WALKABOUT - Taking a Mulligan (26 - 30)

Walkabout

Taking a Mulligan

Wayne Baker writing as Austin Jett

26

Ty Hamilton

Ten minutes before my life changed forever, I was sitting in my boat, feeling frustrated, discouraged. My life had not gone according to plan. Not even close. I was now in my sixties, and time was running out. Not that I was dying. Not physically. Much worse than that. My dreams were dying. And worse still, I might hang on for another thirty or forty years, living every day in regret. I remember once, years ago, hearing someone say that as you sit in your rocking chair reflecting on your life, you won’t regret the things that you did. You will only regret the things that you didn’t do. That always stayed with me.  At one time, I had a bucket list of about thirty-five, maybe forty things I wanted to do before I died. Now, I could see all those things I’d ever hoped to do slipping away from me one by one. Like reconciling with my daughter, Rocky.

I used to bring a handgun along whenever I went out alone on the river, for protection. If you’ve ever spent time on the river, you know why. Lately, I’d been leaving the gun at home. I felt less threatened by the people I encountered than by my own self, given my present state of mind.

Before going home, I still needed to drop off my security uniform at the Sheepdog Security office. two pairs of black cargo pants—the kind with all the pockets—and two white polo shirts, along with a jacket and a baseball-style cap, each with the Sheepdog  logo and the word SECURITY on them. And I needed to stop by the flower shop to get something for Dianna. I’d been acting like a jerk the past few days. But then I thought of her and Dallas Remington. How I’d pretended not to see them in one another’s arms last week when I’d walked down the hill to watch Dianna training. Forget the flowers. I checked my watch. I’d better get moving.

It was getting chilly, and the first heavy raindrops splattered on the floor and seats of the boat. My yellow poncho was on the floor of the boat, next to my tackle box. As I reached for it, I knocked the Styrofoam container full of night crawlers onto it. I wanted to stay dry, so I slipped on the poncho despite the mess.

With the immediate threat of the weather, none of that mattered to me right now, eight minutes before my life would change forever, as much as getting back to the safety of my truck. The outboard motor came to life on the second pull of the start cord. I pulled the loose end of the double-braided nylon dock line, releasing the slipknot from a willow limb that extended out over the riverbank, and pointed the flat-bottomed boat upstream.

We’d had above average rainfall this year, and the river was deep, with a swift current that carried mud from washed-out river banks, making the water look like creamed coffee. No wonder the fish weren’t biting. But like I said, I go out on the river for more than just fishing. I had to run full throttle just to work my way upstream to the boat launch. I was concerned, because I didn’t have much fuel left in the tank.

In just under five minutes, my life would change forever. I didn’t know that, of course, so my mind was preoccupied with annoyance at my son Travis, who had taken the boat out earlier in the week, and despite my reminder, neglected to top off the tank or fill the spare can that I keep in the boat. As much as I would have liked to, I really couldn’t put all the blame on Travis. I should have checked it myself when I stopped in at the convenience store up the road before launching the boat. I’d fueled up my truck, stocked up with beer and ice, beef jerky, a dozen night crawlers and a lottery ticket, but it did not occur to me to check the fuel for the boat. To make matters worse, I hadn’t even noticed it until after I had gone a mile or so downstream and tied up to the limb of the willow tree. I do dumb things when my mind is preoccupied with thoughts of a trashed career, a boring job, a broken marriage, an estranged relationship with my daughter, and a son who couldn’t find his ass with both hands.

It was late in the afternoon, and getting darker by the minute with the storm clouds filtering out the sun. As I pulled up alongside the dock, my life would be changing forever in only two more minutes.

27

Ty Hamilton

I wrapped the rope around the dock cleat, hopped out, and hustled up the hill to my truck.

The storm was getting close now, raindrops were splattering the pavement on the boat launch, and I could hear the rumbling thunder getting closer and closer. I wasn’t about to wear the worm-slime-covered poncho in my truck cab, so I quickly removed it and tossed it into the truck bed.

A gust of wind hit the door of my truck just as I was getting in, slamming it against my leg and pinning it against the doorframe. It hurt like a son of a bitch, but it was only pain, not a severe injury. I pushed the door against the wind and brought my leg up into the cab. Overhead, the treetops swayed like a drunken chorus line.

I backed the trailer down the ramp and into the water without swerving. With less than a minute remaining before my life changed forever, I placed the shift selector into PARK, set the emergency brake, and got out. A moment later, I was back in the boat, motoring toward the awaiting trailer. That was when I saw him. That was the moment when my life changed forever.

28

Ty Hamilton

He looked more like a drowned rat than a man, clinging to life with one bloody arm draped over a small tree branch that hung out over the water from the embankment. Without thinking, I broke off my approach to the trailer and executed a two-hundred-seventy degree turn to the right. I backed off the throttle, made a one-eighty, again to the right, and let the current take me backward, just downstream of him. I then increased the throttle to ease forward. I was on top of him in seconds.

I held the throttle to maintain position against the current with one hand, and just as he lost his hold on the branch, grabbed him by the collar with the other. A second later, and he would have been swept away and my life would have not taken its alternate path.

“HOLD ON!” I shouted, trying to be heard above the now-driving rain and the thunder. You dumb bastard, I thought. How the hell did you get yourself into this predicament?

It was all I could do to maintain a grip on him with one hand while steering and operating the tiller and throttle with the other, but somehow, it was all working. My plan, if you could call it that, was to get back to the public launch, forget about pulling onto my trailer and just run up on the ramp. To hell with the damage it would do to my boat and propeller. It was the only option. And it would have worked, had there been another twenty seconds worth of gas left in the tank.

The motor sputtered, coughed, and, inevitably, died. There was nothing I could do, other than hold on to the man’s collar and try to steer the boat as best I could, using the outboard motor like a rudder as we were swept downstream at an alarming rate. I quickly realized the futility in the effort. I could no more control the course of the boat than I could stop the rain. And, I was losing my grip on the dumb bastard’s collar. I let go of the tiller and repositioned myself so that I could hold onto him with both hands without being pulled over the side to drown for my effort.

The boat drifted out into the middle of the river, did a couple of  three-sixties along the way, and eventually struck hard against a fallen log that was protruding from the beach of a small island in the middle of the river. I fell out of the boat into about four feet of water. I somehow managed to retain my grip on the man, and hauled him up onto the shore. Then, just as the boat was sliding back into the stream, I reached out, grabbed the bow line and hauled it back in. With my last ounce of strength, I heaved it up onto ground. I lay there gasping for breath. After a couple minutes, I rose to my feet and staggered to a small tree a few feet away from the river’s edge, and tied the bow line to it.

29

Ty Hamilton

It was now dark, and the driving rain pelted my face as I knelt by the stranger. I placed one hand behind his neck and the other across his chest to clasp his shoulder, supporting him as he made a vain attempt to sit up. Still breathing heavily, it occurred to me that I could very well suffer a heart attack from all this physical exertion. I looked down at him. “You okay, mister?” I gasped.

The storm was upon us now. A bolt of lightning illuminated the heavily wooded river island, accompanied by a deafening thunderclap. It startled me, and I cried out. The stranger seemed unconcerned by it. His breath was heavy, rattling, and a bloodstain covered his left shoulder. He was going to need some first aid. He reached up, grabbed my shirt collar and with what little strength he had left, pulled me close to him. His breath was heavy, laboring. He looked into my eyes and said, “Thank . . . you . . . I . . . wudna . . .  made it if you hadn’t . . .”

“Glad I could help,” I said. But we were not yet out of danger. We had to stop his bleeding and survive the storm. Then we had to somehow get safely from the island to the riverbank, dry off and warm up. I was about to say all that, but the words got caught in my mouth as I watched him reach across his torso and struggle awkwardly with his left hand to pull a stainless steel revolver from inside his waistband.

“It’s . . . nothing . . . personal,” he said. I watched, paralyzed in terror as he aimed the gun at my head and began to squeeze the trigger. Acting on instinct, I threw up my hands in an effort to shield my face, elbows tucked in to cover up at least some of my torso.

There was a bright flash and a loud report. I felt a solid impact to my forehead. I jerked back, stumbled, and fell to the ground.

30

The wind was nearing gale force as the contract killer reached across his body for the revolver that was tucked inside the waistband on his right hip. It was an awkward move, not easily or quickly accomplished.

He’d trained himself to shoot accurately with either hand, but in all his years of military service and work in the private sector, it had never been necessary to do it on the job. “It’s . . . nothing . . . personal,” he said, and squeezed the trigger.

There was a simultaneous flash of lightning and thunderclap, causing him to flinch like an amateur just as the tree trunk came crashing down.