“If it’s got the best fishing, then let’s go,” Bridger announced. “Jack, are you with me?”
The answer was easy for Jack, since he’d never even heard of the Watson Place, but when he looked at Ashley, he could tell she knew something. Her eyes had widened, and she bit her lower lip. “I—don’t know,” she stammered.
“Ahh, you’ve heard about Watson’s landing, have you?” Frankie gave Ashley a knowing smile, then patted her shoulder. “Well, now, don’t go believing everything you hear, although I myself have seen some strange things happen around that island.”
Bridger shook his head and muttered, “Girls! Now we’ll miss the best fishing.” He aimed the comment at Jack as though he didn’t want Ashley to overhear. Then, louder, Bridger said to Frankie, “OK, ma’am, you take us wherever you think’s best.”
But Frankie wasn’t listening. She peered ahead intently, somewhere off the starboard bow. Slowing the boat to a crawl, she shaded her eyes with her hand to get a better look.
“Over there…” she began, pointing.
“What?” Ashley leaned forward, shadowing Frankie, trying to see. Jack, too, jumped to his feet, staring over the glassy surface.
“In the direction of the Watson Place. I’ll try to get closer. I can’t tell what it is for sure, but there’s something strange floating in the water.”
CHAPTER THREE
Jack thought his own vision was sharp, but Frankie had noticed the mound floating in the water long before any of the three kids could make it out. She maneuvered the boat closer, and closer, until….
“It’s a pelican,” she announced, her voice tight with worry. “All tangled up in a fishing line someone dropped into the water. I get so angry when this happens—that line’s going to kill it!”
When Jack and Ashley hung over the side of the boat to get a look, the big bird frantically tried to flap out of the way. Its bright yellow eyes watched them like a beacon light. Only one of its wings could move at all; the other wing was held awkwardly against its body by the nearly invisible fishing cord. “We can cut it loose, can’t we?” Jack asked. “Then it’ll be OK.”
“If we can get it without hurting it. That’ll be harder to do than you might think.”
No one had been paying much attention to Bridger, who was standing behind them. “How deep is the water right here?” he asked.
“No more than six feet,” Frankie answered.
Jack turned to see Bridger pulling off his left sock; the right one already lay on the boat’s deck. Before Jack realized what he was going to do, Bridger eased himself over the side, so there wouldn’t be a loud splash.
“Good boy, Bridger,” Frankie said. “He can’t peck at you—his bill is tied tight against his neck. Just watch out for the loose wing so you don’t break it. That’s the way—come around behind him. I’ll get my big net.”
Bridger’s orange life jacket floated up from his chest, held by the straps. The drenching had plastered his blond hair against his forehead. He shook his head to get the drops out of his eyes, then quietly treaded water, slowly coming closer to the panic-stricken bird. His lips were moving; he seemed to be talking to it. Then, with a big splash, he threw his arms around the pelican’s body.
“Gently, gently,” Frankie cautioned. Holding the net by its long handle, she slipped it into the water. “Try to get him in headfirst,” she told Bridger. “That’s it. Good! Jack, as I raise the net, you reach over and grab the frame. Great! That’s the way. Ashley, you give Bridger a hand.”
Ashley clung to the gunwale as Bridger took her hand and half leaped to haul himself into the boat, grabbing the gunwale with his free hand. Rivulets of tea-colored water dripped from his shirt and his jeans.
“We won’t take the pelican out of the net,” Frankie was saying, “or we might hurt it more. Look, there’s an even worse problem—that fishhook’s torn a big hole in its throat pouch. Oh! That’s bad, really bad. If that wound isn’t treated with antibiotics, the pelican will get an infection and die. It’s happened before.”
“Poor thing’s scared to death,” Bridger muttered “Look at its eyes.” The round, glassy eyes rolled in their sockets as the bird struggled futilely to free itself.
Fingers flying, Bridger unbuttoned his long-sleeved plaid shirt. Beneath it was a white T-shirt, dripping wet like the rest of his clothes. Without saying anything, he wrapped his plaid shirt around the pelican’s head, right over the net. For a long moment he held his hands steady on the bird’s body. That seemed to calm it.
“Gotta think what to do,” Frankie murmured. “I should get this bird to the animal rescue people right away, but I don’t want to spoil our day….”
For a moment Frankie stayed silent as Jack and Ashley exchanged looks. Then, looking up suddenly, Frankie asked, “Bridger, how old are you?”
“Fifteen in three more months.”
Frankie studied Bridger, who was struggling to pull off his wet T-shirt so he could wring it out. “I think you’re a boy who takes a hard look before he leaps,” she said. “But you also react fast in emergencies. That’s good. So here’s what I’m considering. I’ll take you kids over to the Watson Place—”
Ashley gave a sharp little gasp. No one except Jack noticed it. “It’s not too far from here. There’s a picnic table where you can spread out the lunch I brought, and then you can fish from the dock while I take this pelican back to Everglades City. If I go like blazes, I can get there and be back in an hour and 40 minutes, two hours at the outside. While I’m gone, Bridger will be in charge.”
Jack felt a pang of resentment. “Why Bridger? Anyway, Ashley and I don’t need a baby-sitter, Frankie.”
“I’m the skipper here,” Frankie declared, her voice stern, “and I say Bridger’s the first mate while I’m gone. Got it?”
Reluctantly, Jack nodded, resisting the urge to say “aye, aye” and salute.
“Now, Bridger,” Frankie went on, “I’m going to move the boat fast, so I think it’ll be good if you hold your hands on the pelican like you did before, to calm it as much as possible. The engine noise is going to scare it something awful.”
As the boat picked up speed, Frankie shouted to be heard over the sound. “Couple of rules, here, kids. Stay in the clearing around the Watson Place. Don’t—repeat, don’t—go into the mangrove forest. These mangrove forests grow so dense that even folks who are used to these parts get lost in ’em.”
Frankie took one hand off the steering wheel to wave at the masses of trees growing on each side of the waterway passage, forests so impenetrable they looked like the tufts of a plush green carpet. Above the waterline, tangles of roots wove together like wicker cages, reaching down into water turned brown by tannic acid from the trees.
“One more reason to stay out of the mangroves—that’s where the mosquitoes are really bad. They can suck you dry.”
Frankie stayed silent for a moment, slowing the boat so that it was easier to hear her. “Bridger, I said I’d tell you what ‘peccadillo’ means. It means ‘foolish mistake.’ Gene and I sometimes wondered if we were foolish to work here where mistakes can be deadly. Tropical storms, snakebites, mosquitoes that swarm so thickly after dark they can suffocate you—out here, if you guess wrong, bad things happen. But in spite of the risks, we decided it was worth it. This is where we wanted to be.”
Bridger nodded. “I understand, ma’am. My dad would understand, too.”
“So I’m trusting you,” she went on, “to make good decisions. Now look, over there on the right, up ahead. That’s the Watson Place.”