The Catfisher’s Apprentice

You’re familiar with the work of Paul “Crawfish” Crawford—you just don’t know it.  Crawfish was an innovator, an artist, a storyteller, a founder of American mythology.  Some say he was a pathological liar, but that is not quite fair.  And even though Crawfish was not a preacher or television evangelist, his work has spawned just as many adherents and more fanatics than most religions I’ve come across.  I told him that he would have made a good holy man, but his heart wasn’t in it.  He didn’t want to be a fisher of men, he just wanted to be a fisherman.  But if you think Paul Crawford was just another professional fisherman, you’d be way off the mark.  He was a Deepwater Big Fish Investigator.  And don’t think I made that up—those are the exact words on Crawfish’s business card.
I vividly recall the day I met Crawfish.  I had just been discharged from the Navy a few months prior and was eating breakfast in a diner outside St. Louis with friends from high school.  At age twenty three, I had seen and experienced a lot in my time, and I felt compelled to share these experiences with these young men, who’d never been outside of the Midwest, all seated around the Formica tabletop.  I told them about my days as a Navy diver and the danger I had come across detonating bombs in the Persian Gulf.  I told them about the places around the world where I had scuba dived.  I told them about the time I met the President in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.
The three of them ate silently while the food on my plate grew cold.  I took one bite of my omelet, then remembered I hadn’t told them about the alligators.
“And then there’s the alligators I saw underwater right in the middle of the French Quarter, right there on the street.  That’s one thing a person will never forget—diving underwater with an alligator just like you were walking a dog down the avenue.” 
The three had paused from eating and sat there with their mouths agape.  While I had them enthralled, I proceeded to tell them about riding an aircraft carrier down the Mississippi River, and getting into the Gulf of Mexico just in time to be struck by another hurricane—Hurricane Rita—and the forty foot waves that broke over the bow of the ship. 
When I paused to take a few bites, one of the guys asked me why I left the Navy.  That one stumped me.  I told them that I had grown tired of being a slave to the chiefs and officers and tired of deploying all the time.  What I didn’t tell them was that my best friend—my only real friend—checked out of the Navy, too, when a bomb disintegrated him in Iraq.  Nor did I tell them that I had seen a lot of great things, but that I had also seen too much.  I did tell them that my high school girlfriend married another man while I was away but lied when I said it didn’t bother me.
Seeing that my friends’ plates were empty, I scooped my hash browns into my mouth and thought about what my life looked like now.  Now, my days consisted of going to a job I hated, browsing the web for things I didn’t care about, and living in a town that no longer had real purpose for me.  The funny thing is that I had left the Navy because I wanted the freedom to do whatever I wanted—things like going to diners with my friends.  But, sitting there doing that exact thing, I realized that the reduced freedom of the military felt freer than the life I now lived.
  I noticed the diner transitioning from breakfast to lunch, so I hurriedly finished my food.  When we asked the waitress for the check, an old man sitting in the booth behind me turned and tapped me on the shoulder.  “Young man, I’d like to have a word with you when you have a minute.”  There was an empty plate in front of him, and I recalled him placing an order not long after my arrival.  I then realized he had probably been listening to my yapping the entire time. 
  My friends paid their bills and left with promises to “see me around,” promises that sounded only moderately appealing.
  The old man scooted onto the red vinyl booth across from me with a near empty cup of coffee in his hand.  He asked the waitress for a warmer. 
“Sure thing, Crawfish,” she said, pouring the steaming brew into both his cup and mine. 
I say he was an old man, but his age was difficult to judge.  He may have been as young as sixty, but the deep furrows in his tanned forehead and the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes made him look older.  He appeared fit for his age and had short, gray hair.  He clasped his fingers around his steaming mug and leaned across the table.  The wiry muscles of his forearms rippled under deeply tanned skin, crisscrossed here and there by an assortment of white scars.
  “That was some good stuff,” he said.
  “What stuff?”
  “Those tall tales you told your friends.”
 “Tall tales?”
 “Don’t kid me, boy.  I’m a professional exaggerator and I know fish stories when I hear them.”
 “Those weren’t fish stories,” I said, backing away slightly.  “They were all true.”
 “I didn’t say they weren’t true.  I said I know good fish stories when I hear them.  For instance, I reckon you were in the Navy, and that you’ve travelled quite a bit, but that was some damn fine storytelling about the hurricanes.”
  “That was the truth.”
  “I know it was,” he said, waving his hand dismissively.  “Who’s to say just how big the waves were.  No one was exactly out there with a yardstick measuring them.”
 “But you think I exaggerated.”
 “You can’t exaggerate something if you don’t know the objective truth, right?”
  “But it was the truth.”
 “Did you really ride an aircraft carrier down the Mississippi?”
  “Well, I guess it depends on your definition of an aircraft carrier.  It was a large-deck amphib—something that would be an aircraft carrier in other navies.”
 “Exactly,” he said.  “It all depends on the definition.”
  His point caught me off guard.
    “Don’t get me wrong, kid.  I’m not puttin’ you down.  I’m impressed.  I like you.  In fact, after hearing you talk for an hour, I’m downright convinced that you’re the young man I’ve been looking for for quite some time.”
  My stomach turned.  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, sir, but I’m not like that.”
  He leaned back and motioned like he was pushing me away.  “No, I mean a man to work with me.  To learn my trade.  To become my apprentice.” 
  “Apprentice?  In what line of work?” 
 He looked around and lowered his voice.  “Before I answer that, let me ask you a few questions.
“Okay.”
“You miss the adventures you had, don’t you?” 
  “Sort of.”
  “And you like being the center of attention?”
  “Well, I wouldn’t…"
  “Oh, spare me the false modesty—I already know you do.”
  “I suppose so.”
 “Do you like excitement?”
 “Yes.”
 “Danger?”
 “Yes.”
 “Money?”
  “Of course.”
 “Then I just need to know one thing.  And I need you to be absolutely truthful about this.  Are you really an expert scuba diver?”
 “Yes—everything I said was true.”
 He tapped me on the forearm.  “I know.  I know.  Between you and me, it was all true, except the part about swimming underwater with an alligator on a flooded street in New Orleans.”
  “That’s true, too.”
“Really?  You made it sound like you swam right alongside him.  But what did you do exactly?  Was he close enough to touch, or did you just see it from a distance, or did you go diving in an area where you had seen an alligator the day before?”
  “Well, I probably couldn’t have touched it, but I saw him swimming away from me and I tried to follow him.”
  “I knew the answer was somewhere along that truth gradient and that’s exactly what my line of work is.” 
 “Truth gradients or scuba diving?”
 “Both.  Exactly both.” 
“Can you be more specific?”
  He cast his eyes to the left and right and leaned in closer.  In a low voice, he asked, “Do you believe in giant catfish?”
  “To some extent.  For example, I’m familiar with the Giant Goonch Catfish of the Himalayas.”
  He sat back, startled.  “Is that a real legend?”  He grabbed a napkin from the dispenser and a pen from his pocket and started to write.
 “It’s not a legend.  It’s a real thing.”
  “I think I could use that.”
  Watching him write on the napkin, I noticed a misspelling.  “It’s Goonch, not Gooch—it has an ‘n’ in it.”
  “I think Gooch sounds better.”
  “But that’s not how it’s spelled.  It’s a real thing.”
  He finished writing and tucked the folded napkin into his shirt pocket.  “You said that with so much conviction that I almost believed you, and that goes a long way in my line of work.”
  “You haven’t told me what that line of work is,” I said, my patience wearing thin.
He leaned in close again.  “Have you ever heard of the giant catfish living at the bottoms of our lakes and rivers?”
 “Yes.”
“And where did you hear about them?” 
“Well,” I said, “everywhere I go men talk about the giant catfish that live at the bottom of the dam.  Sometimes they’re as big as a pig.  Sometimes as big as a Volkswagen.”
The old man chuckled.  “And how do these men know about them?”
“They say the divers who clean the turbines saw them.”
  “And who do you think this turbine cleaner is who has seen all these catfish?”
  “I don’t know.”
  “Think hard.”
  “You?”
“Yes.”

“No way.”
He reached back and pulled out a wallet.  Opening it, he took out a business card with the silhouette of a scuba diver on it and slid it across the table. 

PAUL “CRAWFISH” CRAWFORD
DAM TURBINE CLEANER.
Certified by the Department of Energy.
Deepwater Big Fish Investigator.

(636) 555-9645

I looked up, eyeing him skeptically, and extended the card back to him.
“No, you keep it,” he said.
I placed it on the table in front of me, read it again, then looked up at him.
“Is this for real?”
“I’ve been doing it for forty years,” he said proudly.  “I apprenticed to a man named Malcom T. Hardwell who, as far as I can tell, started this line of work.  The name’s Paul,” he said, extending a hand, “but everyone calls me Crawfish.”
“Nick,” I said, shaking his hand.  There was an awkward moment of silence in which he sat there, smiling.  I asked, “Is it true then?  Are there really giant catfish in the Mississippi?”
“Absolutely”
“Giant ones?”
“Well, it depends on your definition of giant.  Giant means different things to different people… just like there’s no agreed upon definition of an aircraft carrier.”
  “Well, how big is big?”
  “Why don’t you come see for yourself?”
 “Can’t you just tell me?”
  “No.  And if you don’t come out with me, you’ll kick yourself the rest of your life wondering about it.”
  The mystery of giant catfish did sound interesting, and I had not been interested in anything in quite some time.  But I remained skeptical. 
“I can’t even believe I’m having this conversation,” I said.
“There’s a lot more you’re not gonna believe unless you don’t come to see it.”
  “I’m not even sure what that means.”
  He cocked his head, then tried again.  “There’s a lot more you’re not gonna believe that you have to see to believe.” Confusion must have registered on my face.  “Nevermind,” he said, “the point is that you’ve got my card.  I’m going catfish investigating near a dam this weekend.  Give me a call tomorrow and I’ll tell you when and where to meet.”
 
  Three days later, even I was surprised to find myself riding with Crawfish in his dusty old pickup piled with scuba tanks, nets and fishing equipment.  Along the way, he explained the whole business, but not before he made me swear not to reveal his catfish investigating secrets to anyone. We headed to Southern Illinois, to a small reservoir whose name I will not disclose.  Many people lived around that lake, but there was one man in particular, a man named Mr. Allen, who hired Paul to look for giant catfish in that reservoir.  During the drive, Crawfish explained to me that Mr. Allen was a Category One.
“Everyone falls into one of three categories,” he explained.  “A Category One will believe anything you tell them simply because they want to believe.  Everyone in the world is a Category One about something, and most men are a Category One about fish.  You see, they need to believe the big one is out there.  Category Ones are the bread and butter of our business.”
He said “our” business like I was already committed, which wasn’t the case.
“But Category Twos are also very important.  Category Twos will believe what you tell them because they’re afraid of something.  They don’t want to believe in giant catfish, but they certainly will believe in them if you play into their fears.  Oftentimes, a mother who is worried about her children playing in the water will be a Category Two.  You have to massage those fears.  In their own way, they can be good clients, too.  And like Category Ones, everyone is Category Two about something.”  He thought for a second.  “In fact, most people are a Category Two about lots of things.”
“And Category Three?”
Crawfish grimaced as he drove down the two-lane highway.  “Category Threes are a whole different matter.  They are skeptical people.  They don’t care about big fish, and neither are they afraid of them.  It’s nearly impossible to make them believe anything you say.  This is important—never work with a Category Three around.  You have to separate the Ones and Twos from the Threes.  You have to reschedule or do something.  Worst-case scenario, you have to get them to shush—tell them it’s none of their gosh-darned business.  The good news is that there aren’t many Category Threes in the world.”
“About fish, you mean?”
“About anything.  As a general rule, people crave confirmation of their own beliefs.  They love it!  They feed on confirmation like pigs in clover, and when it comes to fish, my job is to give them the clover.”

Arriving at the reservoir, we met some members of the Allen family.  They were an odd lot.  Mr. Allen himself was a bug exterminator with a weak chin and skinny hairless legs.  He had three boys with him, all around the tween years, who looked just like him and called him “Pa.”  He never invited us in, saying the “Missus was napping on account of her diabetes.  Besides,” he added, “she wouldn’t take a likin’ to me spending money on this investigation, but I’m doin’ it for the boys.”  He tousled the hair of the oldest boy whose wide mouth and flat face resembled that of a frog.  “Their Uncle Dan claims there ain’t fish of any size in this lake and we aim to prove him wrong.”
Crawfish asked, “Where does their Uncle Dan fish?”  I knew why he asked it.  Crawfish had explained to me the careful art of catfish investigating, and I knew his question applied to the Seven Cardinal Rules.  Most of the rules were passed to him by Malcolm T. Hardwell, but Crawfish refined them over the years.  They are as follows:

1. Leave the client satisfied.  The most satisfying answer is a comparison to a rival’s body of water or a suggestion that their expectations were accurate. 
2. There are always bigger fish in the water.  The biggest ones have learned to live near the dam turbines where food is funneled right into their mouths.  In this way, they grow to enormous size.
3. The fish won’t let you touch them, so accurate measurements are not possible.
4. Size estimates must sound believable.  Never go bigger than a Volkswagen Beetle.  When in doubt, go with the standard “size of a man.”
5. Default species is catfish.  Whether it’s a Flathead, Channel or Blue depends on the client’s preferences.  Crossbreeds and mutants are acceptable.
6. Use scientific jargon as much as possible.
7. Never work with a Category Three around.

Having been made familiar with the rules, I knew that Crawfish solicited information about Uncle Dan’s fishing hole as it applied to Rule #1—specifically, the part that says the most satisfying answer is a comparison to a rival’s body of water.
  “Oh, he has a cabin up on Blue Lake,” Mr. Allen said.
  Crawfish scratched the stubble on his chin.  “Blue Lake, huh?  I’ve heard some stories about that place.  How big was that one they caught up there?”
  “Sixty-two pounds,” Mr. Allen said, making it sound like a problem.
  Crawfish whistled.  “Was that a Blue or a Flathead?” (Here, he solicited information for Rule #5 regarding default species).
  “A Flathead.”
“Yeah, Blue Lake has some big’uns.  Uncle Dan might be right,” he said, looking around.  “But this lake here has got all the ingredients to grow big catfish—the right depth and the run-off from the fields and the ambient atmospheric pressure and such.”  (Rule #6).
 “I always figured as much,” Mr. Allen said, looking somewhat relieved.  He turned to his son and smiled before returning his attention to Crawfish.  “Have you ever cleaned the turbines in our dam?”
 “No, unfortunately The Department of Energy has assigned this dam to a different district, but my apprentice and I will be happy to take a look for you.” 
As far as I could tell, Paul had never cleaned a turbine in his life, but he had to keep up pretenses. 
  “It sure would mean a lot to me and the boys.”
  “We’re happy to do it.  Say, might your wife be coming down here today?”  (Rule #7.  Paul already suspected she was a Category Three.)
  “I reckon not.  If she does, she’d come down that scooter path over there.”
  “The what path?”
  “She lost one of her legs on account of the diabetes, so she has a scooter to get down here to the dock.”
 Paul glanced at me.  “Well, I’d say the sooner we get started the better.” 

It was early spring, and cold, but Paul and I went scuba diving in that little lake.  Paul taught me that catfish, especially Flatheads, will lay at the bottom of lakes almost in hibernation for long periods of time, even in the summer.  This was particularly helpful as I soon learned that Paul actually looked for big catfish.  And when he found them, he took pictures and videos, which he later showed to the clients.  There was always some truth in what Paul did, but a lot of misrepresentation as well.  Underwater, Paul took out a ruler attached to a long stick.  He had shown it to me earlier in the truck.  It was about six inches long but marked out a whole foot.
“You made a fake ruler?” I had asked.
“It’s not a fake,” he said, snatching the ruler back.  “Didn’t they teach you anything in the Navy?  You have to account for the refractive properties of water when using cameras designed for the air.”
I shrugged, knowing this was patently false.  But I had to admit that it did make me think for a minute.
Next to the miniature ruler I found a duplicate one of an accurate size stashed in his dive bag.  I had asked him about it.  He jerked this one out of my hand as well and said he needed it “because most people have as poor an understanding of water refraction as you do.”
  Despite these misunderstandings, that first diving experience impressed me deeply.  I found joy in getting close to the fish in their torpid state and was surprised to find that some were indeed quite large.  Even I couldn’t exactly say how big most of them were due to the murky water and lack of perspective.  Crawfish pointed to one catfish tucked into a vertical log like a pig in a blanket.  He petted the slippery, mottled brown skin between its eyes before it slowly wedged itself free and lazily swam away.  After gathering a good deal of evidence, we returned to shore. Back at the landing, we unburdened ourselves of our masks, scuba tanks and buoyancy control vests.  Mr. Allen and the boys crowded round.
  “Well?” Mr. Allen asked, almost feverish with excitement.
  “You were right,” Crawfish said, running his hand through his thin wet hair, “there are some monsters down there.”
 “How big?”
  “It’s hard to say,” he said, slowly shaking his head.  “What do you think, Nick?  How big was that biggest one we saw?”
  I already felt hot with the sun beating on my black wet suit but felt an added flash of heat pass through my body when he put me on the spot.  “Shoot, I don’t know.  Probably about the size of a man.”
Mr. Allen’s eyes grew wide and his mouth fell open as he slipped into some semi-hypnotic state.
“That’s what I was gonna say,” Crawfish said.  “Easily more than a hundred pounds.”
“Did you get a picture?” Mr. Allen asked.
Crawfish removed the camera from its underwater case.  “We got some pictures alright.”  He sat on a log.  Mr. Allen and the boys crowded round him.  “Oohs” and “aahs” erupted from the Allen family as Crawfish flipped through the pictures.
“That was a big one there, but we couldn’t get too close.  You see the mud there, that’s volcanic sedimentation that scientists say has mutatory effects on DNA.  That’s the same sort of seismonic rock they have in the Himalayas, the stuff that produces those giants… What do they call those, Nick?”
“Goonch Catfish.”
“Yeah, the Giant Gooch Catfish of the Himalayas,” he said, winking at me.  I guessed he still didn’t believe they were real.
He mispronounced it again, so I corrected him.  “It’s Goonch, with a ‘n’.”
“Well, Nick,” he said, sounding a little miffed, “I can see that you are not aware that the pronunciation depends on which side of the Himalayas you grew up on.”
I stared at him, speechless—caught somewhere between surprise and admiration.  Finally, I said, “Oh, really? I was not aware of that.”  After peeling my wet suit down to my waist, I gathered the equipment while Crawfish spun his yarns over the pictures.
“I think I’ll just start hauling the gear to the truck,” I said.
He glanced up from the small digital screen.  “Sounds good, Nick.”  He returned to his explanations.  “You see that there?  That’s more seismonic rock, which probably explains the size of the fish.” 
I picked up two scuba tanks and started up the trail.  “Seismonic,” I said quietly to myself.  “That’s not even a word.” 
Paul said there is a very thin line between lying and exaggerating, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being dishonest with these people.  As I carried the heavy tanks up the bank, across a small pedestrian bridge, and all the way up to the truck, my shoulders burned.  I slipped in the mud and scraped my elbow in the fall.  The whole experience soured on me, especially when I reminded myself that I was not getting paid for any of this.
I returned to our spot on the bank to retrieve two more tanks and found Crawfish still sitting on the log with the boys crowded round.  Mr. Allen leaned in close behind. 
While disconnecting a regulator hose, the frog-faced boy approached me and tugged on the neoprene sleeve dangling from my waist.  “The toad is waiting for you up at the bridge,” he said.
I glanced in that direction, then down at the boy.  “The toad?”
“My older sister.”
“Your older sister is called ‘the toad’?”  I looked at the boy and realized the frog resemblance could apply to any amphibian.
“She wants you to meet her… under the bridge on the other side of the scooter path.”
I felt my eyes go wide.  I pictured a female version of this frog-faced boy lying in wait for me under the bridge.  Even worse, the mention of the scooter path reminded me that an angry, one-legged mama might motor down here any second.
“Why under the bridge?” I said, scratching a bug bite on the back of my neck.  “Does she eat people who don’t pay a toll?”
“What’s a toll?”
“Never mind.  What does she want?”
“I don’t know,” he said slowly, “but she told me to tell you that she’s waitin’ for you.”  He smiled and the wide corners of his mouth nearly touched his ears.
I swallowed a lump and yelled, “Hey Paul, I think it’s about time we get this show on the road, don’t you think?”
He glanced up from the camera.  “Don’t you want to look at these, Nick?”
“I’m kinda in a hurry.”
“Suit yourself.  I’ll be right along.  Don’t worry about that last tub.  Just take the last tanks up and wait for me at the truck.”
“Don’t dilly-dally,” I said, grabbing the two tanks and setting off at a brisk clip.  I thought that if I were lucky, I could get across the bridge before the toad stopped me. 
Crossing the gravel scooter path, I glanced up toward the trailer at the top of the low hill.  There was no sign of anyone coming, but a pang of guilt hit me as I realized the woman in that house would not approve of throwing precious money toward a misadventure such as this.  The more I thought about her, the more I pictured her scooter rumbling along behind me as she shook her fist demanding her money back.  I wondered, then, just how fast those scooters could go.
My heart raced from both effort and anxiety as I approached the last bend before the small ravine.  Rounding the curve, I saw the pedestrian bridge, and my heart stopped.  There was a person on it.  I slowed down, but didn’t stop, knowing there was no alternative but to cross.  As I drew closer, I was dumbstruck by the figure in front of me—a young woman with two legs, legs that looked perfectly healthy in frayed shorts.  The young woman wore a blue flannel shirt knotted above her exposed belly and low-cut tank top.  At first, I couldn’t believe this goddess in cut-off jeans was from the same family, but looking at her gorgeous face, I saw faintly the features of the Allen boys—the same wide mouth that completely hid her teeth, but with fuller lips.  There was definitely some amphibian traits there, but in the context of her face, it all came together quite well.
I thought that I might walk right past her, but on my approach, she propped one of her tan legs on the opposite railing.  “Where are you going in such a hurry?” the toad said.
Trapped, I set the scuba tanks down on the bridge and rested my aching shoulders.  “I was just carrying this equipment back to the truck.”
“Well, you seem to have the muscles to do it.”  I felt slightly naked, then, with the sleeves of my wet suit tied around my waist.  “Do you work out a lot?”
“I try to,” I said.  “Do you trap people with your legs a lot?”
She grinned ear to ear.  “Maybe.  What’s your name?”
“Nick.”
“My name’s Liza Allen.  My pa is the man who hired you.”
I figured, then, that she was sent by her mom to get to the bottom of this dubious business.
“Your dad’s a really nice guy.”
“Yes, he is,” she said.  “I wanted to talk to you about him.”
I raised my hands in the air.  “I assure you that none of this was my idea.  In fact, I barely even know Crawfish.”
She dropped her leg from the railing, stood up, and placed a finger on my lips.  “Shush.”  She stepped so close that her flannel shirt brushed against the bare skin of my chest.  “What I wanted to say is thank you.”
“For what?” 
“For what you did back there.”
“What, specifically, are we talking about?”
“I don’t know if you really saw a giant catfish or not, but I do know this.  You and that man, Crawfish, have given my pa something to tell stories about for the rest of his life.  You’ve done more for my family than you’ll ever know.” 
She then leaned into me, pinning me against the railing, and gave me a soft, lingering kiss. 
Pulling away, she slipped a piece of paper into my hand.  “Call me sometime.”  She waved and turned toward the house.  On the note, she had scribbled a phone number with the words, thank you.  As I watched her bound away, my guilt slowly dissipated.  Crawfish was onto something.

For two summers, Crawfish and I went on many fish investigations, mostly in the upper Midwest and the South.  On each trip, I learned more about the trade, but only small tidbits about Paul.  He had been married and divorced a few times and had been in the thick of it in Viet Nam.  Other than the St. Louis Cardinals baseball team, he seemed to have few interests in life.  “How about you?” I asked him.  “What kind of things are you into?”
“Other than baseball?”
“Yeah.”
“Making people believe in legends, I guess.  Without those, we don’t have nothing.”  In conversations like this I learned that Crawfish loved his peculiar line of work.  He saw himself as some sort of summer Santa Claus spreading joy and cheer to people young and old.  But he sometimes wondered aloud how many of his clients even remembered his name.  I got the impression that he wanted to see his name in lights.
Inevitably, clients asked if he could take pictures of the giant catfish in the actual turbines.  His answer was that he could not approach turbines while they were operating as the current would suck him in and certainly kill him. 
But with me around, Crawfish started diving closer and closer to the dams, especially during the second summer.  And the charades developed new twists.  Increasingly, the catfish became more sinister.  Not only were they large, but they grew more hideous.  Often, he reported that their eyes glowed green and sometimes red.  He told a client he once found the leg of a man inside a 140-pound blue catfish.  He told another that he hooked some catfish using small dogs as bait.  Some fish, he said, were mutants that had armored plating they inherited from a sturgeon in their family tree.  And speaking of sturgeon, he was perhaps the only person alive who was aware of the war between massive sturgeons and giant catfish that waged continuously in the murky depths of the Mississippi River System.  The most amazing thing of all is that every time I thought he pushed the bounds of credibility, the clients swallowed it hook, line and sinker.
Despite Crawfish’s increasing audacity, everything went swimmingly until we took the job in Keokuk, Iowa.  It was an odd job in the sense that our client was a respected member of the community.  Dr. Thaddeus Kirkpatrick lived in an ornate turn-of-the-century home on the banks of the Mississippi River with a back porch overlooking one of the first hydroelectric projects in the country—the Keokuk Dam and Power House.  The Power House is a long rectangular brick structure with eighteen arched windows.  It sits like a temple to electricity in the middle of the river not far from the doctor’s house.  The good doctor told me and Crawfish that he spent many late evenings in a rocking chair looking over the deep river between his yard and the Power House pondering the aquatic life below the surface.

Dr. Kirkpatrick, a fit man in his late fifties, told us that many Keokuk residents speculated about the riverine creatures that lived near the town, and he thought they deserved to know the truth.  As such, Dr. Kirkpatrick invited some of his friends to his house in order to witness the dive.  Crawfish would normally have forbidden this but, as I mentioned, he had grown gradually bolder over the course of that summer.  Besides, he seemed to relish the idea of an audience. 
Our dive in Keokuk was on a warm afternoon in September.  Crawfish and I carried our gear down the steep bluff and across the railroad tracks to the riverbank.  Dr. Kirkpatrick and his buddies had chosen the location.  Crawfish surveyed the scene while shading his eyes with his hand.  He whistled. “I tell you what.  This is a hazardous area to dive.”
Dr. Kirkpatrick furrowed his eyebrows.  “I figured as much.  This is where the barge traffic comes through, so you’ve got to be on the lookout.”
“And then there’s the current,” Crawfish said.  “It may look peaceful up here, but I assure you, that Power House is not generating 142 Megawatts out of nothing.  There’s a mighty current passing through those turbines down there.”
“And that’s where the big ones live, right?”
“Yep, they congregate there and just wait for food to wash into their gullets.”
“Have you ever cleaned these turbines?”
“Nope, the Department of Energy has assigned them to a different district.”
“I see.  Well, you don’t think it’s too dangerous, do you?”
“It depends on how close I get to the Power House.  But I assure you that this is the most dangerous dive I have ever undertaken.”
“I understand.  In fact, I want to say to you in front of everyone here, including your apprentice, that I advise you not to dive this close to the Power House.”  And then, more quietly, “And thank you for signing that statement from my lawyer.”
“I understand,” Paul said, “but you also want to know if big ones live near the Power House, right?”
“Of course, but you must dive where you think it’s safe.  I advise” he said in a loud and clear voice, “that you dive further upriver.”
“We’ll dive here, but we’re taking extra security precautions.”  Crawfish found a sturdy oak tree growing on the edge of the bank and instructed me to tie the safety line to it.  Usually, the safety line was just a part of the show, but today I sensed that it was actually important. 
More people filtered down the bluff toward us.  They didn’t seem to be part of the “Scientific Inquiry Gala” Mrs. Kirkpatrick had been hosting back at the house.  These people were of the less well-to-do sort.  Dr. Kirkpatrick approached them and asked, “Can I help you?”
The closest man spoke.  “My buddy, Troy Anderson, said that you guys had a turbine cleaner down here looking for big catfish.”  He was a large, honest-looking fellow in a Mack Truck ballcap.  His hands rested on the shoulders of a boy about ten years old.  “My son is visiting me for the weekend, and I thought maybe we could watch.” 
Dr. Kirkpatrick scowled.  “Troy Anderson told you?” 
The man nodded. 
“Are these other people your friends?” 
He nodded again. 
The doctor seemed to think a moment, then looked at the man’s son.  “Do you believe in giant catfish, boy?”
“I think so.  My dad told me about them, but my mom says he’s full of crap.”
Dr. Kirkpatrick glanced at Crawfish who nodded slightly.  “Well, he might be,” the doctor said, glancing back at the father, “but maybe we’ll get some answers today.”  He turned his attention to the crowd.  “Just make sure you all stay back and don’t get in the way of the turbine cleaner.”
Crawfish chimed in.  “The boy can stay close, though, so he can see.”
I helped Crawfish don his wetsuit and fins. 
“Aren’t you scared?” the boy asked Crawfish.
“I’d be a fool not to be.  The first rule of wildlife photography is to keep a safe distance from dangerous animals and that’s what I intend to do.”
“Won’t the catfish swallow you?  My dad says they’re big enough to swallow a man.”
“It’s possible,” Crawfish said, clicking the safety rope to a belt around his waist and making final checks of his equipment, “but I’ve rarely seen one that big.  I’ve heard of this place, though.  This is one of the oldest dams on the river and it has got all the right conditions to grow giant catfish.  If I see a big one, I’ll video it from a distance.  But if I get too close and it swallows me, I’ve always got one last protection.”  He paused and looked at the crowd for effect.  “Catfish don’t like the taste of metal.  I’ve learned firsthand that if they swallow you, they’ll taste the scuba tank and spit you right back out.  And if worse comes to worse, my apprentice can pull me out.” 
With that, I helped Paul lower himself backward into the muddy water.  “Let’s hope the visibility is better down deep,” he said before popping the regulator into his mouth and disappearing into the Mighty Mississippi.
Crawfish had been gone for fifteen minutes when my anxious feelings got the upper hand.  I had payed out way too much line.  Our plan, which we had gone over several times, was that he would remain near the shore and the lock.  Instead, I found that several hundred feet of the safety line were now underwater, and the line seemed to extend toward the Power House.  I frequently scanned up and down the river looking for barge traffic but saw none.  Still, the more I thought about Crawfish down there in the muddy water with powerful currents, the more I questioned whether I would have the courage to dive in places like this. 

Things started to go bad when I felt the line paying out a little faster.  I gave one tug, which meant: “Are you okay?”  One tug returned, which meant: “Yes.”  I got so close to the bank that my foot slipped in, soaking my leg up to the knee.  Regaining my spot on the bank, I pondered the fact that I would be no use to Paul if I fell into the river.  I checked how much coiled line remained under the tree.  There was only twenty or thirty feet left.  I tugged the line nine times, which meant: “Return to shore.”  I thought I felt one tug back, which meant he agreed, but I realized then that the tugs had grown hard to detect due to the length of the line and the constant vibrations from the current.
“He’s gone out too far,” I said.  “I’m bringing him back in.”  I started to pull but found it difficult.  “Can I get some help?” I yelled over my shoulder.  Dr. Kirkpatrick and the man with the Mack Truck hat stepped behind me and pulled.
“It feels like a fish on the line,” Mack Truck said.
“Except it’s a man,” I said through clenched teeth.
“What’s going on?” Mack Truck’s son asked.
“He’s caught in the current,” I said.
“Did a catfish eat him?”
“No.”
It did feel like a fish on the line, though.  Paul might have been sending tugs through the line or he might have been struggling.  I couldn’t tell.  Just when we started making progress a swift pull yanked me into the water.  I let go of the line when I found myself fully submerged.  I swam clumsily with my boots on.  A few yards downstream I grabbed an exposed root and hauled myself back to shore with the assistance of some of the crowd.  Rising to my feet again, I saw the people turning their faces and phones toward the two men struggling to regain control of the line.  Dr. Kirkpatrick and Mack Truck fumbled with the line.  One of Dr. Kirkpatrick’s legs was wet.  Two more men stepped behind Mack Truck to grab what was left of the coiled line.
They were too late. 
The coil jumped off the ground like a springing snake.  In an instant, it jerked taut.  With tremendous force it uprooted the tree and pulled it halfway down to the river, accompanied by the snapping sound of breaking roots.  The canopy of leaves rustled as the mighty tree lunged downward.  The bank started to cave as Dr. Kirkpatrick and his companions jumped to higher ground.  When the falling tree angled forty-five degrees over the water its movement ground to a halt.  The safety line snapped and darted into the river. 
It was over.  There was nothing to do.  The line was gone.  Crawfish had apparently been sucked into a turbine.  What should I do?  The police?  No, nothing they could do.  Same for the fire department.  Was he dead?  If not, he would be soon.  The dam?  Could I call them and have them close the intake gates?  If he was still alive…
“Someone call the dam!” I yelled, turning toward the crowd.  I found them all still holding their phones and gaping at the water.  A few covered their mouths in horror. 

Mack Truck turned toward the rest of them and said, “Did you see the power of that fish?”
A man with a long yellow beard said, “I can’t even imagine how big it must be.”
“It wasn’t a fish!” I yelled.
“Then what was it?” Yellow Beard asked.
“I’m not sure.”
“Did a catfish eat him?” the boy asked.
“No!  A catfish did not eat him!”
“Then what did?”
“Nothing ate him!”  A surge of emotions sprang up and tightened my throat.  “There’s been an accident.”
“Is he dead?”
“Stop recording,” I yelled at the crowd.  “Find the number to the dam!” 
As the words came out of my mouth, I realized how futile they were.  If Crawfish were still alive, which was unlikely, he would only be so for a few seconds more—minutes at most.  By the time I found a reliable number for the energy company and explained the story, and they called their supervisor, and the supervisor called someone at the dam, and the people at the dam initiated shut down procedures, and on and on… it was no use.  There was only one thing to do.
“Never mind,” I said. “Where’s the police station?” Someone gave me directions.  My brain compelled my soaking body to walk up the bluff to Crawfish’s truck.  Mechanically, I turned the key and drove to the station. 

The afternoon is a long, blurry memory.  The police returned with me to the site.  The crowd had grown larger.  The police took eyewitness reports and obtained copies of their videos.  They detained me while a judge got involved.  The government had to decide if they would press charges against me.  It was the worst afternoon of my life and I cursed the day that I met Paul Crawford.  I then cursed myself for being so calloused.  It felt wrong to be mad at man who just lost his life.
Sitting in the police station until late in the evening, I saw the sky grow dark outside the high, open window in my cell.  The police informed me that the crowd from the riverbank had migrated to the police station.  The officer told me that the crowd wanted answers about what really happened in the river.  “What did you tell them?” I asked.
“I told them that Mr. Crawford died in a scuba accident.”
“Did they leave?”
“No.  They don’t believe me.”
I thought about what Crawfish said about people believing anything that confirms their own theories.  “Don’t waste your breath,” I said.  “They’ll never believe you unless you say he was eaten by a giant catfish.”
My mood shifted terribly as I waited, from fear, to anger, to sadness.  I even had a small cry thinking about Crawfish, a man I had known for only a year but had truly become a friend.  “I should have talked him out of it,” I said aloud.  Then I could almost hear his voice.  It said, “Are you kiddin’ me?  That was perfect.” 
I smiled to myself.  I thought that was exactly what Crawfish would think of the situation—that it turned out perfectly.  It would take a hundred years to convince this town there wasn’t a giant catfish living at the bottom of their dam, and that’s just the way he would want it.
When they said I was free to go, it was near midnight.  I had been told that the crowd still waited for me out front, so the officers let me sneak out the back door. 
I stepped out into the warm, wet night.  It seemed that part of the Mississippi hung in the air.  I felt the keys in my pocket as I spied Crawfish’s truck under a streetlight across the lawn.  Even though the crowd was in the front, it would be difficult to cross that space without being seen.  I crouched in the dark next to the bushes.  My heart pounded as I prepared myself for the sprint across the lawn.  Suddenly, a hand reached out from the bushes and yanked me inside the hedges.
Totally confused and frightened, it took me several seconds to come to my senses as I lay on the ground between the bushes and the building.  There was Crawfish crouching over me, black as the night in his wetsuit.  The pressure on my arm told me that he was real enough.  “You mother lover,” I said, “I’m gonna kill you!”  He shushed me with a finger to his lips.  “Do you know how much trouble I’m in?” I said through clenched teeth.  “I’m facing manslaughter charges!”
He slowly let go of my arm and lowered the finger from his mouth.  “They can’t slap you with manslaughter if nobody’s dead.”
“And how are you not dead?”
“I tied the safety line to a log I found and sent it on its merry way through the turbines.”
“I got pulled into the water, you son of a biscuit!”
“Cry me a river, Navy boy.  When did you get scared of a little water?”
“Why didn’t you at least tell me?”
“I didn’t get the idea until I saw the log.”
“But—”
“But what?  Look around you.  You’re alive.  I’m alive.  All I have to do is report to the police tomorrow, tell them that I made it safely ashore, and they drop the charges.  Hopefully, with some careful negotiating, we’ll get off with a few minor fines.” 
My heartbeat slowed somewhat as a wave of relief flowed over my body.  “I suppose you’re right.”
“I know I’m right.  But first, you need to go out there and talk to those people.”
“Are you crazy?!” I said, raising up to my elbows.  “Why would I do a thing like that?”
“Have you learned nothing?  Didn’t you see their faces?  Didn’t you see that boy?”  My thoughts turned to the young boy with his father.  “They need me, and they need you.”
“You’re outta your mind,” I said.  “I don’t want to talk to them.”
He put his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye.  “Nick, this is my chance.”
“For what?”
“For immortality.”
“You’ve completely lost it.”
“Don’t you see?  This is the culmination of my life’s work.”
“I gotta tell you something, Crawfish—you’re getting way too wrapped up in yourself.”
“Then don’t do it for me—do it for them.  You want that little boy to grow up thinking his dad is a fool?  You want him to live in a world with nothing left to discover, with no monsters lurking in the deep?”
“I also don’t want him to think you’re dead.”
“He doesn’t care about me.  Besides, my death will always be a question mark.  It will be something of a mystery, and that’s the point.  The world needs stories, Nick.  Stories bigger than me and you—stories bigger than life.”
“What would I tell them?” 
Before I even realized I had agreed to anything, Crawfish related several well-prepared talking points and patted me on the back as I rose from the bushes.  I reluctantly walked through the humid night air to the front of the building, cursing under my breath.

The crowd had gathered under the bright lights near the flagpole.  Twenty to thirty faces closed ranks around me. 
“Are you okay?” the woman standing closest to me asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry about your friend.”
I saw genuine sympathy on her face.  It made me feel sorry for myself.  I put my head down and pinched the skin between my eyebrows.  It was not for show—knowing that they all that Crawfish was dead somehow made me sad.
“Thank you.” 
In the corner of my eye, I saw the bushes move near the police station.  Crawfish had snuck around to the front. 
I raised my head again.  Mack Truck was there with his son. 
“What really happened down there?” the dad asked.
“I don’t know for sure,” I said, remembering what Crawfish had told me to say.  “Hopefully, the divers will find Paul’s body, or at least they’ll find the camera, and maybe we’ll get some answers.”
Some of them nodded their heads, a great deal of disappointment showing on their faces. 
“Can I ask you a question?” Mack Truck asked.
“Sure.”
“Do you think it was a fish?”
This was the part I most wanted to avoid, but Crawfish said it was the most important part.  And so, I began the biggest fish story of my life. 
“A fish?  It’s quite possible.  Paul’s mentor, Malcom T. Hardwell, had warned him about the Keokuk Dam.  Hardwell said that the biggest catfish he had ever seen lived at the bottom of that dam.  And that was forty years ago.  No one knows for sure how long catfish live, but if that one’s still alive…”  I purposefully let me voice trail off.
“I knew it,” a male voice called out.  “I knew it all along.”
“No one believed me,” another man said, “but they’ll believe me now.”
I nodded my head, reaffirming their points.  “There’s no denying it now,” I said.  “Remember what you saw today.  Let that tree be a testament to what you saw with your own eyes.  That monster, if that’s what it was, is still down there.  And when you think of that fish, remember the name of Paul Crawfish Crawford.  He fought with many giant catfish over the course of his life, but today, it appears he lost that battle.”
I looked at Mack Truck’s son.  He looked at me with eyes as big as saucers.  Perhaps from fear.  Perhaps from wonder.  Perhaps both.  I thought about his mom telling him that his dad was full of crap.  I thought about my own estranged relationship with my father, and about this precious time he spent with his dad while he was still young.  I leaned over and looked him in the eyes.  “The Keokuk Monster roams the bottom of that river.  Perhaps, if you and your dad go fishing enough, you will be the person who catches him.”  His eyes squinted slightly as he slowly nodded his head.  “But you’ll have to go fishing with him a lot to even have a chance.”
I stood up again.  “Now, I really need to go get some sleep, and you all should do the same.” 
They nodded their heads and started to disburse.  I turned to walk away but was stopped by the voice of the boy’s dad.  “Apprentice,” he said.  I turned again and saw him standing there with his hands on the shoulders of his son. 
“Yes?”
“Thank you,” he said with a slight smile. 
“You’re welcome,” I replied and turned toward the truck.

Crawfish and I stayed at a hotel in a different town and returned to Keokuk the next day.  Upon seeing Crawfish, the police officer paused a minute then said he needed to talk to his supervisor.  “Now, don’t go anywhere,” he said, threateningly. 
He returned with the police chief.  They questioned Crawfish, left the room often to “discuss things”, and made several phone calls.  They kept Paul’s driver’s license and looked at it often.  Crawfish had to appear before a judge at a Victorian Mansion near Dr. Kirkpatrick’s place. 
Standing on the judge’s front porch, the overweight man cradled his chin in his hand as he looked at Crawfish several times from head to foot.  Finally, the judge’s face lit up and he snapped his fingers.  “Get Dr. Kirkpatrick on the phone.”
Minutes later, Dr. Thaddeus Kirkpatrick appeared strolling up the sidewalk.  He came up to Crawfish, put his hands on his shoulders, looked him over, then embraced him like an old friend.
“That settles that,” the judge said.  As soon as he said, “You’re free to go,” we skedaddled.

From that day on, the story of Crawfish’s exploits took on a life of their own.  I read articles online about the giant catfish incident.  “Turbine Cleaner Eaten by Giant Catfish Amid Government Cover-up,” one headline ran.  The video of the massive oak tree bending toward the river as the giant fish tugged on it went viral.  Explanations for the city’s claim that no one died ranged from the fairly accurate, to a congressional cover-up, to secret society conspiracy theories. 
Even I was a little astonished when Crawfish showed me the Keokuk footage.  We posted snippets on the internet, which fueled the legend of Crawfish and the Keokuk Monster.  I would be lying if I said I wasn’t somewhat frightened by the fish that Paul filmed near the bottom of the Power House.  The video is shaky, the water is murky, and the only perspective comes from a few other fish and a submerged tree of unknown size.  What still colors my dreams at night is a behemoth that dwarfed the other catfish when it wiggled its body, shaking the mud from its brown-green skin.  It was a flathead, and the fish around it looked like minnows.  When I asked Paul if it was some kind of a trick, he shook his head and said it was at least a dozen feet long. 
Crawfish retired after the Keokuk incident.  Doing what?  Well, being mostly-dead, I guess.  It was important to his legend, and that of the fish, that he stayed dead.  Crawfish told me that many people become legends when they die, but that it’s unfortunate that they couldn’t stick around to see the fruits of their labor.  In Keokuk, he had managed the impossible.  He culminated his career by dying for a cause and was lucky enough to stick around to witness it.  So, he became a trucker.  He tells me that he stops in all the little towns he has been to before and listens to their fish stories.  I often send him stories about the Keokuk Monster or the turbine cleaner who purportedly found giant catfish in some lake or river.
You may think that I’m going to end this story by saying that when Paul retired, I took over his business and became a turbine-cleaning catfish investigator myself.
I didn’t.
What I did was take everything I learned from my apprenticeship and applied it to a much more scientific investigation of large fish and rare wildlife.  I continue to investigate monster catfish (and have found evidence of many), but I’ve also expanded onto dry land. 
For instance, everyone knows that many of our nation’s military bases are home to unusual deer—from pure white albinos to bucks with enormous racks.  The scientific consensus is that high frequency radio waves from underground radar stations has mutatory effects on deer DNA.  As a medically-retired service member, I have access to most military installations and have been able to gather evidence of some of these amazing creatures.  Even I have been surprised to find that many of my clients’ fabulous stories were, indeed, based on reality. 

But I haven’t strayed too far from the water.  For the past week, my assistant and I have been searching for evidence of bull sharks in the Atchafalaya Basin near New Iberia, Louisiana.  A local couple, Alonzo and Phyllis Guidry, have twice caught small sharks in the vast swamp.  They hired me to obtain photographic evidence of these sharks below the surface.   
For four days, my assistant, Billy, and I dove the part of the swamp where the Guidrys believe the sharks congregate.  It would be more accurate to say that I dove the spot—Billy is only eight years old and is just learning to dive. 
Two days ago, I called Crawfish for expert advice.  He was so enthralled by the project that he showed up early this morning in his big rig with no trailer.  I found him just after breakfast lobbing his old scuba gear out of the truck.
“Couldn’t resist, huh?”
“I may be half crazy,” he said, “but I’ve always had a profound curiosity about freshwater sharks.”
“Well, you made it just in time.  We’re loading the Guidrys’ boat now.” 
I introduced Crawfish to the older couple who had already said they would be happy to take on a second diver.  
As we climbed into the boat, Crawfish sat next to Billy and tousled his hair.  “Billy, did I ever tell you about the time I saw a bull shark near Alton, Illinois?”
“No,” Billy said, his eyes widening.
“I just saw a quick flash of his tail, but I knew it was a bull shark as soon as I saw it, and I’ve never doubted it since.” 
  “And what body of water would that be, Paul?” Phyllis Guidry asked, sitting in her chair near the bow of the boat.
  “The Mighty Mississippi, Mrs. Guidry.”
“I never knew there were sharks in the Mississippi River.”
“Oh, it’s very rare, but it’s a real thing.  Two fishermen caught a bull shark right there in Alton back in 1937.  You can see the picture on the internet.”
“Is that so?” She had been scanning for birds and alligators through a pair of binoculars but lowered them to make a point.  “If that’s the case, people shouldn’t be so skeptical about sharks here in the Atchafalaya Basin.”
“I should say not,” he replied.  “I believe there are bull sharks in scattered locations throughout the country… at least, in most places south of Alton, Illinois.”

With Billy and the Guidrys assisting us from the boat, Crawfish and I dove the swamp for the better part of a day.  The scenery was far more beautiful than it had been in the old days, but the companionship was as good as ever.  In between dives, we sat in the boat and rested.  Around noon, we peeled our wet suits down and ate a lunch of sandwiches brought by the Guidrys.  Crawfish regaled them with fish stories but returned often to the investigation at hand.
“I know there are sharks here,” he said, scanning the placid water and the trees dripping with Spanish moss.  “Whether or not they are here right now, I cannot say.  But this place has all the right conditions—the proximity to salt water, abundant food sources, temperate weather.”
“You don’t have to convince us,” Alonzo said.  “We’ve caught ‘em.  We just want to get a feeling for how many there are.”
The rest of the afternoon was much like that morning and the four days prior—plenty of fish and alligators, but no sharks.  It wasn’t until Crawfish made the bold decision to catch a bass, filet it, and tie it to an underground stake that we finally saw a shark.  The small bull shark, not even as long as my arm, grabbed the fish carcass and shook it in its mouth.  As the camera rolled and the shark tugged against the line, a second shark of near identical size swept in and tried stealing the meal.  The first juvenile reacted with such force that its razor-sharp teeth snapped the line.  The shark sped away, trailing the line behind it.
Crawfish looked at me through his mask, pointed at the camera and made an okay sign.  I enthusiastically returned an okay to indicate I got all of it on camera, then pointed in the direction the sharks had went and made a circling motion around my body.  I think Crawfish got my drift—there could be sharks all around us and there was blood in the water.
When I motioned toward the surface with my thumb, he nodded his head.
At the surface, Crawfish and I high-fived and swam quickly toward the boat.
“You see one?” Alonzo asked.
“Yep!  Two!” I said, handing him the equipment.  I quickly unbuckled my tank.  “And I think we should get out of the water as soon as possible.”
After climbing into the boat, Crawfish and I hauled up our heavy buoyancy control vests and scuba tanks.  “Now you have to admit, Nick,” he said, “that chumming the water was a genius idea.”
“I wouldn’t say that one little fish qualifies as chumming the water.”
“No, but where do you think the rest of the fish went?  I dumped his blood in the water and cast the meat around.”
“Are you crazy?”
“It worked, didn’t it?”
I couldn’t argue with that.  Besides, I felt tremendously relieved to finally have something to show for four days of diving.
  Crawfish picked up the camera and sat in the back between the couple.  He removed the camera from its underwater housing and flipped on the small digital screen.  Alonzo, Phyllis and Billy “oohed” and “ahhed” over the video.  “How big was it?” Phyllis asked.
Crawfish looked up at me.  “What would you say, Nick?  About four or five feet?”
The Guidrys looked at me with startled, awestruck eyes.
I felt a sheepish smile crawl onto my lips.  “I’d say more like three.”
Crawfish looked disappointed.  “Well, I guess neither of us had a yard stick, did we.”
We decided to wrap up the mission and begin the journey back toward the pier for two reasons.  One, it was already late in the afternoon.  And two, there was no way I was getting back in the water after Crawfish dumped blood in it.  Alonzo started up the motor on the slow pontoon boat and pointed the bow toward the landing.  Along the way, we theorized about the lives of bull sharks in the Atchafalaya Basin and the swamps throughout Louisiana.  This led Crawfish to speculate about how far north they roamed.  “I may never know,” he said, “but you and Billy here have a lifetime to find out.”
“Yes, we do,” I said, knowing this would not be my last investigation into freshwater sharks.
The sun sank to a position just above the tree line as we neared the boat launch.  Phyllis, who had been pointing out all the magnificent birds and showing them to Billy in her binoculars, asked if we had dinner plans.
“My wife is making dinner back at the camper,” I said.  “She’s trying her hand at gumbo.  We were hoping the two of you would join us.”
Phyllis glanced at her husband, then back at me.  “We would hate to impose.”
“Not at all.  It’s the least we could do for the lunches you’ve made and all your hospitality.  I know my wife’s planning on it.”
“Thank you, Nick.  We’d be happy to,” she said. 
Lunch must have turned her mind toward the cooler.  She opened it and reached inside.  “Would you, Crawfish, or Billy care to finish these sodas?” 
She extended an ice-dripped can toward Billy.  He looked at me.  “Can I, dad?”
I sighed.  “You know the rule, tadpole.  Only one a day.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Phyllis said, “I didn’t know.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said.  “It’s just that his grandmother lost a leg on account of diabetes, so his mother and I try to watch the sugar.”
Phyllis returned the can to the cooler.
Seeing the disappointment on Billy’s face, I added, “I tell you what, son.  Since today’s kind of a special occasion, we’ll bend the rules a little.  You can have it with your gumbo around the fire.  Sound like a plan?”
  He smiled at me.  “Sounds like a plan, dad.”  I love seeing him smile.

I share this story because it’s a good example of what I do.  It also shows how much I learned, and continue to learn, from Paul Crawford.  While so many of Crawfish’s methods were dubious (like claiming to be a Turbine Cleaner) and antiquated (like using a ruler to measure fish), I learned many important lessons from him.  The most important thing he taught me is to take pride in helping people.  And that is why I continue to serve in this line of work.  I am an expert scuba diver and underwater photographer.  I have access to military bases where pockets of extraordinary wildlife thrive.  I have slowly accrued some of the most sophisticated pieces of equipment available in the modern world—from thermal imagers to military-spec night vision goggles.  I feel fortunate to have the skills and tools necessary to bring meaning into people’s lives.
If you feel there is extraordinary wildlife in your bend of the river or your neck of the woods but don’t have the expertise to properly investigate it, consider giving me a call.  My card is below.

NICK “FROGMAN” WINDNAGLE

Nick’s Wildlife Investigations, LLC

A Specialist in Wildlife Mysteries!

Former Navy Diver, trained by the Department of Defense

www.frogmaninvestigations.com

(636) 555-9645

The End