Flush - Carl Hiaasen [52]
With my left hand I fished into my pants and took out a green apple that I’d brought along for a snack.
Abbey grunted. “Noah, you’ve got to be kidding. Dogs don’t eat fruit!”
“It’s the best I can do, unless you’ve got a sirloin steak in your backpack.” I held out the apple and said, “Here, boy. Yum!”
Godzilla cocked his anchor-sized head and let out a snort.
“It’s a Granny Smith,” I said, as if he actually understood. “Go on and try it. It tastes good.”
“Yeah, if you’re a squirrel,” my sister muttered.
But to our total amazement the huge dog opened his huge jaws and clamped down his huge fangs on the apple, which he firmly tugged from my trembling hand.
As Godzilla trotted away with his prize, I said to Abbey, “Check out his tail.”
It was wagging cheerfully.
Abbey and I hurried toward the canal, where Rado kept a blue dinghy tied to the seawall. His father had salvaged the little boat off a scuttled motor yacht and patched up the fiberglass as good as new. It wasn’t more than ten feet long, but it was dry and sturdy, with high sides and a deep hull. Rado, Thom, and I often took it out on calm days to snorkel around the bridges.
When we climbed into the dinghy, I tossed Abbey one of the life vests. She insisted she didn’t need it, but I told her we weren’t going anywhere until she put it on.
Next I gave her a quick lesson on cranking the outboard motor. It was an ancient little Evinrude that could be stubborn before it warmed up. I showed Abbey how to use both hands to yank the starter cord, which was tricky. If you didn’t let go in time, the pull-back could wrench you off balance and spin you overboard.
After a half dozen hard tugs, the motor spluttered to life in a burp of purple smoke. Rado’s dad always made sure the gas can was full, but I checked anyway, just in case. Getting stranded would be a total disaster.
My sister moved to the front of the dinghy and untied the bow rope. I unhitched the ropes and shoved off.
“Ready?” I asked her.
“Absolutely,” she said, and flashed me a double thumbs-up.
As we cruised slowly toward the mouth of the canal, I glanced back and saw Godzilla watching us from the seawall. He barked once, but the noise was muffled by the juicy green apple still clenched in his jaws.
Growing up near the ocean, you learn about some strange superstitions. For instance, lots of fishing captains won’t let you bring a ripe banana on board because they believe it’s bad luck. Nobody knows how that one got started, but Dad told me it’s been around the docks since before Grandpa Bobby’s time.
Another superstition is that dolphins bring good luck, so I was glad to spot a school of them herding baitfish as Abbey and I motored up the shoreline. By counting the dorsal fins, we figured out there were six grown-up dolphins and one baby—and they were having a blast, zipping in frothy circles, tossing mullets high in the air. I don’t know if they’re really a good omen, but seeing wild dolphins always makes me feel better. Any other time I would have stopped the boat to watch them play, but Abbey and I were in a hurry.
It stays light pretty late during the summer, so it was a clear ride to Dusty Muleman’s marina. By the time we reached the channel markers, the waves had gotten choppy. I nosed the dinghy into some mangroves, cut the engine, and hopped out, balancing in my skateboard shoes on the slick rubbery roots. My sister dug through her backpack and took out a bottle of Gatorade, some bug spray, a Lemony Snicket book, and a flashlight. Then she handed the backpack to me.
“Sure you’re okay with this?” I asked. “I’ll be gone awhile.”
“Oh, gimme a break,” Abbey said. “’Course I’m okay.”
“Stay right here until you hear me yell ‘Geronimo!’ Then you know what to do.”
“Why ‘Geronimo’?” she asked.
“Because I saw somebody do that in a movie