Rubber Boots, Mystery Creature, Trapped Below, and Rescue Hose

By Jim Field

Tonight I retired these boots--my fishing boots. They've been in my van for most of a year now, untouched, occupying space. I suppose I didn't want to part with them; also didn't want to look for a new pair. Which means I don't have a good pair currently at the ready.

Why retire this fine looking pair of boots? Well, the story goes like this:

You see, last spring Dan, Jon and I drove down to the Sea Ya Bea in Hatteras Village for a weekend of fishing. We arrived at Teach's in the pitch dark, say around midnight. First job was to offload equipment and personal effects from the van to the boat. I was first onboard; zipping up the glass, I unlocked the cabin and went below to check things out. Dan followed, with Jon moving things from the van to the walkway next to the boat. I started making trips from the cabin to the cockpit and back again, moving items in stages to the cabin below.

On one of these jaunts, walking past the helm area, my eye caught a shape on the deck in the shadows. I thinks to myself: "Aha, my boots, just where I left them. Let me pick them up and move them below too."

Reaching for the boots, what to my acute surprise should happen (honestly, I nearly fouled myself) but the shape moved--it was big, whatever it was!--and the damn thing let out this loud and ferocious HISS, in response to which I freakin bolted below and slammed the cabin door shut! Turning, there was Dan, who asked what the heck was going on. I told him: "There's some creature up there that hissed at me, and I have no idea what it is." In silence, we agreed we weren't going to investigate by opening the door (purportedly because we didn't want to risk the chance of the thing getting below; in reality, we didn't want to confront it and have it rip us to shreds!).

Collecting ourselves, and engaging our brains, we opened the portholes and yelled to Jon on the pier, telling him about the "monster" up topside. My feeling was, hey, these two guys are renown hunters, so I'll just let them kill it, which they probably will enjoy doing anyway. You know, have it mounted as a trophy, and all that. Put it in the den.

Being the clever guy that he is, Jon located a flashlight and directed its beam down into the helm area, identifying the beast, the predator, the mankiller.....as a raccoon. With this accomplished, the next question was how to get it off the boat. Again, applying his particular genious, Jon suggested spraying it with the hose. Great idea! But wait. If you hit him, and he runs aft, will he be able to get out of the cockpit, or will he be cornered, turning the encounter, at this point, into an out-and-out street fight? Having no other apparent options, Jon chose action over caution (bless him), seized the hose, sprayed a dead-on-target water stream, and like greased lightning, the raccoon (probably a rabid one, too), scampered aft into the cockpit, and from there leaped vertical up off the boat onto the peer, effortlessly executing a long jump that could have qualified the animal for the summer Olympics! (It subsequently ran down to the end of the pier and dove head-first into a trash can. Ah, home sweet home. Safety!)

The danger now passed, Dan and I emerged from the cabin and examined the raccoon's nest--basically a scattering of fecal matter, fur balls, and rubber bits from my boots, which it had converted into a major food group.

Picking up the boots, I noticed that their watertightness had been compromised by teeth, and in that moment of first inspection, they passed from being "valuable gear" to a lower supply category--namely, trash. Somberly, I walked them to the van, where they've been stowed ever since, until tonight. When I decided to face the music, and "put them down." Finally, closure.

Fatally wounded, boots prepare for "day trip" to dump