| A Fishing Story |
(continued)
| My father, finally seeing that I needed help, put his own pole into the rod holder and walked towards me and the onlookers. He was barefoot, pant legs rolled up for wading in the surf. He nodded to the beach walkers, assuring them that this is just another false alarm, but they decided to remain. Since I was straining hard on the reel, my father took a step into the water and grabbed my line. Hand over hand, he retrieved my line, creating slack so that I could reel faster. As the catch drew closer, I too became convinced that there was no fish attached to my line. When it reached about five yards out, we caught the glimpse of rather large fish shape. "Michael! Reel, reel! You got one!" My father exclaimed with surprise and joy. It was a huge black fish, a 10 pounder at least, heavy and still fighting. My father released his grip on the line to give me the satisfaction of fighting the fish onto to beach for the last few feet of the catch. I was glad for this, but did not want to lose the big black fish either. George came over to get a better look, and the beach walkers were amazed at the size of the fish coming out of the water as my pole curled around itself under the strain of the fish’s weight. "Wow, " I said. "I knew that I had one… I just knew it." We slid the big fish up onto the beach, careful not to lift it up until it was safely out of the water for fear of it snapping the line or tearing the hook out of its mouth. The fish was magnificent. It had crooked white teeth protruding from its lower jaw, and it had a powerful looking body with a massive head and bulging eyes. I was proud of my catch and my father was proud of me. The big black fish and the old brick were the only catches of that day among us, both mine. On the way home we laughed about the brick and kept opening the cooler to look at the big black fish we had caught that day. |