The SOS (spouse of Slag) and I sit in command positions on the platform at the end of the dock. We’re glassing the yellow hull and red/yellow bumblebee striped sails of La Chiquita (AKA Fugli to some). The twenty five foot swing keeled sloop is smartly wing and winging it directly toward my deep water mooring.

I can see the Ghost at the tiller barking orders at Julio his cabin boy who sits on the bow trying to boathook the pickup buoy. We watch as they secure the mooring line, down the sails and then all don cheap orange kapok filled life vests and start screaming: "Slag, save us! Save us!”

I spin Psycho my skimmer boat off the hoist and head out for the recovery. The SOS breaks out more seating on the dock platform. We land, secure the skimmer boat, break out supplies and pretty soon there’s a howling mass of humanity on the end of the dock.

The SOS is immediately screaming at them about “No Nipple Talk!” The Ghost and Braveheart reply: "Why, whatever do you mean?” The Ghost averts his eyes from my bare chest and exclaims: "Jesus, I can hardly look at him!” About half the crew laughs, knowing the joke is all part of another story to which all are not privy. The Ghost quickly topic shifts.

“So what’s going on with these fucking cormorants? They’re everywhere. The island is just black with them.”

“Why even care about them?” says the SOG (spouse of Ghost).

“Because they eat twice their weight a day in sport fish and low food chain minnows. Why the sum bitches follow the DNR walleye planting trucks around and eat half the fry before they even make the dark water.”

“Really?” says Posey. "How can this be? Where did they come from?”

“Yes it’s true. The term ‘cormorant’ is a French word. It means glutton!”

“And they are an invasive non-native species,” says Braveheart.

“I hear the DNR is looking the other way when you dispatch one.”

“I’ve heard that too Ghost. Did you know the American Legion hall up in the Soo shot up 500 of the gluttonous bastards, stacked them up on the curb for the dump and not a ticket was issued.”

“The DNR can be reasonable when it comes to enacting that which is necessary. Hell, in Fairbanks, they got a nuisance eagle problem. The bastards are eating puppies and the clever folk of Fairbanks have devised ingenious schemes of combating them,” says the Ghost.

“So let’s load up some goose rounds and go kill us some evil French gluttons!”

The U of M educated Julio says: "We should seek out a more effective strategy, Braveheart. Something more genocidal—like killing the unborn.”

“So how the fuck would you do that!”

“I don’t know. How about a pig on the island during nesting season? Pigs love eggs.”

The Ghost jumps in: "Julio, not a bad idea, but we need plausible deniability. A pig smacks 100 percent of human intervention. We need a more indigenous competitor. How about a coon? Coons could plausibly arrive on the island on their own. And coons will eat both the unborn and the infants.”

The SOG exclaims: "This is God Damn brilliant. Fucking brilliant! I love your fucking mind, husband!”

She’s looking aroused, like she’s gonna do him right on the end of my dock so I’m going: "easy SOG, we’re just competing with cormorants here.”

“I still say he’s fucking brilliant Slag! You wouldn’t have thought up a plan like this! And for Christ’s sake, I’ve gotta stop saying Fuck! Every time I get around you Braveheart I start screaming ‘fuck.’ Why is that Braveheart?”

“Hey it’s not me SOG. I was brought into this world by a woman. All I do, all any male of any species does for that matter is display. Males display. Females Select. You females just keep selecting males who make you say ‘fuck’. It’s not my fault. If you want to do something about it quit selecting for assholes like me!”

These Nazis are beginning to freak me out. First they’re talking genocide, then infanticide and then the sociobiology of display and selection. I’m dwelling on eugenics, the termination of the unborn and the slaughter of the innocents. Christ, I can just see the stacks over the furnaces at Auschwitz popping smoke. I’m wrestling with some ugly, horrifying imagery when Julio starts to chant in German:

"Ein Reich!”

"Ein Volk!”

"Ein Fuhrer!

Posey is interested: "Julio, what are you saying? Teach it to me.”

“Ok: Ein Reich, say it Posey.”

“Ein Reich….”

“Ein volk.”

“Ein volk….”

Soon they are both quietly chanting: "Ein reich, ein volk, ein fuhrer,” on the end of the dock.

The Ghost intervenes harshly to his cabin boy: "Julio, Nein! Nein!” and Julio and Posey fall silent.

“We are beyond German/Nazi explanatory metaphors here. Let us explore the Native American etymology of the word: ‘Raccoon.’ Yes it’s an Odawa/Objibway word meaning the little four legged masked critter but if we explore its earlier Algonquian mother tongue roots we find that the term ‘Raccoon’ glosses in Algonquian to: "Strikes a Balance.’ A propitious etymology indeed!”

“So I believe it’s decided then,” says the Ghost. "I have a live trap and will begin recruiting a team for island insertion. Slag, can I count on you and your Mekong River skimmer boat for inserting the team?

The Ghost falls silent, waiting for my confirmatory response. I’m feeling ill at ease: "What am I getting into here? These are the Volk of my local community. I’m trying to fit in. I don’t want to be a sissy. What can I do? What alternatives are available to me? I’ve been drinking—not thinking clearly. But neither are they thinking clearly. People who’ve been drinking come up with a million bright ideas but never act on them. I’m safe. I’m covered,” so I respond: "Sure Dr. Mengele, count me in!”

Others arrived; the dock party went on and nothing more was said of coons and cormorants.