To say I’m a Class A grouch when I have to get up before the sun rises is the world’s understatement. Because I don’t think grouches have vengeance…and I do.
Unfortunately the sun rises early here, but fortunately my PIC knows this and he’s got a Class A strategy to counter my early AM attitude.
But I’m getting ahead of myself, because that little tidbit puts at day three.
Yesterday we woke up at a normal hour and had a breakfast consisting of a Bloody Mary, two eggs over-easy and toast, my absolute favorite.
We hit the liquor store before hitting the boat dock, Scooter in tow. The agenda for the day was baiting the crab pots and pulling the shrimp pots.
I was too busy watching the dorsal fin come skirting out of the water to realize we’d arrived at the first crab pot. Randy hollered at my PIC to check the name on the float and hoist the pot out of the water.
The bait jar was full of salmon guts, approximately two weeks old. You would have thought we’d just pulled a kindergarten’s worth of baby diapers out of the water with the way these two grown men hurled themselves back from the rancid smell of the decomposed bait.
They covered their mouths as I heard Randy make a muffled yell through his T-shirt “JUST THROW IT OUT.” PIC obliged quickly. Next thing I know they’re both bent over choking and gagging saying making “that’s the worst” comparisons, like that’s worse than that dead frog we found under the spa cover and that’s worse than the two year old bag of rotten potatoes we found in the cabinet. Always ending with “that’s the worst smell I’ve ever smelled in my whole life.”
I chuckled thinking it actually wasn’t that bad and leapt out of the way just in time to see the Clorox come shooting across the bottom of the Silver Streak aluminum bait boat named No Quarter.
“Three to one!” Randy yelled to my PIC as he bucketed water from the bay.
Thank God for these polka dot fishing boots I was wearing, my Seven’s survived the entire ordeal. The journey to the Coronado’s where the shrimp pots were located was gorgeous, drastic cliffs peppered with white bark Alders.
We immediately found the first pot and successfully pulled it from 428 feet down. We spent a good couple hours circling for the second pot only to realize that it was either A- stolen or B- sunk. Either way I wasn’t happy. The guys had been talking all morning about the Shrimp Alfredo we were going to be having for dinner, but as we counted the shrimp in the first pot, a whopping 47, I realized Alfredo wasn’t happening.
I happily suggested a shrimp pizza and the guys got very excited about that proposition.
A few beers later we began the trek for a clam spot, not just any clam spot, but a “banner” clam spot, an undiscovered clam Mecca. As we trolled the inland waters I became overwhelmed with the beauty of the land, how cliché is that? The sun peeked from behind a fluffy white cloud bringing everything that was wet and misty to life, even the grey pebbles of the rocky shores glistened in it’s warmth.
Then we found it, the muddy bank of the Tracadero.
Now picture with me the movie Grizzly Man, or that show on network television called, “Mauled.” The eel grass calmly waving in the Alaskan wind, the creek bed dribbling down to meet the salty skirts of the ocean water, the driftwood laying in shambles as if the big brown bear had made it’s own campfire…that was our clam Mecca, apparently it's also the bear Mecca.
Randy pulled the tide chart on the Garmin navigational system and learned that low tide, aka mucky mess perfect for clamming, was at 6:21am. Very funny.
We briefly considered pulling No Quarter back to port and loading up the Ocean Sport Romer named Rover for the night, until we realized it was already 4PM and we were getting tired and hungry, weak inhibitions combined with bear...I mean clam Mecca was probably not a good idea.
We opted to head in for the afternoon, with a quick stop at the grocery store to get the additional ingredients for our fresh shrimp pizza: bacon, artichoke hearts, tomato and fresh garlic. The next morning we’d head out early for a day of salmon fishing, get back with enough time to load the overnight boat and begin our clamming adventure. As I snuggled in for the night in the flannel sheets at the Lodge with Twilight, the first in the series by Stephanie Meyer, I realized that I was looking forward to spending a scary night in the misty waters of the Prince of Wales island on the Rover.
When the alarm buzzed to life, I was in the middle of trying on a pair of Merrell hiking boots that felt like fuzzy slippers and smacking on a mouthful of blueberry gum. Apparently that’s what dreams are made of when you’re on vacation in the Pacific Northwest. Yesterday I’d picked and eaten both huckleberry’s and blueberry’s…apparently it affected me greatly. So did the adorable pair of Merrell’s at the Sporting Good store where I bought my fishing license.
I snapped to life as my PIC leapt from the other side of the bed to catch the alarm, well knowing I have beef with anything buzzing obnoxiously to wake me up.
I grumbled, “What time is it?”
“Don’t know Babe.” PIC said blandly.
“Not good enough, try again. What time is it?” I snapped.
“Um,” He hesitated, “ Six AM.”
Now I just felt stupid. Six AM wasn’t really that early. His swift cold hand on my warm ass told me it was time to kick it into high gear and I tumbled off the edge of the tall queen bed.
I fussed around with the shower for all of two seconds remembering I couldn’t figure out how to make it hot the day before, before stomping back into the hallway and screaming his name followed by, “HELP ME MAKE THIS SHOWER HOT.”
I didn’t ask nicely. There was no please. He didn’t even make eye contact as he walked passed my naked body and switched the nozzle.
“There. It’s hot now. Hurry up.” He demanded.
I hunched over letting the water hit my upper shoulders thinking that my eyes felt like they had cat litter in the lids as I debated whether or not to shave my legs. Ultimately I deciding shaving my legs would allot me an extra five minutes of alone time in the glorious heat and provide a good excuse. So I did.
Eventually I ran out of valid shower excuses and flipped the switch off. I begrudgingly made my way to the bedroom closet when I spotted the butter wheat toast and water he’d left for me. Kind of difficult to be a grump when your PIC is perfect.
As I made my way downstairs I caught the numbers on the clock. I leaned in to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me.
5:54 AM
Which meant that it definitely wasn’t six AM when I’d woken up thirty minutes earlier. I knew it. Grouch was back, in full effect.
Randy slipped out the front door as I approached the kitchen. Apparently my mood was written in neon letters across my forehead.
“You LIED.” I yelled.
“I didn’t really know, and I told you that the first time.”
Shortly thereafter he handed me a Bloody Mary and told me I was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. I was well on my way to salmon fishing…the vengeance was still in effect. My goal, to reel in a salmon bigger than his was in full force.
He must’ve sensed that, because as we boarded the Rover he whispered, “You catch a fish bigger than me and I’m throwing bait at you.”
Let the games begin!