The Blue Sunfish

"What like Hula Popper? Mepps?

"I don't know what that is, artificial lures, I would imagine."

She really didn't have a clue. I could see it in her eyes. And lips. I decided to test her. "Do you prefer a monofilament fishing line or a braided line?"

"I really have no opinion on that."

Strange. So let me ask you this. I had to take a very deep, deep breath. "Have you ever been fishing?"

"Of course I have. I even have a fish named after me."

"Really?"

"It's a little goby."

"Yeah, but have you ever been fishing?"

"I've caught many fish."

"How?"

"Nets and traps."

"How about a hook and a line?"

"Angling hurts the fish."

"Let me rephrase the question. Have you ever caught a fish with a hook and a line?"

"Yes."

"Really? What kind of fish?"

"It was a sunfish, actually."

"A sunfish. A, as in one?"

"Yes. I was ten? My friend Carly's parents had a cottage on one of the Finger Lakes in upstate New York."

"And how did you catch it?"

"With a hook."

"What did you use for bait?"

"A worm."

What a fucking surreal moment. This fish professor has only ever caught one fish on a line in her life! When she was ten. The fact that it was a sunfish even makes it even more surreal. How does one become a professor and not understand what a fish on the end of your line is? That's like not knowing what a fish is. Kinda. How weird.

"Kevin?"

There had to be some explanation for it. She said it hurts the fish. Okay fine, but... as a scientist, she probably kills them every day. Still, something didn't add up.

"Kevin?"

I took a deep breath. "Okay. Rose. Uhm...did you put the worm on the hook yourself?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Too yucky."

"Ha ha ha! I don't believe it."

"What's so funny?"

"That's absolutely ridiculous, Rose. It's preposterous."

"What is?"

"That you're this big fish professor and you've actually never been fishing. It's crazy."

"That's silly. I've been fishing."

"You have?"

"I've been in fishing boats."

Whaa? "What like a bass boat or like an ocean trawler?"

"A trawler, but I get seasick."

"Have you ever been in a canoe?"

"Yes, I've even been in a dugout canoe."

"But clearly not fishing from a canoe."

"Yes, but with a net or a trap."

I looked at her neutral face for a moment and then I suddenly lost it, "Ha ha ha!" I couldn't help myself. "Oh boy, this is gonna be fun. Huh ha ha."

She never really got the humour of it, yet she was kind enough to let me recover.

"Kevin, seriously. I'll be relying on you to find the spot where your niece caught the fish and I trust your judgment on the most efficient method to canvas the area, as it were. Using whichever angling technique you are most comfortable with, but as you pointed out, once we locate their habitat, we'll switch tactics. I'll use either nets or traps, or both."

"Fine."

"I do have a request though."

"Okay."

"Make sure the hooks are barbless."

"Fine, I can do that. Let me ask you another question."

"Mnn?"

"Do you eat fish?"

"Certainly."

"Good. We'll try to catch fish for our dinner. For that we'll want barbs."

"Sounds like fun."

"It is, but let me ask you this, how are you going to catch them in nets?"

"Lower net into water, wait, spread breadcrumbs on the surface as bait, wait for fish to come and then—quickly lift the net. That's just one technique that's been used for thousands of years. If we can't catch them with the net because there's too much vegetation or other obstructions, we'll have to try catching them in a trap."

"I don't even know what a trap looks like."

"It's very basic. The design has been around for thousands of years. There are several designs. All very easy to make. It actually quite interesting. For millennia, traps were made of sticks, reads, woven twine—natural material culled from the environment and molded to suit our needs. Now, in our age, we can repurpose materials made for completely different applications, to reach those same needs."

"Huh?"

"Kevin, I can make a trap for our little blue sunfish from a family-sized plastic Coke bottle and a piece of string. I'd need a sharp knife and a slice of bread for bait."

"Really? Knife for a bait?"

"You know what I mean. It's not rocket-science, Kevin. Mind you, if that doesn't work then we'll have to go back to fishing with a rod, hence, barbless hooks."

"I don't know if it's legal to fish with nets or traps in Ontario."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about that."

"No, no this is serious. There are catch limits. Quotas. We have a Ministry of Natural Resources and they're absolutely anal about fish limits, they can seize your boat and car on the spot if you're in violation."

"Don't worry about that, first off—catch limits would apply only to known species of fish of which our blue...and if they need to check with an expert in the field," she grinned, "besides, I'm undertaking a scientific expedition, catch limits won't apply to me. I'll make sure of that."

"Okay."

"In terms of that, my bigger concerns are Customs agents and border control inspectors. I can't have them ripping the coolers open in search of contraband. That's why the private LearJet is far more practical than a commercial airliner."

"I can see that."

"Nevertheless, it still poses certain problems. 'And what type of fish are you importing madam?'"

I laughed.

"I'll put together all the supporting documentation that I'll need. Mortality rates during live fish transportation increase with the duration of the trip and the temperature rise of the water. So what I'll have to do is have everything set up so that once the forty-eight hour GI tract cleaning period is over, I'll have to bag each fish, pump the bags with oxygen, place them all into the insulating coolers and then cart them off. We'll put the coolers in the back of the pick-up truck, covered with wet white towels. I'll dose them for the journey. I'll have to have everything set up like clockwork. My guess is that there will be six coolers."

"I guess there's a bit more to this than meets the eye."

"There sure is. Are you certain you want to go on this expedition?"

"Absolutely. I just have to think of it as a combination fishing and camping trip," I smiled at her, "with a side order of..."

"You bet." She smiled wildly as her hand slid over mine. Her face changed abruptly, "Until I scare you off."

"Oh god, not again." I rolled my eyes. What is wrong with this woman?

*****

After dinner we sloshed back to the hotel in the pouring rain, carefully avoiding another puddle tsunami. Sex was out of the question and it was getting late. We bid each other a fond farewell. I watched as she disappeared into the dark, rainy Viennese night.

*****

A mini-van limo delivered me to the airport early the next morning.

On the flight back I couldn't help thinking what a strange and wonderful woman I had just met. I was seriously smitten with her. But then, I rationalized, why would a gorgeous, fun, sexy and intelligent creature like her, a professor no less, be interested in a fucking loser like me?

Of course, she wouldn't be, in spite of her protestations.

She's only after the fish.

Over the next few weeks while we worked out the logistics by email, my suspicions were confirmed. My emails were always warm and friendly, and perhaps too sexually suggestive. Rose's, by contrast were precise, to the point, very professional and completely lacking any personal warmth, and certainly no sexual innuendo.

It was clear to me: she was going on an expedition and I was expecting to go on a sex romp fishing holiday.

The other harsh reality was this. I'm forty fucking two. I'm a painter. Seriously, what are my chances of finding a woman that is still of breeding age and then having a family?

I knew the answer to that. Pretty much squat.

For the last number of years, of the very few serious dates that I'd been on, they had all included a glorious, 'Oh I can't wait for you to meet my kids.' Except for one; she said, 'I'm sorry, I don't want any kids.'

So, it all seemed like a strange reversal with Rose. She claimed men shunned her, but now as we were planning the expedition... she was the cool one to my not-so-subtle romantic innuendos?

I got the game. I'm a dumb-ass painter and she's a scientist. I've got a job to do, which includes fucking her and coming on her face and tits a few times. I'll wave goodbye at the airport, give you a warm thank you kiss... and that's it.

Strangely enough, once I came to terms with the situation, I was okay with it. My constant boner certainly reinforced that logic. I fully expected more hot sex, but I came to understand that that is what it would amount to. Sex, not love.

The other thing that I came to terms with, I fully admit, my hormones rather than my brain, won the day. Three days driving up, three days driving back for basically a couple of days of hot sex with a beautiful flat-chested woman? Yup, I'm up for that.

Nevertheless, the trip was set. I was able to borrow my friend (employee's) Carlos', Honda Ridgeline pick-up truck. I sorted out my tents, other camping stuff, fishing gear, food, booze, bug spray and stuff. She gave me a list of things she needed including coolers, dry ice, towels, a gas cylinder of oxygen and a fish cage. I kept all the receipts.

As July 1^st approached, my apprehension grew with each day. I was torn between pure basic animal lust and some sort of a strange loathing. I knew I was willingly being used, but maybe she was absolutely correct, was I being scared off, too?

I found myself physically trembling in bed one night. With a hard on of course.

What the fuck was the deal with this woman?

It was set up that I was going to meet her at the Sioux Lookout airport. She would fly commercial to Winnipeg, then hire a local plane to Sioux Lookout. I'd drive the Ridgeline on my own.

*****

The drive up was boring and, thankfully, uneventful. Carlos' Ridgeline was a great pick-up truck, even with the canoe sticking out the back. I made great time, arriving just after four in the afternoon of the third day.

I stayed at the Sunset Inn hotel/motel in Sioux Lookout. I had a really nice steak dinner at their restaurant, Dick's Grillhouse. They kindly agreed to re-freeze the bundle of freezer packs that I had brought.

After dinner, I waddled off down the street but didn't get too far. Not surprisingly, Sioux Lookout had a local chapter of the Canadian Legion, guaranteed to be the cheapest, sorry, most economical, bar in town.

I had a couple of drinks and met some great people. Just like pretty much all Legions in Ontario, the people are really nice to you, especially if you're buying. Still, it was typical northern Ontario, a mixed crowd, all of them actual salt of the earth Canadians, and after a couple of beers, pretty salty too.

None of them had any interest in sunfish, blue or otherwise.

The next morning, I had plenty of time to check out and grab a quick coffee at Roy Lane with my head thumping, before heading off to pick up Rose, who was supposed to be landing at about noon. In town I managed to buy some groceries, including two dozen fresh worms in two Styrofoam containers and a loaf of sliced white Wonder Bread, as directed in an earlier email, before swinging round to the airport. Rose's Bearskin Air charter flight landed as I parked the pick-up truck.

As soon as the hatch opened Rose emerged with her slender frame wrapped in a bright blue hoodie and sporting gold-coloured jeans. She jumped out and ran straight towards me with the brightest smile, wide tooth gap and outstretched arms, one of which had a large purse hanging from it. She jumped into my arms, pressed to lips against mine and wrapped her legs around my waist, causing me to stagger around with our combined weight plus a swinging handbag, as I kissed her back.

"I missed you so much," she said as she broke the kiss and returned back to ground.

"And I missed you, too; it so wonderful to see you again and to feel you in my arms." As we kissed again, I saw the pilot wrestle a big black suitcase out of the little plane.

We were beaming at each other. I couldn't believe how warm, nay... hot she was, completely at odds with her email persona. "I see you're dressed like a fish again."

"Let's not get me wet this time," she smiled back at me. "No, that actually not true," she grinned, "I'm already wet."

"Oh em gee!"

After packing Rose's suitcase into the back of the pick-up truck, we headed back into town. "Have you had anything to eat?" I asked.

"No, I'm starved."

"Vienna may have a Figlmuller and a Plachutta, but it doesn't have what Sioux Lookout now has."

"Which is?"

"A Tim Hortons. A Timmies."

"Lead on, then. Lead on."

"Lo-and-behold, a Tim Hortons," I said as I pulled into the parking lot. "Clearly Sioux Lookout has been moving up in the world since I was here last." I parked the truck and we went inside. There was a Giant Tiger across the street.

While we stood in line waiting to order, we overheard the young fellow working the drive-through window, "That will be sixteen dollars and fifteen cents," he said.

"For four fookin' coffees? Ya must be fookin' mad!" came the booming reply in a thick Scottish accent.

Everyone in line turned their head.

"Oh sorry..." said the young man as he scrolled through his touch screen. "Oh, here we go, five eighty-five."

Scotty McRedBeard held out a tenner.

"Would you like a cup holder, sir?"

His beard quivered, "Obviously ah do ya reprobate. Am no a fookin' octopus."

Everyone at the counter erupted in laughter, including Rose and the staff. God, I love Canada.

Loaded with fresh coffees and sandwiches, Rose and I climbed back into the pick-up truck and headed out along highway 642 towards the tiny little hamlet of Silver Dollar, on Highway 599, which would then take us to Sandbar Lake Provincial Park and Ignace, along the TransCanada highway, thereby completing the post Sioux Lookout journey which Marie, Amanda and I did almost ten years prior. Altogether, Sioux Lookout was about an hour or so north from the TransCanada, #642, running more or less due east, parallel to the TransCanada, then from Silver Dollar back south along #599 would be less than an hour to Sandbar Lake and the TransCanada at Ignace. Somewhere along the way was the coveted blue sunfish. I had my bluefish sitting right next to me.

Rose was caught up gazing at the boreal forest scenery as we drove along. The forest consisted of spindly black spruce, birch trees, stands of quacking aspen, tamarack, every once in a while a small stand of majestic white pine would proudly stand, as if governing over the landscape. The highway, itself, was paved, barely, and basically one wide lane with no markings. The countryside was more or less flat, with low smooth rock outcroppings peeking through. The rocks had been ground down by successive glaciers. There was water everywhere, sometimes a corrugated culvert or two would cross under the roadway, permitting the water to flow. Clearly, there where areas that were prone to flooding.

Very soon, a reality dawned on me. There were quite simply a gazillion places that we could have stopped, because there was water everywhere. Occasionally an un-named gravel road would branch off to, who knows, a logging area or a mine or something? Otherwise, it was much as I remembered it, pretty much monotonous. How the hell was I supposed to find where we randomly stopped to fish ten years earlier? I slowed down a few times thinking... maybe? Nothing jumped out at me saying, 'we stopped here.' Certainly, there weren't many areas that could be construed as a place to pull off; the shoulders were pretty minimal, nevertheless one could stop anywhere.

"I don't know, Rose, even though were only ten minutes out of town, it all looks the same to me. Finding that spot may be a hell of a challenge."

She said nothing as she watched the forest roll by.

She broke the awkward silence. "So tell me a bit about yourself, Kevin, you said you're a painter."

"And decorator." I was glad for the distraction.

"And it's your business?"

"Yup I've got a small crew, one of whom, Carlos, actually owns this truck."

She paused for a moment, "Okay, how is he going to get paid for us using it?"

"I'm not going to fire his sorry ass."

She gazed at me with a look of horror on her face.

"I'm joking," I fired back. "Don't worry, he's my lead hand. He's my friend. Relax, Carlos will be well compensated."

Another awkward moment passed before I added, "Right now, we're doing a school."

She continued to stare ahead.

"He'll be fine. We'll be fine. It's not rocket science."

She stared straight ahead. "I have my directive, and that extends to your employees."

"Rose, there is really way less to this than meets the eye."

"Wear and tear on the automobile."

"He's got my van. I'm paying for his gas."

"No, our benefactor will."

"Oh my god," I paused, "Rose from my perspective it's just a fishing trip."

She looked up at me.

"With side benefits," I added grinning. "You said the fun is in the hunt."

Now the gorgeous creature was beaming at me.

After a few moments, Rose just had to ask, "So why are you single? You're a good-looking man, you're healthy, intelligent, kind and you have a steady job."

"I was married once, when I was quite young." I said as we slowed down, then stopped at a side creek.

"Is this it?" She perked up.

"I don't think so," I answered as I stepped back on the gas.

"So, what happened?"

"To what?"

"Your marriage."

"Oh yeah," I regained my senses, "Sonja was her name. She was quite nice, she was beautiful actually, probably still is. We were married for about a year when we were twenty-one. Never had kids, thankfully. We just started to drift apart into separate circles of friends, and I think, fundamentally, it became obvious that I wasn't going to aspire to become anything other than a painter."

"What's wrong with being a painter?"

"Well, it's not the most glorious of professions is it?" I had to pull to the side as the visibility was limited while we went around a curve.

"Yeah, but as you're healthy and willing to work, I would think you also have a steady income. That, in itself, is quite an achievement that many women do find attractive."

"I'm not sure about, that but nevertheless, I guess I don't have the intellect to become a lawyer or a doctor, or the desire to go through all that schooling."

"I'm sure you could have if you had applied yourself."

"But I didn't, and I think that was Sonja's fundamental disappointment with me. She wanted to be the lawyer's wife with the big house and fancy cars."

"Did she get it?"

"Don't know, haven't seen or heard from her in years, decades. And I do have a nice house, it's not big, but I don't need a big house, I live alone. And as far as a car is concerned, I've got a van, loaded with painting supplies and a four-year-old Honda Civic."

"And I don't even have a car, rarely do I need one."

"Di Donato seems an Italian name, but you were born in Zurich?" I asked.

"It is. Bear in mind, Switzerland shares a border with Italy. My parents' families, on both sides, have been Swiss for generations."

"Hmm. Do you speak Italian?"

"I speak German and English. I can read Italian and French, and to a lesser degree Spanish, and I can hear them and understand them, as long as the speakers aren't talking too quickly, but I can't speak those languages. I just can't get my tongue around the words. A few words I can do, I can usually place an order in a restaurant, but not carry on a conversation."

"That's amazing," I said fully coming to grips with the fact that I was a moron compared to this woman.