Read Online South of the Pumphouse by Les Claypool - Free Book Online Page A

Brothers.
    As they journeyed onward, Ed reflected on these random pieces of the past and began to feel the effects of the psilocybin mushrooms. A telltale tingle rippled along the sides of his tongue, around his temples, and on the back of his neck. He shuddered. The colors of the beautiful autumn day became more and more vivid. As the boat approached the first of several markers that flanked each side of the channel, Ed chuckled to himself at the enhanced glow he was experiencing from the florescent reds and greens that differentiated the port and starboard markers.
    With the dominant din from the engine box at the center stern of the vessel, there had been little chitchat between the three men during the journey. Occasionally Earl pointed out a landmark, and Donny shouted a few random commentaries into Earl’s ear, evoking laughter from both men. Ed continued to drift undisturbed with his thoughts as they made their way north.
    When the boat approached the fifth channel marker, Earl veered to the west, aiming toward a distant grouping of pilings that stood alone in the vast openness. For Ed, the Pumphouse was a familiar image, one that he saw many a weekend as a kid. As they drew closer, he noticed a group of fishing boats almost the same size as Earl’s, about a mile or so south. He could see the Pumphouse more clearly now, and by Ed’s memory, it didn’t appear to have changed much in the decade plus that had passed since he last spied it.
    Earl pulled back on the throttle as they approached the Pumphouse, circling round for Ed’s benefit.
    â€œWell, there it is, Ed,” announced Earl, and then asked rhetorically, “Does it look any different?” Earl pushed the throttle forward when they finished the circle, and they headed back south toward the other boats. Eyeing the water, they cruised slowly. Earl made a wide swing to point the bow north into the flow of the outgoing tide, then he pulled the controls into neutral, bringing the boat to a stop.
    â€œThis looks like the spot.” Earl shut off the motor and stepped forward to drop anchor. “Oh yeah, lookin’ good today; lookin’ good today,” he muttered to himself. He let out the rope until he was satisfied it would hold, then tied it to the cleat on the bow. “Well, boys, let’s get us a stur-geee-own! Rig ’em up.” He clapped and rubbed his hands together in excitement.
    â€œâ€™Bout damn time,” said Donny, taking the final swig from his beer and throwing the bottle loudly into a five-gallon bucket lying to stern.
    Earl looked around and pointed toward the small fleet of boats in the distance. “There’s Red’s boat.”
    Earl had deliberately chosen to fish several hundred yards north of the fleet. Ed remembered that this had been a routine tactic of the boys’ late father, and he wasn’t surprised to see his brother follow suit. Donny was less enthusiastic, however, complaining that they should fish where everybody else did so they could “gang up” on the potential prey.
    But Earl, like his father before him, had a different theory. “On outgoing tide, fish above the fleet; on incoming tide, fish just below.” Ed remembered the phrase from his youth, and he understood its meaning. Any sturgeon on the move would have to pass by their bait before it reached the others’.
    By this point, Ed had started to fiddle with some of the fishing gear. Normally, he knew exactly what needed to be done to prep a rig, but in his progressively altered state of mind, he wasn’t so sure. “It’s been awhile, bro,” he muttered, rod and leader in hand. “You might have to help me out here.”
    â€œSame shit as it used to be,” said Earl, reaching out and unraveling the leader line from the tip of Ed’s pole.
    Donny reached over and pulled a two-piece fishing rod and reel from one of the side pockets. “Hey, Earl, you got a leader