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When the chicken coop lights are powered up on a Saturday night to entertain some marooned and uninvited dinner quests, chaos will certainly settle upon the barnyard when the dominate rooster flies down from his roost to remind everyone, including us humans, who, in fact, is in charge. Such was the case last spring of what started out as a relaxing afternoon rock fishing trip that later turned a quaint little dinner party into pandemonium shot from the hip.
One weekend word had gotten out that the rock were biting around the Roanoke River and Cashie River thorough fare, so about four of us shoved off from Windsor on a sunny afternoon on two separate boats for a nice ride to Sans Souci to try and get on some of the action. Once we arrived, there were differing opinions on where to drop a line, so a little friendly competition ensued between the two boats. Two of us settled on a little point and anchored up. The other two decided to try many different spots and while passing us several times they didn’t slow down “waking” our boat and ramming us against the bank. After about the third round of this, in which they didn’t even wave, they disappeared around the bend going towards the sound. A few minutes later my cell rang as the boat owner called to say his lower unit had fouled up and he could only go about five knots. It was agreed that he would slowly make his way back to us where we would either escort or tow him back to a friend’s house that sits on the Cashie just northwest of the Sans Souci ferry – a historic cable boat that still transports motorists and their vehicles from both sides of the river. There we could tie the boat up until the morning when it could be trailer pulled back to town.
About a half hour later, the struggling boat slowly made the turn and was visible to us as we were still anchored up in our original spot. Since he had waked us so many times, we couldn’t help to chuckle a little over the light hearted karma that had been served up on the river. Still not completely satisfied that the scales of maritime justice were evenly balanced, I said a little prayer to please deliver a bite on my line as the crippled boat approached. Sure enough within twenty yards a good 24 inch rock swallowed my bait and gave a great fight to the finish. At that point we all laughed and began our slow ride upriver – an unhurried travel that left the ones not piloting the watercraft free to nurse some Crown Royal and gaze upon the beautiful sun setting behind the cypress swamps and banks of the Cashie. Meanwhile, our friend and his wife were hosting an out of town couple for a quiet candle lit dinner unaware that four more uninvited and not so quiet guests were on their way.
Tramping through the front door with muddy boots and a slimy rockfish in one hand and a half gallon of blended whisky in the other probably wouldn’t have made the final cut on Martha Stewart’s list for how to make a romantic low country evening by the fireplace truly romantic, but somehow it got squeezed in that evening. As quickly as we entered the front door we were shuffled out of the backdoor with an invitation to a more suitable venue for our caliber - the barn. At that point one of the quests, an attorney, nick named “Stump”, wanted to join in on the fish talk when it was told by one of the hosts to not let this individual have any of the Crown Royal because dinner was about to be served and brown whiskey did not mix too well with him having not eaten. Consequently, three shots were given to him immediately about the time the light switch to the chicken coop and pen was found and turned on.
That is when the situation began to deteriorate rather quickly. The hens came out to feed and then the younger subordinate roosters came out to take advantage of what seemed like an opportunity to engage in some unnoticed courtship until the subject of this painting flew off his roost and began fighting and mating everything in the yard. He would beat down a rooster and turn around to bow up for a hen and did so repeatedly until order was established once again and everyone knew their place. To the roar of cheers and yells of the spectators, the wives of the dismantled dinner party looked through the kitchen window in dismay at about the time Stump, the attorney, decided to jump the fence and try to strut around too. That is when the rooster turned on him, and the attorney found out what chicken spurs in the calves feel like. A complete ruckus had seeded, and it was time to get Stump, who never made it to the dinner table that night, out of the pen. It was also time for us to bug out – by land.
The next day when we returned to get the boats, I walked over to get a daylight view of this beautiful Rhode Island Red. Remembering his antics the evening before as he began strutting to remind me once again who the man was, I could not find a better fitting nickname for this barnyard boss than the Midnight Rambler.
