Rip Tide (A Ripple Effect Cozy Mystery, Book 2) by Jeanne Glidewell
Authors: Jeanne Glidewell
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catch at the nearby fish-cleaning station.
We continued on down to a sandy beach area called Tin Can Point, where Milo had claimed he went to cool off after his "dust-up" with Cooper. We could hear the clatter of construction taking placing on the Copano Bay Bridge adjacent to us.
We sat on the tailgate of the truck, watching with amusement as several brown pelicans plunged head-first into the water after their suppers. Chuckling, we observed one successful pelican struggle with a small but uncooperative sheepshead, an odd-looking fish that had teeth very similar to those of humans and a sharp prickly dorsal fin. The diving bird fought to get his catch situated correctly in his pouch to swallow it headfirst while a flock of seagulls were dive-bombing him in an attempt to steal his meal. The pelican's efforts finally paid off as it tipped its head back to drain the water from its pouch and consume the sheepshead. The gulls flew off to try their luck somewhere else.
I stopped laughing when, after Rip's raucous guffaw, he said, "That reminds me of you trying to eat a hotdog when you don't have your dentures in."
My laughter made a comeback when I caught Rip by surprise with a mighty shove that dislodged him from his perch on the tailgate and left him butt down on a saturated mound of sand. That will teach him , I thought smugly . He never even saw it coming .
When I saw him grimace, I instantly felt bad. What had I been thinking? Not only was Rip sixty-eight, he also had a new artificial hip joint. Panicking, I helped him to his feet, "Oh, goodness! I'm so sorry, honey. Are you all right?"
"Yes. I'm fine, dear," he replied with an impish grin. "Just keep in mind what they say about paybacks."
* * *
Half an hour later, we pulled through the entrance gate of the packed-to-the-gills RV park. We drove past a large flock of snowbirds shooting the you-know-what around an enormous fire pit, following the scheduled pot luck supper they'd all just attended. Actually, down here folks refer to them as "Winter Texans"; it sounds more welcoming, you see. "Snowbirds" kind of has a game animal ring to it, as if there was a season on them.
I'm sure each of the clusters of senior citizens was involved in a chat fest about every ailment known to man, except perhaps diaper rash. A large percentage of them were comparing their daily cocktail of medications. Now that I think about it, diaper rash might actually have been a popular topic of discussion among a few of the attendees, who appeared to be born somewhere around the turn of the century. Not this last turn, of course.
"How many different versions of potato salad do you reckon they've just sampled?" Rip asked, jokingly.
"My guess—fourteen. That's the average, if I recall correctly. And among them, they've no doubt downed enough hard-boiled eggs that, if left un-deviled, could have staged an Easter egg hunt for the entire Rockport elementary school."
"Have I thanked you recently for not dragging me to pot luck dinners and bingo parlors? They're just not my cup of tea," Rip said. "I love you dearly, Rapella, and you know I'd do anything for you. But I have to draw the line somewhere."
"No worries. Not my cup of tea either."
"Thank God for that! What do you feel like doing this evening? I thought I might sit back with a stiff drink and look for a good movie on cable."
"You just saw Fifty Shades of Grey around the fire pit," I replied. "Why don't we go for a walk instead? It's a beautiful evening for it, and you need the exercise for your new hip. Especially after that unfortunate tumble you took onto the sand at Tin Can Point. We both could stand to walk off a few of the calories we just consumed."
"Oh, all right," was Rip's unenthusiastic agreement.
* * *
After a long walk, circling the entire campground several times, we were back in the Chartreuse Caboose, our cramped but comfy home on wheels. Rip had indeed found a movie on the television he was interested in watching, at
We continued on down to a sandy beach area called Tin Can Point, where Milo had claimed he went to cool off after his "dust-up" with Cooper. We could hear the clatter of construction taking placing on the Copano Bay Bridge adjacent to us.
We sat on the tailgate of the truck, watching with amusement as several brown pelicans plunged head-first into the water after their suppers. Chuckling, we observed one successful pelican struggle with a small but uncooperative sheepshead, an odd-looking fish that had teeth very similar to those of humans and a sharp prickly dorsal fin. The diving bird fought to get his catch situated correctly in his pouch to swallow it headfirst while a flock of seagulls were dive-bombing him in an attempt to steal his meal. The pelican's efforts finally paid off as it tipped its head back to drain the water from its pouch and consume the sheepshead. The gulls flew off to try their luck somewhere else.
I stopped laughing when, after Rip's raucous guffaw, he said, "That reminds me of you trying to eat a hotdog when you don't have your dentures in."
My laughter made a comeback when I caught Rip by surprise with a mighty shove that dislodged him from his perch on the tailgate and left him butt down on a saturated mound of sand. That will teach him , I thought smugly . He never even saw it coming .
When I saw him grimace, I instantly felt bad. What had I been thinking? Not only was Rip sixty-eight, he also had a new artificial hip joint. Panicking, I helped him to his feet, "Oh, goodness! I'm so sorry, honey. Are you all right?"
"Yes. I'm fine, dear," he replied with an impish grin. "Just keep in mind what they say about paybacks."
* * *
Half an hour later, we pulled through the entrance gate of the packed-to-the-gills RV park. We drove past a large flock of snowbirds shooting the you-know-what around an enormous fire pit, following the scheduled pot luck supper they'd all just attended. Actually, down here folks refer to them as "Winter Texans"; it sounds more welcoming, you see. "Snowbirds" kind of has a game animal ring to it, as if there was a season on them.
I'm sure each of the clusters of senior citizens was involved in a chat fest about every ailment known to man, except perhaps diaper rash. A large percentage of them were comparing their daily cocktail of medications. Now that I think about it, diaper rash might actually have been a popular topic of discussion among a few of the attendees, who appeared to be born somewhere around the turn of the century. Not this last turn, of course.
"How many different versions of potato salad do you reckon they've just sampled?" Rip asked, jokingly.
"My guess—fourteen. That's the average, if I recall correctly. And among them, they've no doubt downed enough hard-boiled eggs that, if left un-deviled, could have staged an Easter egg hunt for the entire Rockport elementary school."
"Have I thanked you recently for not dragging me to pot luck dinners and bingo parlors? They're just not my cup of tea," Rip said. "I love you dearly, Rapella, and you know I'd do anything for you. But I have to draw the line somewhere."
"No worries. Not my cup of tea either."
"Thank God for that! What do you feel like doing this evening? I thought I might sit back with a stiff drink and look for a good movie on cable."
"You just saw Fifty Shades of Grey around the fire pit," I replied. "Why don't we go for a walk instead? It's a beautiful evening for it, and you need the exercise for your new hip. Especially after that unfortunate tumble you took onto the sand at Tin Can Point. We both could stand to walk off a few of the calories we just consumed."
"Oh, all right," was Rip's unenthusiastic agreement.
* * *
After a long walk, circling the entire campground several times, we were back in the Chartreuse Caboose, our cramped but comfy home on wheels. Rip had indeed found a movie on the television he was interested in watching, at
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