TITLE: Three Men In a Boat (To Say Nothing of the Dog)
AUTHOR: Mara Greengrass
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL: fishfolk@ix.netcom.com. Feedback is better than chocolate.
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Yes, just let me know.
CATEGORY: Humor
RATINGS/WARNINGS: G
SUMMARY: The crew is on leave, and the boys decide to go fishing while Hoshi watches from shore.
DISCLAIMER: Enterprise and all its crew belong to Paramount and many other entities with expensive lawyers. I am making no profit from this story.
NOTES: The title of this story is stolen completely from the novel by Jerome K. Jerome (by way of my having read Connie Willis' "To Say Nothing of the Dog"). This is a response to a Challenge in a Can from the Linguistics Database (http://judy.jteers.net/lingdata/indexframe.html). As usual, I'll reveal my challenge at the end. Thanks for the beta go, as always, to Captain Average, the superhero who has met Connie Willis.
DEDICATION: This is for the folks who made my Sandy Neck vacation fun: the three men in a boat (Avi, Ben, and Peter), the other ladies on the deck (Monique and Stacy), and the kids (Anna and the oh-so-obstinate Jake), to say nothing of the dog (Duke the darling basset hound).
* * * * *
The hardest part was convincing T'Pol to go along with the plan, but even she seemed to be relaxed and enjoying herself. Hoshi tipped her hat back on her head a little and squinted through the bright sunlight at the Vulcan seated in the deck chair next to her.
T'Pol was reading a padd, probably something scientific and dull, but at least she'd agreed to come on shore leave, this time, and let her hair down (figuratively speaking). Liz Cutler, seated on the other side of T'Pol, had propped her feet up on the bench and was sipping her drink with an air of contentment.
The wind shifted slightly. Hoshi took a deep breath of the salty air, letting it tickle the back of her throat. The warmth of the sun felt great on her skin--a slow bake to take away the chill of deep space. The deck sat at just the right angle for the best view of the opposite shore and the most refreshing breezes.
Beneath the swish of the tide coming in under the deck, Hoshi heard the distinctive drone of a motorboat. She peered across the water to the fishing boat that held Trip, Malcolm, the Captain, and, of course, Porthos, whose excited barking drifted across the water.
They seemed to be shifting position again, Jon at the wheel and the other two consulting the fish-finding equipment they'd rented along with the boat. T'Pol tried to point out that numerous pieces of equipment aboard Enterprise could more efficiently find and capture as many fish as desired, but the Captain responded with an eloquent ode to the joys of fishing the old-fashioned way. He gave up when met by the flat Vulcan stare and the famous raised eyebrow of disdain.
Hoshi smiled and waved at the three men, who waved back. They'd taken the boat out toward the sea earlier, with no luck, so they'd taken to alternately trolling and drift fishing in the sheltered bay that held their hotel.
Sinking further into her chair, she luxuriated in the feeling of having absolutely nothing to do except read her book, drink the pink concoction that Trip had discovered the night before, and perfect her basking.
The tiny waves lapped the shore with a sucking sound and she stared idly at the water, enjoying the shifting shades of blue and green. Two laughing children ran in and out of the water further along the shore, giggling and splashing each other.
Hoshi's eyes were drawn, again, to the three men in a boat. Nobody looking at them would take them for a starship captain, his chief engineer, and the armory officer. Somehow, in 24 hours, Trip and Jon had sprouted scruffy whiskers and gotten their off-duty clothing damp and rumpled. Malcolm had somehow avoided most of the mess, but even he looked decidedly off-duty. From shore, Hoshi could see Trip run his hands through his disheveled hair, making it spike up into the most amazing waveforms.
Grimy, and obviously thoroughly pleased with themselves, they seemed to be messing around with the lures--bits of plastic dyed colors that no fish, Terran or alien, should ever mistake for food. And yet they did. At least they did for other people. So far, the three men (to say nothing of the small, excited beagle) hadn't caught any keepers.
They had, however, hooked six small purple fish, one orange thing with spikes that startled Porthos and made him slide across the deck, and two abandoned rigs. But they were ever hopeful and optimistic. Even as Hoshi pondered, she saw Jon frantically reeling something in, excitement apparent in every line of his body. With the calm born of a day's experience, she watched his line suddenly go slack and the empty hook bob into the air.
Hoshi leaned back in her chair, took a sip of her drink, and picked up the padd to return to reading her cheesy and sleazy vacation book. Instead, she lay it down on the bench in front of her, tipped her hat down and closed her eyes.
The water sounded different this way, louder, closer, like buckets being dashed on the rocky beach. The caws and cackles of alien birds were clearer too, as they rose and fell on the heated winds.
Porthos' renewed barking roused her from a lazy half-doze, and Hoshi opened her eyes. Liz leaned forward in her chair, and even T'Pol looked up.
There was a lot of movement on the boat, running back and forth, Malcolm nearly taking a header over the side (apparently caused by an overeager and underfoot dog), and great excitement over something at the end of Trip's rod.
"D'you think he's really got something this time?" Liz asked, her light hair ruffling in the breeze.
"I hope so," Hoshi said, "otherwise he's going to be grumpy."
Trip's rig hung over the side of the boat facing away from them, so the women couldn't quite see what was going on. Jon was wielding the net and Malcolm hovered nearby with gloves, pliers, and other necessary equipment for removing a hook from a fish's mouth.
Hoshi held her breath as Trip wrestled with his line, which seemed to be fighting him. A final flurry of action and then...
Jon and Malcolm's laughter echoed across the water, like a funhouse, and Porthos yipped. Hoshi looked at Liz and T'Pol, neither of whom seemed to have any better idea what had happened.
Facing away from shore, Trip stood stock-still, net in one hand and rod in the other, while Malcolm collapsed into a seat and Jon leaned over the side convulsed in laughter.
Finally, just before the suspense killed her, Hoshi saw Trip turning around. He put down the rod and net and lifted out of the latter: a tiny fish, no bigger than his hand, and a gigantic pair of black boots.
Hoshi's jaw dropped, but T'Pol got in the final word: "If Mr. Tucker was in need of new footwear, I am certain there was an easier way to acquire it."
* * * * *
My challenge was engineer/disheveled/boots. Just for the record, my husband and the boys caught a number of yummy fish and not a single piece of footwear. Just so you know.
AUTHOR: Mara Greengrass
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL: fishfolk@ix.netcom.com. Feedback is better than chocolate.
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Yes, just let me know.
CATEGORY: Humor
RATINGS/WARNINGS: G
SUMMARY: The crew is on leave, and the boys decide to go fishing while Hoshi watches from shore.
DISCLAIMER: Enterprise and all its crew belong to Paramount and many other entities with expensive lawyers. I am making no profit from this story.
NOTES: The title of this story is stolen completely from the novel by Jerome K. Jerome (by way of my having read Connie Willis' "To Say Nothing of the Dog"). This is a response to a Challenge in a Can from the Linguistics Database (http://judy.jteers.net/lingdata/indexframe.html). As usual, I'll reveal my challenge at the end. Thanks for the beta go, as always, to Captain Average, the superhero who has met Connie Willis.
DEDICATION: This is for the folks who made my Sandy Neck vacation fun: the three men in a boat (Avi, Ben, and Peter), the other ladies on the deck (Monique and Stacy), and the kids (Anna and the oh-so-obstinate Jake), to say nothing of the dog (Duke the darling basset hound).
* * * * *
The hardest part was convincing T'Pol to go along with the plan, but even she seemed to be relaxed and enjoying herself. Hoshi tipped her hat back on her head a little and squinted through the bright sunlight at the Vulcan seated in the deck chair next to her.
T'Pol was reading a padd, probably something scientific and dull, but at least she'd agreed to come on shore leave, this time, and let her hair down (figuratively speaking). Liz Cutler, seated on the other side of T'Pol, had propped her feet up on the bench and was sipping her drink with an air of contentment.
The wind shifted slightly. Hoshi took a deep breath of the salty air, letting it tickle the back of her throat. The warmth of the sun felt great on her skin--a slow bake to take away the chill of deep space. The deck sat at just the right angle for the best view of the opposite shore and the most refreshing breezes.
Beneath the swish of the tide coming in under the deck, Hoshi heard the distinctive drone of a motorboat. She peered across the water to the fishing boat that held Trip, Malcolm, the Captain, and, of course, Porthos, whose excited barking drifted across the water.
They seemed to be shifting position again, Jon at the wheel and the other two consulting the fish-finding equipment they'd rented along with the boat. T'Pol tried to point out that numerous pieces of equipment aboard Enterprise could more efficiently find and capture as many fish as desired, but the Captain responded with an eloquent ode to the joys of fishing the old-fashioned way. He gave up when met by the flat Vulcan stare and the famous raised eyebrow of disdain.
Hoshi smiled and waved at the three men, who waved back. They'd taken the boat out toward the sea earlier, with no luck, so they'd taken to alternately trolling and drift fishing in the sheltered bay that held their hotel.
Sinking further into her chair, she luxuriated in the feeling of having absolutely nothing to do except read her book, drink the pink concoction that Trip had discovered the night before, and perfect her basking.
The tiny waves lapped the shore with a sucking sound and she stared idly at the water, enjoying the shifting shades of blue and green. Two laughing children ran in and out of the water further along the shore, giggling and splashing each other.
Hoshi's eyes were drawn, again, to the three men in a boat. Nobody looking at them would take them for a starship captain, his chief engineer, and the armory officer. Somehow, in 24 hours, Trip and Jon had sprouted scruffy whiskers and gotten their off-duty clothing damp and rumpled. Malcolm had somehow avoided most of the mess, but even he looked decidedly off-duty. From shore, Hoshi could see Trip run his hands through his disheveled hair, making it spike up into the most amazing waveforms.
Grimy, and obviously thoroughly pleased with themselves, they seemed to be messing around with the lures--bits of plastic dyed colors that no fish, Terran or alien, should ever mistake for food. And yet they did. At least they did for other people. So far, the three men (to say nothing of the small, excited beagle) hadn't caught any keepers.
They had, however, hooked six small purple fish, one orange thing with spikes that startled Porthos and made him slide across the deck, and two abandoned rigs. But they were ever hopeful and optimistic. Even as Hoshi pondered, she saw Jon frantically reeling something in, excitement apparent in every line of his body. With the calm born of a day's experience, she watched his line suddenly go slack and the empty hook bob into the air.
Hoshi leaned back in her chair, took a sip of her drink, and picked up the padd to return to reading her cheesy and sleazy vacation book. Instead, she lay it down on the bench in front of her, tipped her hat down and closed her eyes.
The water sounded different this way, louder, closer, like buckets being dashed on the rocky beach. The caws and cackles of alien birds were clearer too, as they rose and fell on the heated winds.
Porthos' renewed barking roused her from a lazy half-doze, and Hoshi opened her eyes. Liz leaned forward in her chair, and even T'Pol looked up.
There was a lot of movement on the boat, running back and forth, Malcolm nearly taking a header over the side (apparently caused by an overeager and underfoot dog), and great excitement over something at the end of Trip's rod.
"D'you think he's really got something this time?" Liz asked, her light hair ruffling in the breeze.
"I hope so," Hoshi said, "otherwise he's going to be grumpy."
Trip's rig hung over the side of the boat facing away from them, so the women couldn't quite see what was going on. Jon was wielding the net and Malcolm hovered nearby with gloves, pliers, and other necessary equipment for removing a hook from a fish's mouth.
Hoshi held her breath as Trip wrestled with his line, which seemed to be fighting him. A final flurry of action and then...
Jon and Malcolm's laughter echoed across the water, like a funhouse, and Porthos yipped. Hoshi looked at Liz and T'Pol, neither of whom seemed to have any better idea what had happened.
Facing away from shore, Trip stood stock-still, net in one hand and rod in the other, while Malcolm collapsed into a seat and Jon leaned over the side convulsed in laughter.
Finally, just before the suspense killed her, Hoshi saw Trip turning around. He put down the rod and net and lifted out of the latter: a tiny fish, no bigger than his hand, and a gigantic pair of black boots.
Hoshi's jaw dropped, but T'Pol got in the final word: "If Mr. Tucker was in need of new footwear, I am certain there was an easier way to acquire it."
* * * * *
My challenge was engineer/disheveled/boots. Just for the record, my husband and the boys caught a number of yummy fish and not a single piece of footwear. Just so you know.