Ducka was my best friend when I was a kid. His mom used to affectionately call him "Ducka-da-luka", which we could tell he hated. Naturally, we used every opportunity we had to call him Ducka in a sappy, mom-ish voice.
Ducka lived about a quarter mile down the river from me and the river was our main focal point for entertainment both summer and winter. Yes, I realize there are four seasons in MN, but our noteworthy adventures always happened in the dead of winter or the scorching summer.
"Who's Dooger", you may ask? Well, that's Yours Truly, nick-named by good old Dad when I was a toe-headed little punk.
And so, the adventure begins.
Ducka's family knew how to take advantage of living on the river. They had a ski boat, behind which I learned how to water ski and kneeboard (stories for another day), a fishing boat, had a rope swing off the big tree on their shoreline, and flooded a nice hockey rink in the winter with flood lights and the whole bit to get the most enjoyment possible out of that chunk of ice each year.
The summer between 6th and 7th grade, we made good use of the fishing boat. If I remember right, it was a 14' Lund with a 15hp Johnson on back. For a couple screwball boys, it screamed! It went fast enough that we could knee-board behind it while we were still young and light enough, and it enabled us to do some not-so-smart things as kids.Ducka used to pick me up at my house on the bank of the mighty Sludgewater River and we'd be off on our explorations, learning about what's around the next bend and seeing things that taught us life lessons we'd probably prefer to forget, like the couple of grossly overweight 60-somethings we came across skinny-dipping a couple of miles out of town. *twitch*twitch*
As a general rule, we always headed upstream for two reasons:
1) if we ran out of gas, we could always drift home with the current
2) the dam was a half mile downstream from Ducka's place
Ducka had a wire or two crossed when it came to logical thinking, which you'll come to love about him as you get to know him (I'll tell you about his magic-marker and ice cream bucket bomb ideas later). This enduring quality of his is where I came in - trying to keep us both out of trouble and on the straight and narrow.
That's a dangerous proposition.
And it's not likely.
So Ducka picks me up in the Screamer one morning and we're off - fishing poles, night crawlers, a couple cans of Coke, and a day to burn on the river.
"Wanna catch some rockies at the Jordet tree again?", I asked.
"Nah, they're too easy, and we've already caught 'em all at least 3 times. Their lips are full 'o holes."
"Yeah, guess yer right. How 'bout we jump off Cement Bridge?"
"We can try, but I think we only got enuff gas to make it half way there today."
We buzzed up river, both silently thinking of other things to do, when Ducka cranks the old Johnson to a 90 degree turn and yells "Holy crap - you see all those turtles?"
"Where?", I said, wiping Coke off my shirt and climbing up off the floor of the boat.
"On that log by Olson's dock - must be 20 of 'em!"
Sure enough, all the turtles were sprawled out in summertime fashion, soaking up the rays."Grab the net!" yelled Ducka, so I did.
"I'm gonna fly right at 'em and throw it in reverse at the last second - you scoop as many as you can!"
"Ok - sounds good." I said, not quite sure how this would play out.
Ducka cranked the old Johnson wide open and we were haulin' butt right at the log. I'm hanging off the bow of the boat in true Titanic fashion, net hoisted high and ready to scoop.
The turtles must've been asleep, or else they really are that slow.
They didn't start bailing off the log til we got about 8' from them.
"Here we go!", announced the captain in back.
I stuck the net down in the water and we promptly skimmed right over all the turtles, rammed the log, and nailed the shoreline. I launched over the bow but hung on to the gunnel somehow, leaving one leg on land, one on the log, and my upper body laying half in the water.
"Guess I didn't hit reverse in time" Ducka said in a completely unapologetic tone.
"Yeah, no kidding", I responded as I pulled myself back in the boat. "Back up so I can find the net."
Ducka hit reverse, I grabbed the net, and we talked through the finer points of the physics in play with our strategy. After assuring me he'd hit reverse and hit it hard next time, we took off looking for another log.
This time I was ready for his 90 degree turn, I jockeyed in position with the net, and he yelled "Here we go! Now - scoop 'em!"
The boat was clipping forward at a good pace, then lurched as Ducka slammed it in reverse and twisted the throttle.
Turtles flew everywhere.
I scooped the net.
It came up heavy.
"Five turtles!", I exclaimed. "Sweet!"
I turned around and dumped the turtles in the bottom of the boat.
"Let's get some more." said Ducka, and we were off again.
We repeated the scene 15-20 times over the next few hours, terrorizing every turtle we could find within 5 miles of our houses. When all was said and done, we had turtles crawling all over the boat.
"Now what do we do?"
Ducka, being the ingenious one among the two of us proclaimed he had an idea. We headed back to his place, and thankfully his mom, EE (she was always giving me the Evil-Eye), wasn't there. He told me to scoop up a net-full of turtles and bring 'em up in the yard while he ran to the garage. I did, and a minute later, Ducka comes running down the hill with a can in his hand.
Spray paint.
Blaze orange spray paint.
I dumped the net in the middle of the yard and I'd line up the turtles while he painted them. You'd be amazed how well Krylon adheres to a dry turtle shell! We proceeded to paint 50-60 turtles blaze orange, let them dry, then load them back up in the boat. Not wanting a pile of evidence to be swimming the banks along our neighborhood, we headed up river again and dropped 5-6 turtles at each of the logs we visited earlier in the day. When the boat was empty, we turned and headed home, chuckling to ourselves about our artistic contributions lining the banks of the Sludgewater. The rest of the summer, every time we'd go fishing or kneeboarding, we'd see these bright orange turtles smattered along the shore.
Then word got around.
People were starting to see these odd turtles along the river and couldn't figure out what was wrong with them. One day I was in the Rex Cafe and overheard a couple old duffers in the booth next to me.
"Ya, I was trollin' spinners past Brekke's last night and saw da dangdest thing. I lookt o'er an dare's a cuppla bright orange turtles on da log. What da hell kinda turtles are doze?"
"Dunno, mus be sum new breed takin o'er."
The hair on my neck stood up. "Uh-oh", I thought. I better keep my mouth shut and make sure Ducka does the same. Not an easy task, but we did and nobody ever knew it was us. Amazing, too, cuz EE and Ducka's dad never even asked about all the blaze orange overspray spots in the backyard. I'm sure that they can attest, sometimes ignorance is bliss.
Closest thing I could find to describe the first log experience:
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