Scott Hansen had been fishing on Lake Superior for most of his life. In the days of his youth, the great lake ships had carried ore from Superior to destinations he could only dream of and wish he would one day see. The ships were familiar sights in those days, as were a multitude of ships that should have been retired.

Ships lasted a long time on the fresh water of the Great Lakes.

Unlike most children, he had become one of the many men and women who worked the ore ships and fulfilled his dreams. He learned about the destinations of the ships and the brutal nature of the lakes. In nineteen fifty-eight he and a handful of men survived the great storms that had closed the shipping season. So many people had died that November.

On wintry days you could see the Christmas trees on the southern end of Lake Superior as the waves rose in tall green columns with white caps. In the middle of summer, a frigid blast of arctic air could freeze the ship’s rigging.

In the spring, great rafts of ice would stand in the way of the ships until the wind shifted.

Once he watched the Northern Lights reach down and touch the water.

In back water bays, the superstructure of unfortunate ships still stood clear of the water, their hulls lost in the murky depths.

He could have sworn he saw the dead look out of the lake to see who was passing by.

The lakes were a strange and fascinating place that never lost their allure to Scott as he grew to old age. It seemed logical that he would spend some of his hard-earned money to purchase a cabin cruiser to ply the shore of his lakes, merely an extension of his life on the water.

As the years of his retirement passed, Scott’s range decreased until confined to day trips out of Duluth, enough time on the lake to make the day seem worthwhile, but not long enough to tax his stamina. Most of the time, he would leave port in the morning and return by sunset.

Unless the smelt were running, like this week, then he would stay out until his nets had pulled enough of the small fish to fill a few fifty-five-gallon barrels. The smelt catch was something he shared with the people of his neighborhood and a few of the charities in Duluth. It was a tradition he had assigned himself and it was something he enjoyed doing. That was enough to satisfy Scott and give an excuse for his late excursions on the lake.

In his advanced age, Scott had rigged a davit on the stern of his boat to aid in hoisting the nets, an old pole arm he had removed from a turn of the century ship laying on shore by Isle Royal. It was hard work, but it saved labor as the years passed and the smelt haul seemed to get heavier each time they ran.

Scott straightened from maneuvering drums on the aft deck of the Rebecca and placed hands to his back. The pain was a low ache in his back that he would feel more in the morning when he tried to get up from bed and work up the energy needed to start another day of netting.

If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

His net hung from the davit. At this time of night, a thing he eyed with trepidation, a good reason to go ashore and enjoy a few beers with the boys at the tavern. Speaking of beers, he reached into a cooler set next to the wheelhouse door and pulled out a warm brew. Scott never took a liking to the English way of drinking warm beer, but anything wet at this time seemed a good idea.

Opening the beer, Scott walked aft and sat on the transom.

Only a small light burned on the deck; he was in water so shallow he had no reason to worry about the big ships, the larger craft would avoid this area like the plague. Most small boats on the lake kept to a low speed, or they learned the hard way that century old logs had a habit of unexpectedly breaking free of the lake floor and floating to the surface.

Scott looked out over the water and saw no lights. He was alone, and that was the way he liked his boating. Out here, with the distraction of living set aside, he felt closer to creation, closer to the aspect of nature that was Lake Superior. The lake had a personality clear to anyone who had spent decades on its surface. Tonight, she was at rest, maybe building up the energy she would need to kick ass in November.

Overhead, stars filled the night, reaching down until they spread across the calm surface of the lake like diamonds. There was a nip in the wind, but nothing a windbreaker could not handle. The perfect night to be out here, he thought with a smile.

Leaning against the davit, he looked north and enjoyed the rest, the net gently bumping him on the back with the slow roll of the waves.

He could never retire from the lake; the beast had Scot in her clutches and he was a willing captive. Privately, he hoped one day the lake would have pity on him and take him in one swift strike, another victim of the lake who had simply disappeared, a name to be added to the chapel wall.

The net bumped Scott, roughly nudging him out of his morbid reverie. That was odd. There was no sign of a building swell. The boat rocked again, this time canting to the port and not recovering.

Scott moved from the transom; the beer forgotten as the Rebecca continued to roll up the side of a building wave. He reached the wheelhouse and grasped the frame of the open door as the boat rolled further to one side. He could hear a barrel tipping and sliding to the wale with a solid thud.

A light built from below the surface of the lake, rushing towards the boat faster than anything Scott had seen on the water. He could see now the boat was in the crush of water in front of the light. Worse, he could see the wave built a good twenty feet high.

There was no time to do anything other than watch the death he had wistfully considered rush towards him.

The light grew in intensity as it closed on the boat. Any second and it would hit the shoals and that would be the end of the boat.

With a hiss and flash of white water, the light broke surface and climbed into the night sky. A huge saucer ten times the size of the Rebecca soared over the boat low enough for Scott to see windows with small men watching his plight.

The release of tension in the water caused the wave to sink back against itself. The Rebecca tossed violently to the action of the confused waves but Scott paid no heed as he watched the saucer streak west and south, remaining scant yards above the surface of the lake.

The saucer crossed over land, rose above the trees, then disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

“Hell, of a thing,” Scott said aloud, then looked aft and saw the barrel rolling across the stern of the boat, smelt flowing from one side to the other. “Aw hell,” he set to cleaning up the mess.

As he worked, he smiled. Occasionally, the lake would pull a new trick from her pocket and show off. However much he enjoyed this additional aspect of the lake, Scott did not think he would tell the guys at the tavern.