by Mike Stubblefield

Three Dog Rick muttered and cussed to himself as he walked his biggest hound, a black standard poodle he was training to hunt, through the RV park. The big poodle--young but tuned to Three Dog's moods--kept the extendable leash out to the max length, thus giving herself plenty of space from her master. She knew and respected such moods even though it could be said that certain wives ignored them. The park was crowded with weekending locals, day-trippers from Miami or Fort Myers, and Three Dog had to wind through trucks and boat trailers to get to his recently purchased, poorly running boat. 

Missouri Bob's wife, Barbara, sat in the chickee getting ready for the daily cutthroat ladies' domino game as Three Dog passed. And, afraid of no man nor their moods, Barbara chirped a pleasant "afternoon, Rick." When she received no response, she cleared her throat and piped up:

"Well, hell, Rick. And a fine warm day to you, too."

"No it ain't, missus. I been bustin' my knuckles on that hot running forty horse for two days and she's still not right," grumped Three Dog.

"Ah, you stole that boat, man! Just open up that billfold in your hip pocket and spend a couple hundred of them dollars in there. That'll get it right, then you can go fishin' and catch somethin' and be in a better mood." Barbara was not one to be argued with and Three Dog knew better so that ended the conversation.

He tied the big poodle's leash to a chickee post and started fishing a piece of wire into the water intake trying to loosen up crusted salt crystals. He'd been successful with two of the cylinders of the Honda thus far, but the third one was giving him fits. He started to put the water muff on the engine and fire it up, but, then he saw the women gathering for the domino game and thought better of it. Maybe later when they were done and the happy hour began. But, he pondered, it wasn't just the motor not being right that was bothering him; no, he was frustrated about being land-bound when all hands were reporting record catches. And his time on the island this season was about over... he couldn't stand the idea of missing one more good day out in the 10,000 Islands.

It was about that time that I strolled down to the chickee on my way to the docks; rods and reels and GPS in hand and intending to catch the falling tide. I stopped a moment to eyeball Three Dog's progress but didn't offer advice. Mechanical skills escaped me at birth, you see. However, I figured the man needed a break:

"Rick. I'm headed up the Lopez River for two, three hours. Wanta come along?"

He straightened up, blinking the eye he'd been squinting while trying to see what was blocking the intake, scratched his head, and said, "You damn betcha. I'll get my gear."

So a few minutes later we threaded through the maze of oyster bars surrounding Chokoloskee Island; blasted to the cut that leads to Rabbit Key Pass, then headed northeast in the pass itself to the mouth of the Lopez River. I had no real plan. If nothing else, it was a fine day for a boat ride in the wilderness and if a rolling tarpon or something busted bait, so much the better. We rounded a big bend in the river, just before you reach the remains of the old Lopez homestead and Three Dog yelped, "Lost muh hat!  Gotta have it in this sun!"

So, I circled around, idled down and Three Dog grabbed his porkpie hat.

"You need to tie that thing on your head, Rick," I told him.

"Yeah, I know. Couldn't find my leather sombrero. Wife hates it and prolly tossed it. Say, lookee there!"

Three Dog pointed to a big swirl in the middle of the river. Just to the left, a tail popped up. Then another to the right showed. Behind us was another, and I saw a wake swishing along the bank. I clambered to the front of the boat, dropped the trolling motor and sat there to take stock. The hair on the back of my neck stood up since swimming right alongside us, and maybe two or three feet below the surface, were numbers of big black drum. Everywhere I looked in that bend of the river, were swirls, tails and dorsal fins.

I turned to say something to Three Dog and then didn't. He was sitting there, holding a rod with his jaw hanging slack... swiveling his head every which way and trying to decide where to cast.

"Stubb! You bring any bait?"

"Nah. Didn't think of it and don't have my cast net, either. Try topwater. Throw a spoon. Hell, break out a shotgun, you got a clear sight on dozens of 'em!" I was almost too excited to talk.

We cast. We cussed. We changed lures. Soft plastics; hard plugs; suspending baits; topwaters. You name it, we tried it. We didn't even spook those drum. I sat behind the trolling motor and watched them lazily swim by. They were 40-inchers at least and not concerned with our presence. I heard Three Dog mumbling to himself and he finally said:

"Head over yonder to the bank. I see their backs up. They're right in the shallows cruisin', but don't get too close, now! And take'er slow; I'm puttin' on this big suspending plug," and he lapsed back to jack-jawed silence and determination.

I told him: "OK, you throw a big lure and I'm tossin' the smallest, lightest plastic shrimp I got in the box." And I did a two-handed cast that might've gone 25 feet. That was only about half the distance to the wallowing blacks and I was about ready to break the rod over my knee. So, I wasn't paying much attention to Three Dog, but I heard him throw, the zing of the braided line, and out of the corner of my eye I saw that big treble-hooked plug sail right into the upper reaches of a red mangrove.

"Ahhhhh, dagnabit, double-damn! I'll swear by all that's holy ..." and Three Dog let the language loose. "Don't use the motor and spook'em, Stubb. I'll get'er free or cut the dang line!" But I was busy trying to cast my tiny bait and wasn't watching him. I heard a grunt, a whiz, and what I thought was a yelp of success but, again, I had my eyes fixed on the horde of black drum. 

That's when Three Dog said, "Stubb? Can you git my hat off? I need a bit 'a help."

"Whattya mean?" I answered not turning around.

"Gotta small problem, here, Stubb." He was unusually quiet and calm and that caused me to take a look.

"Rick? Are all them trebles in your head?"

"Yup. Think so. They kinda hurt a little, too."

I took a quick look and, indeed, it appeared all six barbs of two full treble hooks were buried right in the top of his hat and head.

I declined to do field surgery on Three Dog as did the two park rangers that happened to be on the RV park docks when we returned. There was some debate amongst the gathered locals as to whether he needed an ambulance. However, Three Dog merely asked for a beer, rather politely, while his wife wrapped his head in a towel and marched him to their truck, all the while giving him a lecture about hats, plugs and life in general.

He stood at rigid attention as she opened the truck's door for him, and concluded her rant. Finally, her voice softening just a little, she added, "I'll dig your leather sombrero outta the dumpster when we get back from the hospital. You might as well ride with the window down till we get there--ain't gonna lose your hat today."  She tried, and failed, to hide a grin.