Free South of the Pumphouse by Les Claypool Page A

brightness of the sky, even the texture of the water’s surface. Intuition also played a role in Earl’s deciding where and when to fish, sometimes placing him in the right spot at the right time for no other reason than the feeling that fish were present. More often than not, Earl knew, intuition was the determining factor between a consistently successful fisherman and an unsuccessful one. Most people simply interpreted it as luck.
    The three men sat staring out the back of the boat. Earl watched intently for any twitch at the end of his rod. He was always on his game, usually noticing the movement on another person’s rod before they did. Ed looked off into the distance, spying an aircraft heading in the direction of the boat. He could see the reflection off the water of the marine layer overhead, giving the surface the impression of polished chrome. The plane cut through the sky, leaving a long grayish-silver trail. As it came closer, Ed suddenly realized that it wasn’t an aircraft at all but a large gull gliding low on the water. It swooped to starboard, twenty yards or so off his left shoulder. Ed followed the bird’s movement as it passed, locking his gaze to its massive left eye. The depth of the eye and the intensity of the stare made the small hairs on his right forearm tingle. He subconsciously stroked his skin as if to brush away some small insect. The gull gave one mighty flap of its wings and swung around the bow, gliding toward the Pumphouse and eventually landing on one of the pilings.
    By this point, Ed had turned completely around in his seat and was staring at the perched seagull. The bird gave off an enormous squawk that reverberated in Ed’s ears. He continued to stare at the bird in earnest. The eyes of man and bird were fixed on each other. Ed was convinced that the gull was fully aware that he was on psychedelic drugs. For a moment, he even toyed with the notion that the magnificent bird was sent to this remote spot by some divine spirit to spy on him during his mental journey. The bird grinned at him as if it was about to make a sarcastic remark. Instead, it gave out a short but aggressive cackle that cut through Ed like the laugh of a sinister old villain from the Creature Feature films that he had watched late Friday nights during his childhood. He pondered for a moment and then narrowed his eyes on the bird in defiance.
    â€œWho you laughing at?” he muttered.
    The gull flew off, leaving a colored trail. Satisfied that he had prevailed in his confrontation with an obvious herald of the spirit world, Ed turned back in his seat, once again facing aft.

Chapter 19
    L OUISIANA H OT L INKS
    T o be produced by such a massive creature, the evidence of a sturgeon bite on the tip of a fishing rod is surprisingly subtle. Many times, a sturgeon will slurp up the bait and sit motionless. If an angler is attentive, he will detect the bite and forcefully haul back on the rod, lifting over the shoulder to set the hook into the leathery mouth of the mighty fish.
    â€œHere we go,” muttered Earl as he leaned forward, holding his hands low with his fingers around, but not touching, the butt of the rod. He eyed the tip, waiting for another sign of movement. He sat poised like an old western gunslinger, ready to draw in an instant.
    â€œâ€™Bout fuckin’ time,” muttered Donny.
    The rod tip bounced again and Earl pulled, leaning far back in his chair and looking straight up to the tip. He paused and started to reel in. The pole was bent slightly.
    â€œYou get him?” asked Ed.
    â€œYeah, fuckin’ bullhead,” Earl said flatly. He stood up to reel.”
    Donny took a swig from his beer and then piped in, “Yeah, you know the rules. The guy with the smallest peter has to stick the first bullhead down his pants.” He backhanded Ed in the chest. “I guess that’s you Pee Wee!”
    The sound of Donny’s laughter bit Ed between the eyes. He