The Craziest Fishing Tale on the Bayou

By Gary Alipio

A beast of a tale, for true!

Hatcher Hampton is turning twelve. Per family tradition, he’ll be entering his first fishing rodeo, hoping to prove he’s better than his older brother. First prize wins $500—money that could save his family from being evicted from their home—and the winner gets his picture in the paper!

Reality soon intervenes in Hatcher’s heroic fantasy as he faces pestering insects, a one-armed man, angry seas, boat blunders, and an old swamp legend. Getting stuck in a mosquito-infested swamp with Grampa Grump and no extra underwear isn’t what he had in mind in this coming-of-age story like no other!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781455623488

Book preview

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PELICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY

Gretna 2018

Copyright © 2018

By Gary Alipio

All rights reserved

The word Pelican and the depiction of a pelican are

trademarks of Pelican Publishing Company, Inc., and are

registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office.

ISBN: 9781455623471

Ebook ISBN: 9781455623488

2134.jpg

Printed in Canada

Published by Pelican Publishing Company, Inc.

1000 Burmaster Street, Gretna, Louisiana 70053

Contents

Chapter 1 Pre-Day 5

Chapter 2 Thursday 7

Chapter 3 Thurs-Done 10

Chapter 4 Thurs-Night 15

Chapter 5 Thurs-Midnight 19

Chapter 6 Friday Rise 22

Chapter 7 Friday Wake 26

Chapter 8 Friday Funk 31

Chapter 9 Fri-Dat 33

Chapter 10 Fri-Slickins 37

Chapter 11 Fri-Easy 44

Chapter 12 Fri-Doesn’t 47

Chapter 13 Satur-Morning 50

Chapter 14 Saturday 54

Chapter 15 Satur-Wait 59

Chapter 16 Satur-Chat 62

Chapter 17 Satur-Blues 65

Chapter 18 Satur-Sheep 68

Chapter 19 Sun-Wear 70

Chapter 20 Sun-Dacity 74

Chapter 21 Sun-Daze 76

Chapter 22 Sun-Over 81

Chapter 23 Sun-Down 83

Chapter 24 Sun-Ups 85

Chapter 25 Sun-Doused 89

Chapter 26 Mon-Daze 92

Chapter 27 Mon-Umental 95

Chapter 28 Post-Day 96

For Kirk, Pep, Matt, the legend Frank Davis, and Grampa,

for inspiring a lifelong love of Here fishy, fishy, fishy!

Chapter 1

PRE-DAY

Pre-day. It’s the day someone threatened in a friendly note to put a padlock on our front door. I don’t understand the fancy words, so I highlighted the friendly parts of the note for you.

It reads:

To whom it may concern,

Please take notice that pursuant to your I Want to Live Here agreement, you are 35 days late for rent.

So, with apologies, should you fail to pay $500 in 10 days, by virtue of this VIP Piece of Paper, we are sorry that you will be ordered to pack your stuff up and get out. Pronto.

We do wish you well in your quest for life.

Sincerely,

Lazarre Estates

Like I said, I really don’t understand much of this. I think it means that our family owes $500 and if we don’t come up with the money in like ten days, we’ll need to find a new home.

So, you can see my problem.

Why would this be my problem?

Because moving flat-out stinks. It’s something we’ve had to do once already this year. Believe me, $500 never comes quick enough to a family of busboys and waitresses in Louisiana.

Unless, like me, you happen to be entering the Big Fish Fishing Rodeo, where the grand prize for a kid is five hundred smackeroos.

That’s $500.

Coincidence?

Trust me, you can’t make up this stuff. The $500 cash prize goes to the biggest fish caught by an adult, and $500 also goes to a kid in the eleven-and-under category––that’s me.

Those winnings would definitely help keep us in our home. So, for once in my short-lived life, I could actually save the day.

And maybe if Grampa also caught a big fish, there would be extra winnings to add to my Hatcher Hampton Porsche fund. No, I can’t drive yet. I can’t even see over the steering wheel. But a kid’s gotta dream, right?

I’m just your modern-day kid living in your modern-day family. My name is Hatch. I’m eleven years old. And this is the story of how I became the greatest fisherman on Bayou Vivre.

Now, back to pre-day. It’s the day before the events in this tale unfold.

Duh.

Chapter 2

THURSDAY

Hatcher, get your boney bones moving. Give someone else a turn! Ma’s voice vibrated against the I-can-hear-you-thin walls of our only bathroom.

I’m moving, Ma!

As I stared in the mirror, spewing shaving cream into my hand, the thought crossed my mind as to what I might say when asked how it felt to catch the biggest fish.

Thanks, Slick, I would say. Yes, this particular year, the greatest fisherman ever in the history of fishing, Slick Waters, would be hosting the Big Fish Fishing Rodeo awards ceremony.

Slick Waters. I know, right? With a name like that, you gotta be big-time famous.

Back to Slick. First place at eleven years old, he would say, patting me on the back in total wonder.

Actually, Slick, I’d reply in my deepest man voice. I’m twelve in a few days.

Then happy pre-birthday, Slick would reply. Wow! Tell me, I gotta know. How’d you do it? First place before you’re even twelve years old? Slick would ask, begging to know my fishing secrets. Everyone would want to know my secret.

In all my thoughts, in all my wisdom, I would lean into the microphone and reply, Well, Slick. You gotta fish where the fish are.

Filled with total awe, Slick would shake my hand on stage, lean into my ear, and say, Great job, Hatch. Now, can I have your autograph?

Yes, the one and only Slick Waters would more than certain want my autograph.

Bam.

A bang on the bathroom door broke my train of thought.

Bam, bam.

Ma! screamed my four-year-old pain-in-the-foot brother, Harper, on the other side of the door. I gotta go potty, Hatcha!

I said pain in the foot because he can typically be found right behind me, under my feet. He gets trampled on at least five or six times a day. You’d think sooner or later the kid would learn his lesson.

Bam, bam, bam.

Of all the times for my little brother to have to go to the bathroom, it had to be in the middle of my award-winning speech.

Fish where the fish are, I would say. These same words of wisdom would also appear in the city newspaper. Yes, the lucky fishing tourney winner gets his face plastered on the front page. So, the top kid catch comes with $500 and bragging rights FOREVER.

Of course, I’d have to tour across the nation. Kids would line up far and wide to get my autograph. For once, they’d all want to be me. And after landing an ESPY on national TV for Junior Sportsman of the Year—

Bam-bam! Bam-bam!

My annoying brother beat wildly against the bathroom door.

"Ma!" Harper’s voice cried out.

As I turned to the bathroom door, I could see two googly eyes peeking at me from a large gap between the door and the floor. They were the googly eyes of my little brother, Harper.

Ma, Hatcha doin’ the thing in the bathroom.

I’m not doing nothing, I replied, twice. I’m-not-doing-nothing, Ma!

Then a weird thing happened. A second body appeared next to Harper. And Ma peeked under the door.

Hatcher? she questioned. What on Earth are you doing?! Let me rephrase that. She shrieked, a pitch higher than that of a dog whistle.

"Hatcher. Elvis. Hampton. Pull your pants up and open the door this instance. Harper’s gotta go!"

Embarrassment and humiliation sent chills racing up the back of my neck.

Disgrace.

Agony.

Frustration.

Denial.

It is one thing to get caught doing random boy things by other boys. But when your mother catches you in the act, well, a kid’s gotta do what a kid’s gotta do.

I scrambled, knocking over shaving cream, moisturizer, and a sea of bathroom girly stuff. Don’t look at me, Ma, I yelled and dropped an open bottle of powder. It spewed across the floor like an avalanche. Can’t a kid get some privacy for crying out loud?

Me, totally busted for shaving my legs.

Beating the fastest track star in town—my big brother Hunter—without five minutes of leg-shaving peace wasn’t going to be easy, especially living in our