Skinny-Dipping at Monster Lake (5 page)

“We're just going fishing,” Ted teased back. “You think we need to take a bubble bath before we go:

“You're fine,” his dad chuckled. “Don't bother cleaning up. If I were you, after we stick the bank poles in the mud, I'd just stay there in the water and let the odor ooze out. Every catfish in the lake will swim over to see what died.” He clamped his lips together.

Ted stuck his tongue out. He was sitting shotgun. Since he was on the other side of me, I guess he figured his dad couldn't see. But all at once Mr. Aikman's eyebrows arched.

“Watch it. You stick that thing out again, I'll reach over and tie a knot in it.” He tried to sound serious, but I could tell he wasn't. Dad and I had fun teasing each other like that. It was neat listening to Ted and his dad go at it.

At the house Mr. Aikman got some nylon fishing line and hooks from his tackle box. We tied the line at the very tip of the poles. Then Mr. Aikman stretched it out, cut it at the right length, and helped us tie on the hooks. He told Ted to go inside and take a shower. We put my bicycle in the back, and he drove me home.

“I'll give you and Ted time to get your fishing gear and grab a bite to eat. Then we'll go set the
poles out and catch some perch for cut bait.”

“How big do they need to be?” I asked.

“Doesn't matter. Anything you catch is a keeper. All we're going to do is slice them into strips and put them on the hooks.”

“Should we get some ice out of the freezer to keep them fresh?”

Mr. Aikman smiled and shook his head. “Don't want 'em fresh. The more they stink, the better catfish like 'em.”

• • •

At the house I got my fishing gear out of the garage so it would be ready when Ted and Mr. Aikman came back for me. Then I tossed my sweaty shirt and jeans into the washing machine. I took a nice hot bath instead of a shower. That's because my arm was kind of stiff and hurting from all the chopping we did. I was so tired, all I wanted to do was plop down in front of the TV and go to sleep. I hadn't even gotten my soccer shorts on when the phone rang.

“Kent. It's for you,” Mom called from her office.

I trotted to the kitchen and grabbed the phone. “Hello.”

“Kent? This is Jordan. I asked my father where he thought we should fish tonight. He informed me that if we were going for bass or crappie, we
should probably fish off the Point. He also related the fact that catfish feed where the wind and currents agitate the bottom. Consequently, this side of the lake would be advantageous for catfish. Daniel wants to bring the horses so we can ride around the lake tomorrow morning. Foster says they'll just be in the way. What's your opinion?”

I held the phone out at arm's length and stared at it. Why did Jordan always have to use such big words and make stuff sound like a dictionary?

“I don't know.” I sighed. “What did Ted say?”

“I'll call him. Call you back.”

I had just turned the TV on and plopped on the couch when the phone rang again. For the next forty-five minutes I felt as if my cheeks had springs in them. Every time they touched the couch, I bounced back up and ran for the phone.

About the time Ted and his dad showed up, we finally decided to go on our side of the lake and bring the horses.

Spending the night in my own front yard didn't sound all that exciting. So I asked Mom if it would be okay to camp on the vacant lot between the Brocks' and Mrs. Baum's place. She said it would be fine—just so long as we didn't leave paper and trash all over.

• • •

Ted put his horse in our pen with Duke, while his dad drove the bank poles down to the lake. Foster put his horse in Jordan's lot with Mac. Daniel's guys had leather hobbles for their horses. They put them in the vacant lot near where we pitched Ted's and Daniel's tents.

We made camp near a little creek, about thirty feet up the hill from the lake. Where we were—well . . . even if we stayed up all night, making racket, we were far enough from any houses that the noise wouldn't bother people.

Mr. Aikman had changed out of his farming clothes and into his bathing suit. When Mr. Bently brought the ice chests in the back of his SUV, he had his suit on, too. While we unloaded the food and worked on the tents, they started setting out the bank poles.

And—with two dads and eight boys, all working together, we had our camp set up in less than thirty minutes. Mr. Aikman and Mr. Bently made sure we had plenty of rocks around our fire area to make it safe, then they wished us luck and told us if there were any problems to go to Jordan's house. It was the closest. We grabbed our fishing rods and started putting hooks or plugs on.

“Where's the boat?” Foster asked.

Ted frowned at him. “What boat?”

“To paddle out and put the bait on the bank poles.”

“We don't have a boat. No sense in worrying about bank poles now. We'll bait 'em up right before dark.”

“But how are we going to put the bait on them without a boat?” Jordan asked.

Ted's frown curled to a sly smile. “We just wade out and put it on.”

“But none of us brought a bathing suit,” Pepper protested.

“So?” Ted shrugged.

Mouths gaping open, the whole bunch of us turned to glare at him.

“You mean . . .”

Ted nodded. “After dark nobody can see us. We're not close to anyone's house. And we're just a bunch of guys. Who needs a bathing suit?”

T
he thought of wading around, shoulder deep in a lake . . . in the dark . . . without a stitch of clothes on except for our tennis shoes . . . well . . . There could be all sorts of stuff swimming in that water . . . and at night . . . when we couldn't see . . . with nothing on . . .

I don't guess any of us were that excited about the idea.

So we fished from the bank and never gave it another thought—until it started getting dark.

Jordan and I offered to run home and get our bathing trunks. Zane asked if we had enough suits for everyone.

“Nobody can see us,” Ted scoffed. “You guys aren't sissies, are you?”

That shut us up. We each dug into the big ice chest and grabbed another pop, then sat down around the little fire that Mr. Bently started for us before he left. Pepper guzzled another Coke, then grabbed a handful of chocolate chip cookies.

“Where's the bathroom?” he asked, wiping his
chin. “Do we walk up to Jordan's house?”

Ted slammed the lid shut on his tackle box. “Haven't you guys ever camped out before? You don't go barging into somebody's house.” He reached into one of the paper sacks and tossed Pepper a roll of toilet paper. “Here. Go down to the creek.”

Pepper tossed the roll back to him. “I don't need that. Just gotta pee.”

“Then go anyplace.” Zane chuckled. “But not near the tents.”

“Yeah,” Ted added. “Not on the fire, either. Makes the hot dogs taste funny.”

Pepper sneered at both of them and trotted off toward the trees that lined the creek.

“We need to start out with a variety of bait,” Ted explained. “We'll put cut bait on the first hook, minnows on the second, worms on the third, and shad gizzards on the fourth. Then we'll start over again till we have all the lines baited. We have to check the hooks about once an hour, see what they're hitting, and put on fresh bait. Who's going with me?”

Nobody looked up. We just sat there, drinking our pops and staring at the fire.

“Come on, guys.” Ted moaned. “It's not like you have to go every time. We take turns. Two
guys bait the hooks. An hour later the next two guys go take the fish off and put fresh bait on.” He paused. Still no one would look at him. “I'll go twice. No, three times. But somebody's got to go with me. I can't carry the bait and take fish off all by myself.”

The fire was really interesting. I guess it was downright hypnotizing, the way everybody just sat, trance-like, and stared at it. The flames all orange, and red, and yellow, and blue. The coals . . . glowing and shimmering, almost as if they were alive . . .

“Come on, guys. You're acting like a bunch of wimps.”

Maybe we needed to add a little more wood and a log or two. Let the logs burn down to coals, and it would be just right for cooking hot dogs and . . .

“All right! I'll just pick somebody.”

I cringed. So did everybody else.

“Kent.”

My shoulders sagged so far that my elbows nearly bumped the ground. I liked having Ted as my best friend. It did have its drawbacks, though. I set my pop down and slowly got to my feet. Ted stripped off his shirt, then unsnapped his jeans. I did the same. He kicked his pants off. I did the same. He peeled his socks off. I did the same. Then . . .

I smiled when he stuffed his feet back into his
tennis shoes. He left his jockey shorts on! Maybe this wasn't going to be so bad, after all.

“You get the can of shad gizzards and the worms. I'll get the cut bait and the minnows.”

Ted grabbed two pieces of rope and tossed one to me. He took one of the cans of shad gizzards, and handed me a white Styrofoam carton of worms. I didn't even have a chance to ask him what the rope was for, when he snatched up the tin can where we had put the cut-up perch and headed for the lake.

My minnow bucket shell sat in the edge of the water. The outside part—the shell—was like a round, tin bucket with a bail or handle. The inside part of the minnow bucket—the part with all the holes—fit or slid down inside the shell. It had the lid and a Styrofoam thing under the edge to keep it afloat. When we first got here, we took the inside part out, attached it with our metal stringer to the shell, and tossed it into the lake. All the little holes on the inside part let the water flow through. That way the minnows could breathe. It kept them alive a lot longer than if we just left it in the shell on the bank.

I glanced down, making sure there was plenty of water inside the shell. Water kept the thing weighted down so the part with the holes and minnows wouldn't float away. Pepper and Chet brought their
minnow buckets, too. All three were sitting in a row on the bank. The insides—the part with all the holes—glided and bobbed around in the shallows.

Ted grabbed hold of the metal stringer on the handle of my bucket. He unsnapped it from the bail and hooked it on to the rope around his waist.

I tied my rope around my waist. Ted handed me the tin can with the cut bait. Then . . .

Ted stripped his jockey shorts off.

I just stood there. Ted strolled a little ways into the lake. When I didn't follow, he paused and glanced back at me.

“I . . . I thought we were going to . . . ah . . . leave our . . . ah . . .” I stammered.

Ted shrugged. “You know what wet underpants feel like? There's no way I'm sitting around, all night, in soggy shorts. Come on.”

I had a carton of worms in one hand and a tin can full of cut-up perch in the other. Slowly I put them on the ground. Mustering all my courage, I stuck my thumbs under the elastic and peeled them down.

Behind me—up the hill—somebody whistled.

“Look!” one of the other guys yelled. “Must be a little bunny rabbit down by the lake. All I can see is its shiny white cottontail.”

Then somebody else started singing “Here
Comes Peter Cottontail.” Before I knew it, the whole bunch joined in on the song.

I felt like a total idiot.

Here I was with the cold, dark, murky lake on one side. And on the other side all the guys whistling catcalls and singing a song I hadn't heard since second grade.

Tin can full of cut bait in one hand and a Styrofoam carton of worms in the other, I took a deep breath and tromped out into the lake.

The water was a lot colder than I expected. I stayed on my tiptoes for as long as I could, but it was no use.

Chest deep in the cold lake, Ted waited at the first bank pole with a disgusted look on his face until I caught up with him.

“Told you it wasn't that bad.” He smiled and tried to hand me his can of shad gizzards. “Here, hold this while I put the cut bait on the hook.”

“What am I supposed to hold it with—my teeth?”

Ted looked at the carton of worms and the tin can I was holding.

“Got a point.” He shrugged. “When we get back to the bank, we're gonna have to reorganize. Next trip out, it'll be dark and someone will have to carry a flashlight.”

Holding the tin can full of shad gizzards under his chin, Ted grabbed hold of the string that dangled from the tip of the bankpole. When he did, he almost lost the can. He had to catch it, then hump his shoulder forward to trap the can between his shoulder and jaw.

“Ad's ot da string ong enough so it dangles oose on the ottom.”

“What?” I frowned.

Ted let go of the string and took the can from between his shoulder and chin.

“I said, ‘Dad's got the string long enough so it dangles loose on the bottom.' ”

I rolled my eyes. Ted sighed and stuck the can back under his chin.

“At way e atfish can et it all in eir outh.”

“Huh!”

He glanced up at me and moved the can once more. “That way the catfish can get it all in their mouths. When they try to swim off, they end up hooking themselves.”

He started to stick the can back against his shoulder, then stopped. “You ever help your mom carry glasses or drinks to the table?”

“Sure.” I answered.

“Okay,” he said with a grin. “Hold the worms with the thumb and first finger of your left hand.
Now hold the cut bait with the thumb and finger of your right hand. See? Got six fingers left over. Here. Hold the shad gizzards.”

Ted threaded the cut bait onto the hook, then sloshed on toward the next pole. Following him, I felt like a circus clown trying to juggle stuff. It was hard to hold all three containers. If I tripped over a submerged branch or so much as slipped in the mud, I'd drop the whole thing. Most of our bait would be gone. Nothing more than a free meal for some fish.