Free Bittersweet Sands by Rick Ranson Page B

please.”
    The vision motioned them to stop. The door closed, leaving the men to fidget in the hallway. After twenty minutes of giggling, thumping, and muffled conversation, the door reopened. From the room emerged four of the loveliest little girls the men had ever seen. They were dressed, scrubbed, their hair pulled up into ponytails, their teeth white and regular. They looked like a team of cheerleaders.
    The men were just happy they had a pulse.
    The men sat, their backs stiff, aware of the warmth of the women beside them. They had all seen the ladies buck naked but this was different: the girls were clothed, they smiled, and talked. One of them had even had dimples. It came as a shock that these young women sitting beside them were people—people with thoughts, opinions, and actual feelings.
    The men felt a little crestfallen and more than a little ashamed. In unison, the men raised their beers to their lips and took a long, desperate drink. The men had half-expected an instant Roman orgy, but what they were getting was a meet-the-teacher interview.
    The littlest lady with the friendly dimples watched the welders take a long pull on their drinks. Her eyes shot a quick glance at the other women and then stopped at two fishing poles in the corner of the hotel room. She asked, “Who’s the fisherman?”
    He was taller than the others, with jet black hair and what looked like a four-day beard growth. He could have been Spanish, Italian, or Mexican; he was Métis.
    â€œI am.”
    â€œWhat’s that like?”
    He shrugged. “It’s... fishing.”
    â€œWell, how do you do it?”
    â€œYou’ve never fished?”
    The women looked at each other, and back to the fisherman. “No.”
    The fisherman sat on the edge of the hotel’s sofa, twisting his beer in his hands. “Well, first thing you gotta do is make sure there’s fish where you set up. Ask around, find out what type of fish there is. Ah, in your spot.”
    â€œHow do you do that?”
    â€œAsk at the place they sell fishing gear. If they don’t know, nobody does. Once you find out what fish you are looking for get the proper...”
    â€œI thought we were going to get naked,” blurted out the smallest of the welders.
    â€œ...bait.”
    Dimples looked directly at the small man. “It’s Sunday.” She glared at him. “C’mon, ladies, time’s up.” She stood.
    â€œNo, no, no!” said the big welder. “It’s okay! Stay. Please.” He looked at the smallest man, who had said the unthinkable. “If these ladies leave, so will you.” The other welders looked at the man. “And they’ll be allowed to come back.”
    The small man took a quick pull at the beer, glaring at the rug.
    The women settled primly back in their seats, their eyes flickering at the door once or twice.
    The fisherman got up and opened the door to the hallway. The ladies settled back into their chairs. Dimples smiled at the fisherman. “So you picked your spot, what then?”
    The fisherman looked at her. “Oh, oh. Aw, well... then you look for bait. And you make sure the hook is small enough so the fish can swallow it.”
    The fisherman talked about setting the hook, making the proper knot, getting the right bait, and on and on. The room fell silent as the women and the welders listened to a man who truly loved his hobby. Late into the night, the man’s voice resonated, interspersed with the softer voices of women asking questions. Fishing rods were handed around, lures were discussed, and the wicker creel for storing fish was tried on.
    North of Fort McMurray, past the massive Syncrude and Suncor refineries, there’s a construction camp just to the west of Highway 63 called Barge Landing. If you drive past that thousand-man camp and continue down the hill, you’ll find a huge dock where barges land and off-load equipment from the