Stonefish's Beachy Romance thread

[Wadin' Boot]

(add your own next paragraph, I was damn well hoping this would be the first post in the Saltwater forum but I was done gone beat. Still everyone knows PNW FlY FISHING is where the hot romance chain stories are. And I will do my damndest to keep content that involves lust, trash, rotting vegetables and fruit, old shoes, seaglass, nitriles, and, obviously the catching of a shit ton of fish, and a bunch of undeniable clunky fan fiction going.)



Stonefish pulled his nitriles over his warm digits, cinched his hoody tight and looked over the cool waters of Puget Sound. He knew the fish would be here, he knew when, he knew what to tie on and where to throw. He studied the water, fished all sides of the tide, put the miles on his boots, knew how the winds altered the catching. He knew this because he had found such joy in solitude. Because, on the beach, there was nothing lonely or isolated or distant about it, the beach was everything, it was raw primal experience. IT was his and his alone, but for the yams and other shoes and stuff he knew he would collect on his return to his truck.

He did not realize that every step he took he was being watched. She was watching him, her hair the color of a trash bag, her lips like giant bloodworms, her breasts the size of puget sound coconuts, her voice as warm and as inviting as a jet ski hitting a wake. She dabbed the perfume behind her ears. Her ears looked like cauliflowers covered in shredded pieces of trash bag. She pulled her swimsuit up tighter around her broad shoulders, straightened her back and prepared to march her way down to the beach, to the place where the seaglass was. To the place where she hoped she would not be so alone

 

[DimeBrite]

 

[Nick Clayton]

I can't help but feel that Hello Kitty deserves a place in this tale.

Awesome stuff Boot!

 

[Porter2]

Stonefish…aka Brian..

Where is he? Master of North Puget Sounds beaches, has he fallen to the witch of the Seattle Salish Ocean Puget Sound Gateway? It can be nasty out there !!!!

 

[Stonedfish]

I can't help but feel that Hello Kitty deserves a place in this tale.

Awesome stuff Boot!

You ask and @Go Fish delivers….
SF

 

[Porter2]

Your the best awesome smolt ever!!!

 

[Billy]

I hope I get a Billy bass on the bass pond story...

he skipped his popper up under her dock where only the strong could throw it

 

[Jim F.]

he skipped his popper up under her dock where only the strong could throw it

Then Nick handed Brian the rod so he could play it.

 

[Mingo]

Continuing the story for my semantically-joined-at-the-hip brother Boot......

.....Stonefish continued his rhythmic double hauls into the grey-green water, eyes scanning right and left for a telltale swirl or porpoising half-leap of a cutthroat. He felt the warmth of his double-chili-dog lunch as it slowly traveled through his digestive tract, nourishing his soul while loading his colon for some musical discharge. Stonefish learned this trick from Sensei Miyawaki many years ago; that a pre-fishing meal of chili dogs nearly guaranteed success on the water. He felt a slight tightening in the rear of his oft-patched Simms, so he decided to release the Hebrew National bubble from its waderish prison.

"Fwapwapwapwap."
"Poit!"
"Fwapwapwapwap."
"Poit!"
"Fwapwapwapwap."
"Poit!"

Stonefish paused his gaseous release. He knew with 100% certainty the long "Fwapwapwapwap" fromage bombs were emanating from his own nether regions, but the punctuative "Poit!" responses seemed to be coming from elsewhere. He was puzzled. He kept his eyes forward, took another cast and paused again...

Stonefish decided to test his suspicions.

"Fwapwapwapwap."

Silence. And then, from somewhere behind him, he clearly heard another staccato "Poit" of sharp flatulence. He wheeled around and saw her standing on the beach, grinning like an old French whore. Except she wasn't that old. Maybe 35, with stringy black hair that clearly hadn't seen a bottle of Head & Shoulders in quite a while. Stonefish studied her features. He had never before met a female who could match the eardrum-piercing loudness of his own farts, and he was rather intrigued.

"Hello there....so, ah....how long have you been watching me?"
"About five minutes I think." She had an odd accent that he couldn't quite place. South African? Tasmanian? He was puzzled.

"Where are you from?"
"Why?"
"Your accent....have you ever been abroad?"
"Well, I sure as shit haven't ever been a man!"

Stonefish laughed. He reeled in his fly line and walked toward the odd creature with the startlingly greasy hair.......

 

[Nick Clayton]

Oh man that was awesome. Got some interesting looks from my wife as I sat here at my tying desk laughing my ass off. Well played Mingo!

 

[NRC]

Stonefish cursed as she pulled him close, lapped by the frothing brine. "Nitriles for my hands but nothing for the little soldier?" he thought. Her shoulders felt like the wall of a cold cold cave, and he was a miner trapped. Nothing for it but to go deeper. Water wept from the prunescape of her hands as she slid his wader straps down his brawny arms. She'd heard somewhere that he used to play football; now he caught football-sized fish. She wondered at the ways of the world. The tide rose.

 

[DimeBrite]

She was all arms with an embrace not easily overcome. This was some kind of amorous Grendel the old salts had warned of on foggy mornings long forgotten. No blade could defeat this licentious syren of the beach cobbles. Muscles strained tight as he struggled to break the suction from his watertight armor. Then her parrot like beak made a most unwelcome appearance.

 

[Stonedfish]

God damn I knew that photo of me looking like I was boning a giant squid would somehow end up in the thread….
SF

 

[Phil K]

As the world slowly turned dark under the inexorable pressure of her arms, his mind drifted back to that night on Soap Lake, so many years ago, and how Billy saved him from an awful fate.

 

[Wadin' Boot]

Then her parrot like beak made a most unwelcome appearance.

He thought to himself they look almost like chicklets, or perhaps fragments of crude porcelain one might find mixed in a tide line handsome with seaglass. Sometimes pottery was just as fantastic as seaglass in how its patterns are muted by tide and time. Say a piece of Delft crockery with a windmill on it would be made abstract by the process of seaglassing,

Picture a muffin plate in the Delft style. a blue-lined dutch girl clogging her way to pluck tulips from a tall dyke bordered with windmills in full sail. The plate is smashed and dumped off some bluff in Port Townsend (no doubt by a homesick Dutch girl from Haagen Daz married to an Asshole Dane from Ballard). But its story doesn't end there. Below, among the rocks and used tires and old rusted crankcases and a million shitty props from the filming of Puget Sound's second biggest romance, An Officer and a Gentleman, starring young Richard Gere and Debra Winger, You might find fractions of that shattered plate, a sail of the windmill, the peaked hat of the Dutch girl or the stays of her bassett-eared bonnet, the tulip stems, or her grindstone-mangled three-fingered fist holding the margin of her skirt out of once-tidal muds. Or best of all, perhaps you find one of her hopefully two clogs.

You wouldn't get the whole scene. I mean you could, but you wouldn't, because that's not how seaglassing and the associated debris middens work. You never get the complete original. But... there might be some other plate fragments close by. If you were patient enough, if you found enough of them, with some superglue and toothpicks, and obviously the dried pieces, not wet (only a cretin reassembles pottery that's wet (and a hypo-cretin assembles with gorilla glue because "it bonds better when wet" and yet, when it dries, the small chunks are obscured by chemical foams that appear, sorta magically, an hour after you start the project and after you left it looking pretty good pinned out on a found and washed styrofoam meat tray with toothpicks and paper towels. You return not to a glorious sorta plate, but instead, to a a foamy, sticky mess that is basically not salvageable)), you might be able to assemble, like the British did with looted ancient Greek pot shards from holy places, you might be able to recreate the plate, or mug or bowl or whatever, to a state of museum-like glory.

The girl on this plate, Stonefish thinks, would definitely have two clogs, she was not poor. He had never been attracted to one legged girls anyway. Not even if they were one-legged twins from Soap lake. She would definitely have two clogs. Probably at least one would be fashioned from upriver hardwoods. But then he shook his head, this girl wasn't real, the plate, although he could see it, he could visualize the pieces coming together on a the meat tray, he could visualize the shattered plate becoming one again. He could almost imagine it hosting a muffin as well, the plate wasn't real either. So was the muffin real?

He thought all these things. He steadied his boots into the gravel. Which was hissing now and then with receding waves in a manner like one of the automatic coffee machine makers on say Covid-era MV Puyallup makes as it ends it's cycle, pissing and hissing its machine coffee into a grease paper cup at 5 AM with a couple of last phlegmatic sputters. There had been entire days where the only conversation he had was with the MV Puyallup coffee machine. To think, 30 minutes ago, when his flatus was echoed and amplified by her into some raw sentiment by the lady before him, he might have talked this entire day only to a vending machine on a Washington State Ferry passenger deck, and even then only in grunts and hisses.

Before she moved further Stonefish couldn't get the idea out of his head. That of clogs. And how, in all his years of plucking trash from the beach, from all the countless perfumed swimmers who had performed (well there is no better word for it really is there) for him, for all the mid September coho he had delivered from the sea, he had never once found a clog on the high tide line, let alone a piece of seaglass-like pottery tumbled with a tiny blue clog depicted on it. It seemed like he should have seen these things.

"I mean like a legit wooden clog, I've never found one..."
"What? You said something? Is it me?"
"No I mean, yes. It's just...."
"just what?"
"I've found yams, I have found rope, I have filled my bucket with energy drink cans crushed by the morons that drink them...."
"But what?"

She said with her yellowish teeth catching a rare glint of Puget Sound's bleak, miserable sunlight...

"I mean I would...."
"What baby, what?"
"I really think I could probably find some clogs if I work this beach better..."

(still laughing at Mingo's "have you ever been abroad?" line)

 

[NRC]

Oh shit, this just became a Choose Your Own Adventure story. If you’d like to choose Escape from Soap Lake, turn to page 6. For Clogged Hearteries, page 7.

 

[Nick Clayton]

"To ignore this beach vixen and cast to that pink that just splashed turn to page 27"

"To drill holes in your Stripping basket and tie flies with straight ended faux bucktail turn to page 33"

"To put your fly rod down, pick up the binoculars, and spend the afternoon bug watching turn to page 46"

" To hop in the Explorer of Doom and escape this demon turn to page 57"

"To show this goddess the secret WSU tattoo on your inner thigh, turn to page 74"

 

[NRC]

(Page 6)

his mind drifted back to that night on Soap Lake, so many years ago, and how Billy saved him from an awful fate

The lake had steamed that night; not a peaceful moonlit mist but a witch’s cauldron, as though the air itself had sought to quit the place. Billy moderated over the campfire, dragging deep on a cigarette, his smoke battling the fog and flame, none of it obscuring the deep scars down his face and neck.

Stonefish knew the rumors around those scars. Why would Billy return? And why bring him along? And why, oh why, had he agreed? Stonefish had danced with the devils that plied the sound; he had smashed their glass boats and collected the remnants. But the witches crawling this inland swamp were of a breed unfamiliar and far fouler.

And at the stroke of midnight, burbling up from the murk of the lake they came.
“Hi, I’m Kylee. These are my friends Rayleigh and Chastiteigh.” Billy stood and stubbed his cigarette on his arm. Stonefish’s bowels loosened and his hair stood on end.

 

[Stonedfish]

I’m on a mission now. I’m going to find a fucking clog!
SF

 

[Mingo]

"I really think I could probably find some clogs if I work this beach better..."

"well, if you work THIS bitch a little better you might find me out of MY Crocs!"
"Huh?"

Stonefish looked down at her large feet and noticed she was wearing an enormous pair of dirty orange Crocs. The kind that make human feet look like massive caricatures of various waterfowl species.

"I said clogs. Not Crocs."
"I know what you said. I've been to Holland. Clogs are uncomfortable chunks of wood. Crocs are heavenly slices of ground-up yoga mats. Or Subway sandwich bread, or something like that. They're heavenly. And mine are about to come off if you keep up that sweet talk..."
"What's your name? I'm Brian. But my friends call me Stonefish."
"Why? Because you fly fish and you're stoned all the time?"
"No, because I.....never mind, it doesn't matter. Seriously, that accent....where are you from?"
"I'm from AinuNaki."
"You're an Annunaki? Like the aliens that came down and enslaved mankind to build the pyramids?"
"No, I'm part Ainu, I'm from a little village on Hokkaido, in Japan. AinuNaki. My name is Satoko."

Stonefish noticed she had the slightly Asian eyes of a mixed-race human. He also noticed she wouldn't be half bad looking if she had her teeth whitened and washed her hair. But it was her tee shirt that really caught his eye....it was a band tee with the name Enis Penvy on it. Enis Penvy. One of his favorite punk bands from the old days of CBGB. Now he was really intrigued...

"Ok, I have to ask..."