The Greatest Fishing Story Ever Told | ch07


A life-changing essay told by a boy named Hatch
retold by a guy named Gary Alipio.
(kids 9-12)

Pestering insects, pesky neighbors, angry seas, boat blunders, and an encounter with a two-footed cryptid that inhabits Bayou Vivrè – the Loup Garou. You ready?



Brickety-brack, brickety-brack. Nothing.

Brickety-brack, vrr-uuuum, vrr-ummmmmm. The boat turned over.

The hum of the motor vibrated under my feet. A plume of smoke covered the air. A magical smell of burning oil shot up my nostrils.


I don’t think I’ve ever whiffed such choice in my life.

Sniff sniff.

The memory of Hunter waving us so-long was just that – a memory.

Bring on the FISH.

Grampa stood at the helm of the boat and steered us away from the dock.

We putted down a slim water pass until we were clear of the soldier-like fishing camps lining the bayou.

A guy could get shot for causing a wake in the ‘NO WAKE’ fishing camp zone.

So I’m told.

Grampa snagged the cap off my head, and as he pulled back on the throttle, a rush of warm air pressed against my face.

The roar of the boat.

The spray of brackish water.

The wind whipped at my hair.

The bug smacked dead against my sunglasses.

AIYEEE!, I screamed . . . in my head.

Grampa reached over and tightened my life vest. Then he opened the throttle. She may not have been much of a looker, but Ol Nessie sure cut through the water leaving behind a spurting fishtail.

Just then, a terrible feeling came over me.

An awful, toss-me-overboard, I-might-as-well-die feeling.

I forgot my fishing pole in the car.

Aiy-nooo . . .


Round two. Putt-putt, putt-putt, putt-putt.

I tightened the straps of my life vest, leaned forward and waited.

The roar of the boat.

The spray of the water.

The wind . . . oh, you get the idea.

Grampa really didn’t say much about the mishap. Just a smirk and a grunt.

A snorting, grumbling grunt.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a brown fuzzball against the banks. An otter. It looked right at me then disappeared in the murky waters.

Moments later, it re-surfaced with a crawdad in its mouth.

To the right, four pelicans flapped in the distance. One of them lingered behind, its wings clipping the water.

A dark dorsal fin cut through the waves and rode besides the boat for a blink.


Fish jumped in and out of the water. One nearly landed in the boat, hitting the side.

“What was that?!”

“Mullet.” Gramps replied. He said they don’t make good eatin’. He also said Mullet jump sometimes because they were being chased. But sometimes they jumped just for fun.

Ones that make high soaring leaps were not being chased.

Ones that jump and do a backflip were not being chased.

Ones that jump practically in a boat moving at forty miles per hour, they WERE being chased.

In the distance, a flock of seagulls trailed a large skimmer. Trawlin’ for shrimpses.

The captain, a short stubby man with the reddest redneck, he stared at us long then flipped a finger at us.

Grampa whipped a finger back.

Some sort of code.

Grampa swiveled the wheel, a sharp turn, and the water before us narrowed into a smaller channel.

The channel ahead had space for no more than two boats.

One lane in.

One lane out.

“Bayou Vivrè,” said Grampa. “Welcome to Bayou Vivrè.”


The motor of Ol Nessie was loud enough, but up from behind, another boat passed us like a bat out of hell.

Yes, if you’re like me, you too are wondering about such a saying?

Why are bats flying out of hell so fast?

How do we know bats don’t like it there?

And if they don’t like it there, then why is it there always seems to be some unlimited amount of bats to fly out of hell?

Once they leave, do more magically reappear waiting the day for someone to speak about them flying out of hell?

Wait . . . what I talking about?

Oh, yeh.

The other boat.

It sliced through the water hella-bat fast. As it passed, I recognized the driver.

The one-armed nubby Lazarre.

He nodded, and gave me an evil wink with his non-wandering eye.


Lazarre sped off so fast his boat created a large fishtail.

Let me rephrase: a gigantor-normous fishtail that soaked us to the core.


Running out of underwear faster than the bayou water sure do stank.


Want more? Leave a comment below for the complete 10,000 words.

The Greatest Fishing Story Ever Told | ch 06



“What do you mean you aren’t coming with us?” I said to Hunter as my turkey sandwich choked at my throat.

Mini throw up.

“Checked in with Ma.” Hunter held the rope tied to the boat while Grampa backed up the truck and lowered it into the black waters. “She got called in to work, so I gotta go watch the Harp. No go for me.”

Gramps hit the brakes hard, and Ol Nessie glided into the water like a cat sliding across fresh Pledge-sprayed floors.

“I’ll swing back and pick y’all up in three days.” Hunter broke his train of thought and raised both eyebrows my way. “Why? Scared?”

The thought never crossed my mind.

“Me, heck no.”

“THWACK!” shouted Hunter. “Heh heh heh.”

Yep. My first trip without brother tonsils – short for pain in the neck Harper – and he still fouled things up.

Only now, the thought of going on a fishing trip . . . into Bayou Vivrè . . . with a Loup Garou . . . with Grampa Grump . . . alone.

I had only one thing to say about that–



On to Sun Day | 07

The Greatest Fishing Story Ever Told | ch 05



Something long, warm and wet. It tickled at my right ear, my head resting against my hands. Maybe it’s the redhead again.

Her gentle hands ran through my–

“Aww, wake up sleepy head,” I heard in a soft nurturing voice.

Then, “WAKE UP! WAKE UP!” a torturous voice rang loud inside the car – a now non-moving car. The voice? Hunter. He was sticking a wet-willy finger in my ear.

“We’re here.”

Yeh, sometimes he was so NOT cool.

“Ready for the last day of your life,” he said. “Look alive, you might even learn a thing or two. I’ma-na help Gramps launch the boat. Make yourself look useful, ‘kay, Hatch?”

I wiped my eyes, stepped out of the car and realized I’d slept through the whole three-hour ride.

I missed everything: the icing down of the coolers, the gassing up of the boat, the endless counting of sugar cane field after sugar cane field.


Ol’ Gatar’s Foodery, the rusty sign read over a weathered tin roof and paint-peeling shack. While Grampa and Hunter untied the straps and readied the boat, I set out on real business.


“Hey, Hunt, I’m gonna take a, well, you know.” I squished my legs together. “Gotta, yeh.”

Hunter pointed me in the right direction – inside.

Ol’ Gatar’s Foodery looked pretty grim. Lights flickered. The floors were sticky. Shelves were stacked mostly with bread, packaged pies, beef jerky and shiny fishing lures. The air reeked of funkified fish and the walls were covered with random license plates and tin signs.

A few of them read:

Death. Taxes. Fish.

Be nice or GET the heck OUT.

Who Dat eight me fish?

Unless Ya’ Mama Werks Here, Pik Up Ya’ Stuff.

One stood out in particular. It had an alligator with its mouth open wide.

WARNING: Children left unattended will be fed to Gators!

Just then, a one-armed man clomped out of the bathroom. I tell you he was seven-foot tall if he were a centimeter. He had a midnight black wandering eye and a low-hanging beard wrapped in rubber bands.

His name was Lazarre.

I know this because I’m writing this life-changing essay after it already happened. So go with it.

Lazarre Bio: details unknown.

Despite having a nub for an arm, he used it to close the door behind him. Then he poked me in the chest with the stubby nub.

“AY! Ya’ lookin’ at somethin’, sonny? ‘Cause I couldn’t help notice ya’ be eyeballin’ me, cher? Wouldn’t be ‘cause of me looks, now would it now, ay? Ya’ thinkin’, how I got dis souvenir. Right, cher?” The one-armed man grabbed his arm.

“No, not at . . . No.”

I back-pedaled, the urge to pee no longer an urge.

“No, SIR!” Lazarre shouted and sprayed my face with spit. “Twas’ the fiery-eyed beast of Bayous Vivrè.”

“Garou,” I said under my breath.

“AYYYY! So you’ve heard of the beast?”

I nodded.

Lazarre leaned back and pulled on his barbed-wire beard.

“Two hours.” Lazarre imitated holding a fishing pole in hand. “TWO DEVILISHLY LONG HOURS I grappled with da beast,” He spat. It nearly hit my shoe.

“Lesser sportsmen woulda snipped da line, high-tailed it outta dere. BUT NOT I. Lazarre, stood TALL. Determined to bring in da legendary beast. Dragged me good, she did,

through the prickly marsh,

over cypress knees,

across crayfish mounds,

into murky meadows,

and under the brackish waters.

“Madness, I tell you. Maddening, I STILL AM! Because finally, after two grueling hours, I paused only for a moment to scratch my nose – just a NANOSECOND, I TELL YA’ – and she dove straight down into da blackness. Snapped me line, PZIIP, HA HA!”

Lazarre cackled, picked long and hard in his nose and continued.

“See this HERE–“ He pointed to a scar running over his left eye, down to his cheek. Lazarre’s face was so close, I felt the scorching breath from his nose.

“She done dis. Fishing line, PZIIP – me lucky souvenir. Words of advice I give you, cher. You see a loose chartreuse line out there, sonny. PRAY.”  He smiled, missing teeth and all, but a smile nonetheless. “Questions?”

My back was hard-pressed against a rack of those packaged pies. A bunch fell off.

“Well–” I squished a pie onto my shoe.

“YES, go on.”

More pies fell.

“Well, um, your, um, how’d you–” I couldn’t ask it, so I motioned, grabbing my own arm.

“WHAT? Dis here?” Lazarre tilted back. He scratched his beard with his stubby, nubby arm. “Birthed this way, cher.”

Ding-ding. Ding-ding.

The doors chimed and a familiar face stepped into the doorway, Grampa.

The caustic look on his face said only one thing: TIME TO GO!

“So . . .” Lazarre’s tone changed instantly, more smiley. “Will you be eatin’ lunch with us. OR just makin’ groceries, cher?”

“Lazarre,” Grampa answered with a nod.

“Leon,” the scare-face Lazarre replied.

The men stared at each other good. I could tell they didn’t like one another.

“You finished here?” Grampa asked of me.

I swayed my head no.

“Finish your business then, boy.”


For what did my eyes see before me? Never before had I seen such a way’er-than-cool thing of things.

Lying on the ground in the middle of the bathroom was a rolled stack of moolah. Washingtons. Lincolns. That ten-dollar guy. Even a few Jacksons.


I snatched it up and peeked under the stall. No one there.

What luck?

I wondered whose it could be. I wondered what it was for. I wondered – who cares!

You snooze-y you lose-y.

Ten. Nineteen. Fifty. There must have been like twenty of every bill.

Rich. I’m filthy, stinkin’ rich. Filthy because, yes, I picked up money off the bathroom floor. A public men’s bathroom floor.



In my pocket the money went, and I never widdled so fast in my life.


On to Sun Lunch | 06