The Hunt for the Loch Ness Monster

It was a grey morning when we pulled along the murky shores of Loch Ness. The frigid Scotland Highland’s wind whipped off the mountains, sending tiny waves breaking onto the shoals. But we weren’t there for the surf. We were there to hunt The Beast.

Tara and I had come well equipped. Sonar, night vision goggles, camera gear and a cut lunch of carrot sticks and hommus. I had asked around the town, and an old geezer with less teeth than he had hair told me ‘Nessie’ had been spotted last on the eastern bank near the caravan park. Some hippies who sold wild mushrooms, had seen her mere months ago. It was on this bank we set up camp. 

The old man had recommended we use young chicken as bait, with a line of pure wool to lure the monster to shore. Dubious, we threw our lines in, and waited.

One hour, two hours passed. We saw nothing accept clouds and water. The cold began to sink beneath our skin. Three hours. Four hours. Nothing but soggy chicken.

After five hours of patience, Tara went back to the van to make some licorice tea. I continued to sit it out. The old man who we’d seen earlier walked past with his dogs, checking to see how we were fairing with the bait. I pulled it in and showed him, not even a nibble. He started to cackle with laughter. “Not young chicken.” He said in his thick Scottish accent. “I said young children ya daft brush.” 

Children? I was horrified. I’d just wasted over five hours using the wrong bait!

“Are there any young children for sale about, who I can use?” I asked.

“Nope, the store run fresh out this mornin’” He said. “But ya can use the next best thing…..Spam. It tastes just like the wee ones.”

Spam! Of course!

Thanking the geezer, I ran back to the van. Luckily I made it to the store just before closing, and bought a fresh tin of pink spicy flesh.

Back at the loch the light was fading. But I was resolute. I pulled on my favourite blue hunting beanie and cast the spam in the Loch.

It musn’t have been five minutes when I heard a splash of water and saw a disturbance ripple across the surface. I yelled for Tara to come down quick with the camera. I was ecstatic, we were going to see the beast that so many had come this way to see and failed. The time was upon us.

I watched as a dark shadow darted closer and closer to us. With a whoosh of whitewash, the monster breached the surface.

“By God!” I cried. “It’s her! Quick take the photo. Take the shot!” I raised my hand, pointing in awe at the prehistoric creature before me. I could hear Tara clicking away. We had it!

Nessie schreeched a terrible roar. With my hand still extended our eyes locked. She started to come toward me, slowly at first, then faster and faster. I froze. Before I realised that she was coming in for the attack, it was too late. Her razor teeth clamped over my hand and with a sickening crunch severed it from the wrist. Screaming in pain I clutched my arm. She had taken my hand!

Blood spurted from my ghastly stump. I looked from it, to Tara and collapsed.

I am now recovered and in hospital, writing my bizarre but true tale. It is difficult with just one hand, but it’s a story that must be told.

I may have lost an appendage but I have gained an incredible experience. With the money we get from National Geographic for the photos, Tara and I plan to fund our next mission: Tracking the Abominable Snowman in the Himalayas.

Until then, keep hunting.