I got here. Some bikers were going to Vegas for the weekend and needed to stay awake for the drive.”

“Sure Uncle Slim.” She said, not understanding what he meant but not caring. It was boring because it had to do with his job, which she couldn’t care less about. She just wanted to hang out with him on his boat and everything else was secondary. “Mom dropped me off early because boyfriend Steve had an AA meeting at twelve thirty.”

“And how is your mother doing?” Slim asked, kneeling down beside her and playfully punching her shoulder. Her mother was his sister, and the two of them got on famously. She knew how much Chelsea adored him, and how important these fishing trips were to her. To Slim, Chelsea looked like a mini version of his sister, with her short dark hair, large brown eyes and a mouth that was always quick with a smile. She had her father’s chin and skin complexion, but hopefully she didn’t inherit his disposition. Popito’s wonderful demeanor had earned him a lifetime’s stay in a state pen, thanks to his muscled arms and quick temper.

“She’s doing good, but I think she’s getting tired of boyfriend Steve.”

“How come?”

“He acts strange a lot of the time, and Mom says it’s because he-” And here she paused to enact a motion that incorporated her cupped hand in front of her mouth, tipping it several times.

Slim nodded solemnly and put his arm around her.

“Is your mother scared?” He asked, eyeing her closely, and she shook her head.

“No, not like with Popito, just aggravated I guess.” She paused, blew a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Mom says that the AA meetings are supposed to help but they won’t do any good unless boyfriend Steve tries harder.”

“He hasn’t ever tried to, uh, discipline you, has he?”

Chelsea looked at Slim as if he were crazy.

“Discipline me? He can’t even discipline himself!” She followed this with a short bark of a laugh and Slim laughed with her.

“Okay,” He said, nodding. “Then it’s alright I guess.”

“Sure,” She replied, wondering why he was asking so many questions.

“All aboard who’s going aboard!” Slim suddenly announced and the two of them climbed on.

“Where you wanna go today?” He asked her as he untied the bowline. “To the far end of the lake or along the north western side?”

“The northwestern side!” She bellowed and again Slim laughed. It was there that she’d caught a six-pound salmon two summers ago and she was determined to repeat history.

“To the northwest side it is!” He cried, untying the stern line and pushing them away from the docks. Although the boat had a large sail, it also had a motor and Slim kicked it to life, just to get them out into the deep water. Once they were well away from the dock Slim unfurled the sail and caught the afternoon breeze. He said he did it so that he could save the gas for when they really needed it, and that Mother Nature preferred the sail anyway. Chelsea agreed.

Chelsea got to hold the rudder while Uncle Slim prepared the poles for trolling. Baiting them with lures, he placed them in aluminum holders bolted to the stern of the boat. When the lines were out, Slim pulled in the sail and took his place at the rudder while they watched the poles, waiting for a bite. It was then that he would fill his large, wooden pipe with aromatic tobacco and spin yarns about this, that and the other. Chelsea would listen with eyes wide, a grin plastered on her face, drinking Mountain Dew by the six pack and chewing on Sour Patch candies that Uncle Slim seemed to have an endless supply of.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I was stranded in Misaloo Bay with no gas and a crew ready to commit mutiny?” His tales often began-or something of that nature-and Chelsea would giggle, shivering all over, and tell him ‘No’.

“Well, ya see…” He’d start and for the next twenty or thirty minutes she would hold her breath, waiting on every word, every syllable, just about unable to contain herself until after the story was almost over, and the punch line was revealed. For that’s how it was with Uncle Slim’s stories: There was always a joke waiting at the end, something that made the whole story make sense, something to make her laugh.

“Well, we were just outside of the Yukon Circle when old Pete tells me that we done run outa gas and, let me tell you, he was mighty nervous about telling me that because he was of the opinion that the messenger was the one to be in a awful state, seeing as the news was so bad…”

“Yeah?” Chelsea said, leaning forward on her seat.

Uncle Slim studied the water for a moment, then resumed:

“What about them gas cans, I asked. Ain’t they full?” Slim said, making a face as he did so. “And this crazy old Indian, he shakes his head, all forlorn, and tells me that we spent the gas money on whisky at the last stop. We ain’t got a drop of gas but we got enough shine to last us until the Aurora Borealis.” At this he laughs, and Chelsea laughs with him, not quite knowing why but not caring. It wasn’t so much the stories but how her uncle told them. His delivery was everything.

“So I size up the crew, trying to decide how to tell them. There hasn’t been a gust of wind in hours and the catch has been mighty slim-these fellahs are about ready to toss some ones overboard they are so frustrated-and I just know that this news ain’t gonna make ‘em any happier, but I gotta do something.”

“What did you do?” Chelsea asked, knowing that this is her cue and her uncle smiled, reached for his can of Pabst, took a drink while he pondered the question, and then tipped her a wink.

“Well, I knowed that if I was to tell the truth I might be tossed into the drink, so that wasn’t an option.”

“Yeah?”

“So I decided that I would make up some kind of contest that involved rowing. Something that was to determine who the biggest, strongest stud was aboard the ‘Balls Deep’. I said nothing about the lack of gasoline, nor the fact that we was drifting toward Russia…”

“Russia?” Chelsea asked when all of a sudden one of the poles bent over double and her uncle was on his feet.

“We got ourselves a bite!” He exclaimed. “You want to land this here fish?” He asked and Chelsea rose to her feet, all business.

“I’ll bring him in.” She said, taking the pole, and Slim looked at her with unabashed admiration.

“That’s my girl.” He said, proud to be her uncle. “Just don’t let any slack in the line. This here is a big one.”

“Okay Uncle Slim.” She said, gripping the pole with both hands, wedging it against her stomach. The line ran out on her, but she was able to make up for it by setting the drag and reeling it in quickly.

“We’re gonna eat tonight!” Uncle Slim said, which was what he always said whenever they caught a fish, and Chelsea giggled. He always made it sound as if it was do or die, that if they didn’t catch anything they would starve, when in all actuality they would most likely have dinner at Jack In The Box. “You go girl!”

Chelsea struggled against the weight of the fish, but eventually she got the best of it and was able to get it close to the boat, where Uncle Slim was waiting with a large net.

“A little closer… a little closer… yeah! That’ll do! We got us some vittles here!” Uncle Slim said, hauling the fish over the side.

“We got us a ten pound salmon!” He said and Chelsea beamed with pride. When they returned to the dock he would clean it in less than two minutes with his electric fishing knife. He was a pro when it came to cleaning.

When the fish was safely stored in the large cooler packed with ice, Slim regarded his niece admirably.

“You havin’ a good time?” He asked, tipping the last of a Pabst into his mouth and the little girl nodded.

“The best.” She said, smiling, showing a missing tooth in the front of her mouth. “I love fishing with you Uncle Slim.”

“And I love fishin’ with you too darlin’.” He said, and then turned the rudder so that they could catch the next big gust of wind whenever it would happen to blow. “Be a sweetie and grab yer uncle another can of Pabst, huh?”