Don’t call me Hippy

Sam says, “We’re letting it go as soon as it comes up.”

Kate says, “Fuck you, we’re feasting on this thing second we get to land, maybe sooner if I feel like sushi.”

“That’s fine, but you’re eating every single part, even the bones, out of respect.”

Kate gets the fish to the surface. “Respect I have, cousin. We’ve got a Northern Pike here, and I don’t think it’s the alcohol talking when I say it’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen. Give me a hand, hippy.”

“Don’t call me hippy. And I’m kind of busy here. Coast, there’s a net under your seat.”

“On it.” I grab the net and get it under the pike. Kate wasn’t kidding, the thing is huge and vicious.

I’m just about to suggest we let it go when the biggest wave yet picks up the boat. The momentum is what we need to get the fish up and into the canoe, but it’s too much. Kate falls back and I practically throw the net and pike at her. They fall to the hull of the canoe together. Kate freaks out and jumps into our canoe. The extra weight and tilt on our side pushes the boat into the wave carrying us and we really start surfing — this one isn’t passing us by.

"Leslie Spit Totum" by Rick Harris, edited by A. Malcolm