The Motleytown Bonefish Extravaganza

THE MOTLEYTOWN BONEFISH EXTRAVAGANZA

A couple on a hastily arranged

bone fishing trip find themselves

in an odd place with eccentric people

From the collection "Beneath a Hunter's Sky" by John Bascom 

 

“What would you like to do with your time off?” Laura asked.  I had one unused week from my prior year's vacation allotment that would be lost if I didn’t use it by the end of April.  Time was running out.

“Honestly?  What about bone fishing in the Bahamas.  The weather is warm and sunny this time of year, and you'd love seeing the flats around Andros Island.  Where Jack Verdon and I went.”

“Is it nice there?  Where would we stay?”

“Jack and I were at the Bonefish Club on the North Island.  It's Spartan but clean and comfortable.  Last time he went by himself, though, he tried a different place.  Where the accommodations were more basic, but there's less fishing pressure and the action is better.”

“But it's next week.  Is it even possible?”

“Won't hurt to give it a try.”

“If you say so,” Laura said.

 

I Googled it and came up with a phone number.  The basic website confirmed it was the one Jack had mentioned, on Littlesalt Cay by the south bite.

“Motleytown Deluxe Resort an' Bonefish Lodge.  Lindsey Motley.”  A man's voice answered with the classic Bahamian dialect I had come to know during my visits there.

After identifying myself and exchanging a few pleasant­ries, I said, “Yeah.  My wife and I are looking to come down there for a little bone fishing.  Is that something we could set up with you?”

“Oh…ya, mon.  Bonefish, dey be our specialty.”

“I was thinking of a few days next week.” 

There was a long silence.

Finally, “No, Suh.  We all full.  Duh guess, dey mus book tree, usually six muns ahead.  Sometime a year.  No way nex week.”  His voice sounded both incredulous and irritated at my stupidity.

“Look,” I said.  “I'm only talking a night or two.  And we're flexible.  We could pop down anytime next week.  Is there anything...?”

“Jus one minute, Suh…”  I could hear him flipping pages in what I imagined was a reservation register.

After a few seconds he came back on the line.  “We may put you in duh annex, Suh.  Dey iz one vacancy dere.  But yas mus come Tuesday and be gone by Tursday in duh mornin.  Dot be okay?”

 

I was able to book a charter in a beat-up old four-passenger twin out of Fort Lauderdale, direct to Motleytown, Andros Island.  I sat in front to the pilot's right, while Laura rode in one of the backseats.  The upholstery was worn through with a few wads of remaining stuffing poking out.  Black crankcase oil flowed in a little rivulet from a crack in the right engine cowling back and into the airstream.  The paint, what was left of it, was faded, scratched, and worn through.  Little bare-aluminum riveted repair patches dotted the metal skin.  The radio the pilot used—apparently the only one work­ing among the aging relics—was held in place beneath the in­strument panel by nylon tie-wraps.  Bundles of wires wound everywhere.  We were out of sight of land.

“Is this safe,” Laura said in a weak voice, more a con­cerned statement than a question.

Our final approach to the short and narrow crushed-shell airstrip was over a wet marsh.  A wrecked Seneca II twin, much like one I had trained in back in the day, sat half-sub­merged a few hundred yards short of the runway, its engines gone and doors sprung unnaturally forward.

“Been there more'n twenty years,” our pilot com­mented.  “Longer'n I've been comin' here.”

We hopped out and walked to the little open-sided wooden pavilion where a heavyset, squat and bald black Ba­hamian stood waiting.  His red cap, peaked in front like those that elevator operators wore when there still were any, had the word CUSTOMS across the front.  A wooden, crudely hand-lettered sign nailed crooked to a post announced, WELCOME TO THE BAHHAMMAS, the name of the country clearly mis­spelled. 

We signed a form and showed our passports while the pilot offloaded our luggage.  That pretty well completed our official reception.

“A cab was supposed to meet us,” I said to the agent.

“Over dere, Suh,” he said, pointing to a rusty, unmarked vintage car a few yards behind the pavilion.  There was no one in it.

We carried our gear to the vehicle and looked around.  The customs agent had followed.  He opened the driver's side, slid behind the wheel, removed the customs hat, and donned a similar but yellow one that read CAB across the front.  Laura and I looked at each other, loaded our luggage, and hopped in the back.

“I Lindsey Motley,” the driver said as we pulled away.  “Welcome ta Motleytown.”

 

The Motleytown Deluxe Resort & Bonefish Lodge was an aging, two-story mortar structure like those of the bygone fifties-era motels one sees in the dying beach towns of mid-Florida's Atlantic coast.  The once-whitewashed exte­rior was stained with gray streaks and blotches.  Inside, the wooden floor was darkened and uneven.  What served as a registration desk sat along one wall in the small combination lobby-bar. 

After Lindsey checked us in, he said, “Ya care for a drink from duh bar before goin to yas room?”  He motioned to the dark, old wooden bar along the opposite wall, its veneer warped and separating in places.

“Sure.  I'll have a vodka and tonic.”

“White wine, please,” Laura said.

He walked behind the bar and placed a conch-colored baseball cap on his head that read Motleytown Deluxe Resort, and under it, BARTENDER, all in brown letters.

We sat on unsteady barstools and sipped the drinks that were particularly refreshing after our daylong travels.

“What ya like fer ya suppuh, and at what time ya eat?” Lindsey asked.

“Whenever and whatever your other guests are doing is fine with us,” I said.  “We'll go with the program.”

“Ah…Suh…,” he said.  “Ya an duh Missus be duh only guess.  Iz fer ya ta say.”

 

Our quarters on the second floor were accessed by an exterior wooden stairway.  There was a bedroom, sitting room, and bath, all surprisingly spacious.  The floors were peeling linoleum tile squares, the walls stained plaster with a few holes punched here or there.  The door jambs were all out of square.  The toilet stool had gaps between its base and the tile, the plumbing visible in the floor below.

“Nice,” Laura said, her sarcasm obvious enough.

“Lindsey said the fishing skiff will be across the street by the pier off the beach in the morning.”  I was trying to change the subject.  “We'll meet our guide there, I guess, around eight sharp.  After breakfast.  I checked, and the weather should be fine.”

She nodded glumly.  It was a bad sign.

We arrived in the dining room for supper just off the lobby at the appointed time, seven in the evening.  It was still bright outside.

Lindsey walked into the room wearing a French-style, high and puffed white chef's hat.  Red lettering around the band said Kiss the Cook.

“What I fix ya fer tonight?” he said with a happy smile.

“So you're the cook, too!” I said.  “Hope you're getting paid for all this.”

“Da regla cook be from Arizona,” he said.  “Was in duh prison dere.  He gun leff hare sudden lass night.  Dey find him, I tink, he hadda go ver fass.  I take care'ah yas, doe.”

I hadn't seen a server, either.  “You the waiter, too?”

“Waitress be duh girlfrien.  Har goin wit dot mon, duh cook.  I bring ya duh food, okay?”

“A lot for one fellow to do.”

“My brudder, Umfry.  He be over ta Nassau today, but gun come hare tonight.  He duh big boss, duh owner.  He help me out when he get hare.”

“So Humphrey's the owner of the Motleytown Deluxe Resort?” I said more than asked, clearly pronouncing the “H”.

“Umfry,” Lindsey said.  No “H”.

“Humphrey?”

“It be Umfry.”

“How do you spell it?”

“Umfry,” he repeated, not spelling out each letter.

“Okay, then,” I said.

 

Dinner was a surprisingly nice, fresh yellowtail snapper with rice and beans.  We enjoyed a good tossed salad with a cookie and coffee for desert.

The bed was lumpy but passable.  Laura and I both read for a while, she dozing off and me getting up to use the bath­room.  I opened the door from our bedroom to the main room and switched on the light.  The biggest cockroach I'd ever seen scuttled away under the glare of the single bare bulb.

I swear I could have thrown a saddle over him and broke him right there.  But I took the book I was carrying and hurled it down on him.  It was a perfect hit, the book landing flat and hard directly on the squirrel-sized insect with a loud bang.

“Bingo!” I thought.  “One roach down.”

The thick hardcover novel bounced off the bug.  It con­tinued on unfazed, as if nothing had happened.  I grabbed the book from the floor and gave chase, intending to administer another crushing blow.  The cockroach scurried beneath the wide gap under the bathroom door.  In fast pursuit, I threw it open in time to see him dive beneath the toilet base through the gap in the floor.

“Damn!” I said out loud.  I used the toilet quickly, one eye on the opening, then returned to bed, careful to close the doors behind.  I never said a word to Laura. 

After breakfast Lindsey confirmed we were to take our things to the pier directly across the dirt main street, the har­bor road of Motleytown.

“Umfry, he gun be hare dis night,” Lindsey told us as we rose to go to our room and collect our gear.

“Fine,” I said.  I thought I remembered him saying last evening Umfry would be here this morning, but I really couldn't see what difference it made to us either way.

 

The beach was a heaping mound of broken, pink and white conch shells that stretched along the shore as far as one could see.  A collection of aging wooden boats rode at an­chor a few yards off the beach.  Near the end of a sagging, twisted wooden pier sat a classic sixteen-foot or so bone fish­ing skiff with a forty-horse Johnson outboard, a level casting deck across the bow, and a poling platform extending on legs above the stern.  There were three plastic bucket-type seats.  No one was around.

We waited for ten minutes.  With no guide in sight, we began loading our tackle and day-bags.  “Maybe Umfry was supposed to be the guide,” I said absently to Laura.  Then I saw Lindsey ambling, big and awkward, down the pier.  As he drew close, I could see the dark blue lettering on his white baseball cap.  GUIDE, it read.

We took off across the harbor on a splendid, sunny Caribbean day, the water gin-clear but reflecting from the sky—from the varying depths and bottom-cover—lovely hues of blue, green, tan, or a mixture of different shades and inten­sities.  The deeper trenches, channels, or holes in the bottom were well defined in very dark, sometimes midnight blue.  The breeze was light and our mood fine.

About fifteen minutes out, a few miles from shore, a large, gray shadow floated across the shallow bottom fifty or so yards off our beam.  “What's that fish?” I asked Lindsey.

“Dot be ver big hammerhead,” he said.  “Dey danger­ous.”

Perhaps a half mile beyond the hammerhead shark, I noticed a man standing in a small boat and waving his arms frantically.  I pointed.

“Dot fella, he boat be broke.  He want duh ride back home,” Lindsey said.  It was obvious he had seen the boat well before I had.  He motored on, clearly intending to ignore the man and his plight.

“Go on over there,” I said.

We pulled alongside the stranded skiff.  Its outboard engine cover had been removed and was in the water, tied to a fraying length of old rope as some kind of makeshift sea an­chor.  The bay was shallow enough to see the sand bottom a dozen or so feet down.  The interior of the old wooden boat held standing water.  There was no spare gas can or oars to be seen.

The two Bahamians exchanged a few rapid, unintelligible words in their local, oddly cadenced dialect.

“He say he be stranded duh night,” Lindsey explained.  “Motor be broke.  He come from duh fishin trawler out by duh deep ta go ta Motleytown, see duh girlfrein little while.  Dot hammerhead, go roun dot boat all duh night.  Want duh ride in.  I say ta dot boi, no, I got duh clients, a meestuh an madam.”  He started the engine and began to pull away.

“Hold on,” I said.  “It's only fifteen minutes back.  Tell him to hop in.  We'll take him to the pier.”

The stranded fellow beamed from ear to ear as he climbed into our boat.

“Tank you, tank you,” he smiled, taking my hand in his and pumping it.  “What kine-ah fish ya like.  I bring ya some fer yas suppuh.  Ta duh resort were ya be.”

“Gotta love fresh grouper,” I said.

“Sure…sure, duh grouper be good.  Be dere fer ya din­ner dis night.  Tank you.  Tank you.”

 

Across the bay, our stranded sailor safely back at the pier, Lindsey cut the engine and poled the skiff slowly among the mangroves.  We searched the shallow, clear water for any moving shadows that might signal bonefish.

“Dere, dere Meestuh Rob.”  Lindsey strained to bend at the waist to keep his profile low and set the pole.  The boat twisted about the pivot point of the pole held into the bottom.

“Where?”  The boat was turning.  Finally I saw the three gray moving forms gliding beneath the surface forty yards to our right.

“Look there!” I said to Laura.  “About one thirty, mov­ing parallel to shore, toward us.  Cast well in front of them so they won't spook and scatter.”

Laura had one of my spinning rods with a pink lead-head jig, the hook baited with just of bit of crab Lindsey had brought, just enough to give the lure some scent and flavor.  She tossed it only twenty yards out to the side.  I doubt she saw the barely visible fish, but the jig landed right in their path.

“Let it sink and lie on the bottom.  Don't move it, and stay low,” I said.  I could feel the excitement building.

The three bonefish moved to within a few feet of her motionless lure.

“Barely twitch it,” I said.

She moved the tip of her rod slightly as one of the shad­ows approached the very spot where her bait had splashed into the water less than a minute earlier.  Her rod bent sharply as the drag began to sing.

“Fish on!” I half shouted and laughed.

The fish made a hard fifty-yard run before stopping but still keeping Laura's rod tip bent well down.

“Work him back in,” I said.  “Lift the rod and reel as you lower it again.  And keep the line tight.”

About ten yards from the boat, the bone made another run, not as long this time.  She repeated the process of pump­ing him in.  The whole thing was repeated one more time.  As she brought the fish alongside the final time, I reached in and scooped him up with a hand.  He was about a three-pounder.

“I had no idea they were so strong.”  She was grinning and looking at her fish.

“He had a lot of fight in him for his size.”

“Is he a big one?”

“Fairly good,” I fibbed.

“He took so much line, I thought I'd run out.”

“You did great.”

“Let's take him back for dinner.”

“I'm afraid catching them is just for fun.  They're not good eating.  Like the name suggests, too many bones.”

I removed the jig hook and carefully slipped him into the water.  He took just seconds to recover before swimming quickly away.  Lindsey went back to poling the skiff, but after a few minutes, there was noisy splashing in the water near the shoreline where we had released the fish.

“Shark get him,” Lindsey said.  “Dey smell da blood an follow afta dem like duh houn-dog.”

Lindsey's poling was lackadaisical.  He stopped to rest and look around frequently.  We moved between the man­groves and up a little tidal creek.

“What's this creek called?” I asked him.

“Dot be Freshwater Creek.”

“It's the same name as the one on North Andros up near the Bonefish Club where I fished before.”

“Ya, Meestuh Rob.  Dey all be called dot cause duh wa­ter be fresh, not duh seawater.”

Even with our slow pace and periods of inactivity, Laura and I each caught several more bonefish.  She continued with her spinning rod and jig, while I used a sturdy saltwater fly rod I'd brought with a bulging-eyed pink shrimp imitation.  At one point I spotted a very long shadow lying just below the surface over slightly deeper blue water.

“Is that a bone?”

“Barracuda,” Lindsey said.  “Dey like duh needlefish dot be on dis flat.  Take dot rod dere and cass at him.”

A sturdy spinning rod lay beside the seats along one freeboard.  It was baited with a long, lime-green tube-lure made of colored rubber surgical tubing slipped over a wire leader.  A lead weight capped one end of the tube, and three treble-hook gangs, attached to the wire leader beneath, pro­truded at intervals through the tubing along its length.

My cast was about a dozen yards beyond the cuda and a few yards in front of what I took to be the shape of his head.

“Reel fass, Meestuh Rob.  Fass as ya can!”

I cranked with all the speed I could muster.  As the lure approached the spot where I had last seen the fish, the water seemed to explode.  The rod pulled parallel to the surface be­fore I could haul it back and create the proper bend.  I worked the fish to the boat, overcoming long runs, hard pulls, and lots of thrashing.  Finally Lindsey used a gaff to bring him aboard in the stern beneath the poling platform.

“Our guess doan eat dese,” he said.  “But we boil dem ta get duh poison out.  Den dey vere fine.”

We had seen many rays and small sharks gliding over the bonefish flats.  Big starfish lay along the bottom.

“What kind of sharks are these?” Laura asked at one point.

“Dey san sharks, Madam,” Lindsey said.

“Do they bite?”

“Oh, no, Madam.  Dey mosely eat duh crab or udder fish.”

“Can we try to catch one?”

Lindsey lazily poled the skiff up a brackish creek with the tide flooding in.  He anchored in the channel and baited the big spinning rod with a plain treble-hook and chunk of meat from the head of our barracuda.  He handed the rig to Laura.

“Hole duh hook about tree feet above duh bottom, Madam.”

It couldn't have been ten minutes before the rod bent double and the drag began to run out.  Laura fought the fish for another twenty minutes or so, using our techniques for the cuda and bonefish.  Finally she pulled the head of a nice sand shark just clear of the surface beside the boat.  We could see through the clear water it was something over four feet in length.

“My gosh, look at that shark!” Laura said.  She was squirming in her seat from excitement.

Lindsey had grabbed the gaff.

At that point the fish opened its mouth wide, lunged from the water, and bit hard.  The braided steel line separated beneath its teeth like string.  The shark fell back into the creek and disappeared, leaving the frayed, kinked end of the wire leader dangling in the breeze.  I think Laura was more thrilled by the dramatic and violent escape than hooking her shark and bringing it boatside. 

Lindsey brought in the anchor and poled the skiff a few yards to a sandbar on the edge of the creek.  He beached the boat.

“I be goin get more crab back in duh mangroves,” he said.  “Yas rest here one minute an haf ya lunch.”  He disap­peared.

“I guess he's a good guide,” Laura said after he was safely out of earshot.  “We've each got bonefish, there was your barracuda, and then my shark.”

“He poles in slow motion.”  I measured my words, not wanting to throw cold water on the trip I had put together for us.  “Rupert up at the Bonefish Club on North Andros works three times as hard.  We cover way more ground and he spots lots of fish.  I'm sure we missed a ton.  And there are no rest stops with Rupert.”

We enjoyed the sack lunches Lindsey had provided and took in the beautiful scenery.  It was a half hour before he fi­nally returned with no crabs.

We poled and waded flats for the balance of the after­noon, landing another bonefish each before returning sun­burned and wind-drained to Motleytown.  Dinner was more yellowtail snapper like the previous evening.  It came as no surprise our rescued seaman hadn't shown with the promised grouper.  Still, the evening was good.

“Umfry, he be hare in duh mornin,” Lindsey said as we left the table and headed up to our room.

Laura and I just looked at each other.  She rolled her eyes.

“Sure,” I said to Lindsey.

 

In our room, we packed most of our things for our charter back in the morning.  We read until well after dark.  The only bar in town, a ramshackle place just next door with warped plywood over some of the broken-out windows, rang with talk and shouting and laughter.  Soon the raucous group of locals spilled into the dirt street beneath our window.

“It may be a long night,” I said.

“I'm so tired I'm sure I'll drift right off and sleep like a log,” Laura said.

“Do you think there really is an Umfry?”

“Maybe he's Loa, the invisible voodoo spirit,” she laughed.

“Or Lindsey's imaginary friend.”

“Maybe Lindsey is Loa,” she kidded.

“Or the real Umfry using an assumed identity.  Maybe he's the fugitive cook from Arizona who has murdered the real Motleys.”

“Honestly, though, even with everything it was spectac­ular out there.  I never could have imagined.”

“We actually did fairly well on the fish.”

“It's one thing to see a place, like on a tour.  But to actu­ally be in it, participating in what it's all about, that's some­thing altogether different.”

“We'll remember this better than if we had been at a first class place like the Bonefish Club.”  Both of us broke out in laughter.

We had undressed and were sitting on the edge of the bed.  I reached over and laid my hand on hers.

“I had such a wonderful time,” she said.  “With you.  I'm so glad you arranged this, with the short notice and all.”

“Speaking of which…” I said.  “I'll have more vacation in a month.”

“And just what would you like to do?”  She arched her eyebrows.

“Actually, I've always dreamed of a hunt in Africa.  And it's getting nice now.  In May.  The rainy season has ended.”

“Are there decent accommodations?  Where in the world would you have us stay?”  She sounded skeptical, and I knew she was toying with me.

“If we're talking about next month, the good places are already booked.  They're tied up a year, two years in advance.  All right, sometimes three.  But I heard about a new place.  Pretty basic, but less well known and off the beaten path.  A little rougher, really, but the hunting is supposed to be better.”

“Is that even possible?  To arrange something like that with so little time…”  She lay down on her side and pulled the sheet up.

“Wouldn't hurt to give it a try.  I'll call tomorrow night when we're home.”

She raised up on an elbow, smiling, and kissed me lightly on the lips.  “Nice try, but not a chance, Mister.”  Then she switched off the light.

______________________________

The Motleytown Bonefish Extravaganza is a short story from the collection Beneath a Hunter's Sky by John Bascom, available on Amazon.com 

  

CONLUSION OF CHEWORE SAFARI JOURNAL

 An End & A Beginning

Concluding Chapter

Chewore Safari Journal

by John Bascom

Excerpted from Beneath a Hunter's Sky

After lunch back at camp, Nickie and I relaxed, read a little, and socialized with camp manager Sharon.  Our hunting was through, and Wil busied himself with the paperwork. 

It was mid-afternoon when the skinners brought the fleshed and boiled skulls of our trophies with horns attached and arranged them in a display on the lawn against the back­drop of the Chenje.  The men stood proudly at parade rest be­hind the array, feet spread and hands clasped low behind their backs.  The skulls were brilliant white as if they had been bak­ing under the sun of some desert for years, and the horns were dark black and cleaned of the dirt from the bush.  The skin­ners—rugged, scruffy appearing men compared with our starched and pressed waiters—wore wrinkled shorts and stained T-shirts.  Still it was an impressive sight and a state­ment on the tough, strong people of the Zambezi Valley.  We snapped some photos, then Nickie and I posed with the tro­phies while Sharon took a few more.

We had an early dinner, a fine and fitting feast for our last night in camp.  We were to leave early the next morning to meet our pilot, Ahmad, at the Chenje airstrip and board the Centurion for our flight to Victoria Falls.  Nickie and I went to our tent immediately following our meal to finish packing.

Nickie was efficiently fitting our belongings into our duffel bags as only she can.  I had finished cleaning my rifle and was stowing it and the supplies in a hard, secure travel case.

“It's still unbelievable how well we did,” I said.  “The entire thing was just outstanding.”

“It was a fine safari.  I'm so glad it was successful for you.”

“Did you really have a great time?  You seem sort of lukewarm.”

“Everything we saw and experienced was wonderful.  It's just that it was a little hard on me physically.”

“Seeing that lion hunched on the riverbank only yards away was a highpoint,” I said.  “I'm sorry it was rugged at times.  I know it's not the Ritz.  Thanks for putting up.”

“The heat was oppressive, and the walking before I was banished.  The worst was being crushed in the middle of that truck bench seat between you and Wil.  It wasn't built for three.  And when I sat in the open, up in the back, I was always getting swatted by low-hanging brush.  The pounding for hours on those excuses for roads may have actually been the worst.  My back is still sore.”

“I know.  I'm still nursing my blisters and missing toe­nail.”

“And Wil was insufferable.  He talks to himself, you know.  I could see his lips moving and hear the whispers as we were driving around.”

I hadn't noticed, but still had to laugh.

“And he was so rude out in the bush.  Charming and talkative back at camp, but a different man when we were hunting.  I didn't like the way he treated us at all.  I hope you're not going to give him a tip.”

“It got better near the end,” I said.  “Sort of.  And I can't believe his knowledge and work ethic.  He's the most focused and goal-oriented soul I've ever met.  The results were incredible.  What a safari!”

“Still … I think he was unprofessional.  We were paying him, not the other way around.  I don't think he should get anything more from us.”

“Honestly, Wil was part of the challenge and excite­ment.  For me, it made everything all the more satisfying.  His peculiarities were beyond interesting and added to the uniqueness of the entire experience.  And with his back­ground—the heir apparent to a profitable farm, the boss man even as a teen—I'm sure I couldn't help being a little bitter my­self if all that was taken through no fault of mine.  His behavior in the field is simply all he knows.”

“Well … just so you know, this is my last hunting trip,” Nickie said.  “It was wonderful and all.  But like we talked about when I agreed to come with you, next time we'll go to an all-inclusive resort in the Caribbean for our vacation.”

“We had talked about an Alaska bear hunt instead of coming here.  There's always that still out there.”

“Pleeeeeze…”

“I'm just saying.”

“It was either-or, never both.”

I recalled what Sharon had said a few days ago at din­ner.  Our clients come to take an elephant, a leopard, or a lion only once.  But they come back for buffalo.  There was that to think about, too.  Maybe … just maybe …

Nickie continued packing, and I made up the envelopes for the gratuities.  I expressed my appreciation by giving no less than the already generous amounts recommended by our booking agent.  There was Levitt, the middle-aged and getting-thick-in-the-waist tracker, tireless and skilled, the man who could not do enough for me.  “Gun, Boss …” holding out his hand to relieve me of my burden during a particularly long and hard trek.  I placed something extra in his envelope.  And, of course, the game ranger, Gibson.  Then there were Sharon and Jerry, the camp managers who had made our stay wonderful in every way, who had become genuine friends.  The kitchen staff—waiters, cooks, clean-up—the outstanding meals, they all received something extra.  And Wil?  I placed the full recommended amount in his envelope, but no more in his case.  His talents had resulted in a remarkable take of game, but his poor com­munications skills, rudely critical behavior, and absence of coaching cost him what would otherwise have been an addi­tional several hundred dollars, not a small sum in the austere Zimbabwean economy.

As Nickie was going through her nightly ritual of pre­paring for bed, I had a chance to reflect on the entire safari ex­perience.  I'd heard it said Africa could be life changing for a Westerner.  I hadn't truly understood the import of those words, but I did then.  It's a simple concept that everything has a beginning and an end.  And the end of a thing, especially if it was good, marks a beginning for something else.  It's the most basic of ideas, but one that is fully grasped only by humans, and it is the basis of all religions, for man's unique capacity to plan and design, for our dominion over the world's animals, and for civilization itself.  And I saw in that moment, at the end of our safari, I was a changed man.  The African bush and its animals had transfigured and resurrected me.  I knew, go­ing forward, the end of this safari would mark the beginning of a new and better chapter in my life—in our lives.  And I under­stood that Africa had awarded me another chance at whole­ness, however brief or enduring it may prove to be.

Nickie had completed her preparations, performing a few final tasks before getting into bed.  She was cheerfully humming a familiar popular tune, one I recognized well.  I could tell she was feeling happy and carefree, too.

“Are you going to be coming to bed?” she asked.  “They'll be shutting off the generator anytime.”

I liked to act silly with her when we were both feeling lighthearted.  I liked to make her smile.  I stood in front of her and placed my hands on her shoulders.

“Today, while the blossom still clings to the vine …”   It was what she had been humming.  “I'll taste your strawber­ries, I'll drink your sweet wine.”  I sang in my awful mono­tone, exaggerating it to be comical.

“You didn't give Wil a tip, did you?”

“What I did is invited him to come visit over Thanks­giving,” I said.  I liked to rattle her chain a bit.

“You're not the least bit amusing.”

“He'll only stay through New Year's.  Or Easter at the latest.”

“You think you're funny, but you're not.”

“I'll be a dandy and I'll be a rover,” I droned.  “I'll feast at your table…I'll sleep in your clover…”  I could never hit a note or carry a melody. 

“Aren't you the flirty one, though.”  She got in bed and put out the side-table light.  The overhead controlled only by the generator was still lit.  I crawled in beside her.

“It's really been a fine experience.”  She changed the subject.  “I truly mean that.  I'm glad we did this.”

I continued my little song, singing the refrain once more, teasing her, lying close beside her, turning on one side to face her.  “Today while the blossom still clings to the vine … I'll taste your strawberries, I'll drink your sweet wine.”

“Don't you be getting any big ideas, Buster.  The staff is still going about their business just outside.”

“For the love of God, don't be ridiculous.  I'm seventy and still not over my last surgery.  Come on!”  I didn't mention the end of our safari heralded yet a new beginning.  I'd tell her about that later.

The generator spun down and died with a rough cough.  The faint illumination from the hanging light faded away with it.  I turned on my elbow, my face above hers only inches away.  It was dark inside the tent, with not even the light from a moon just beginning its rise or perhaps only forming the slightest crescent yet visible.

“I can't be contented with yesterday's glory.”  I barely whispered it, not even trying to sing.  “Today is my moment and now is my story.”  I hadn't realized I remembered so much of the lyrics.

“I can't wait to see Victoria Falls,”  she said, ignoring my shenanigans. 

“It'll be great.  And, maybe when we're home, we can at least talk about the Alaska thing again.”  I knew I was pushing it, but her mood was fine.

“PUH-leeeeze!”

She was lying on her back, the sheet pulled to her chin.  I knew her eyes were open, but in the dark of our tent I couldn't make out any colors at all.  Yet I remembered from long experience their dazzling, unique hazel with little flecks of green, bronze, and brilliant gold.  Even in the dark, I could see their colors in my mind's eye.  And I could sense the warmth radiating from her face and the moistness of her mouth, as any man does when very near a woman to whom he is deeply drawn.

“A million tomorrows shall all pass away …”  I was singing softly once again.  Barely audibly.  Nickie was still.

“… 'ere we forget …”  I moved close to see that she was still awake, then kissed her on the lips.  Once again, only fleetingly, I considered our safari, our shared experience, and the new beginning I was sure it portended. 

“… all the joys … that are ours ….. today …..”

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Read Chewore Safari Journal and eighteen other stories in John Bascom's book, Beneath a Hunter's Sky, available of Amazon