A reel expert can tackle anything
(in a slow way, full of doubt) Smearing sunblock over every exposed inch of my fifty-three pound body, I prepared mentally for the difficult job that lay ahead of me. After terrible fishing trips which had left my skin red and my hook bare, I felt certain that, at last, my day had arrived. I stood ready to clear the first hurdle of manhood, victory over fish. At the age of seven, I was confident that my rugged, strapping body could win anything that blocks or stops. Pity the fish that would become the sad object of the first demonstration of my male amazing abilities.
Engaging me deeply was my childlike eagerness to travel over the deep division dividing boy from man. In fact, so completely very much interested was I in my thoughts that the long trip to our favorite fishing spot seemed short-lived. The sudden break in the talking of the engine snapped me to reality. Suddenly hit back into the world, I fumbled for my fishing pole. Hanging (by a thread) the humble rods end over the edge of the boat, I released the bail on the reel and plunked the cheap plastic attract into the water. Once I had let out enough line and set the rod in a holder, I sat back to wait for an attack on the attraction. The low hum of the motor at trolling speed only added to my fear and stress, like the instrumental smaller part to a horror film. And then it hit. A sharp tug on the line pulled me to my feet faster than an electric shock. I bounded to the pole, and when I reached it, I pulled it out of the holder with all of my might. My nervous energy was so strong that when I tugged on the rod, I nearly steeply dropped rushed over the side of the boat and into the fish’s domain. Although energy-giving body chemical streamed through my veins, after five minutes both my unvanquishable strength and my superhuman will were reducing/lessening steadily. Just when I was fully prepared to giving up in a fight to the fish and, with that (hand/arm movement)/action, give in to a life of unhappiness, pain, and sadness, the fish performed a miraculous feat. Shocked and instantly brought back to life, I watched as the mahi-mahi jumped from the ocean’s surface. The mahi-mahis skin shined with glowing hues of blue, green, and yellow in an amazing spray of surf. Brilliant sunlight shined upon the sight to see, giving life to a scene which exploded into an extremely angry spectrum of color. The fancy fish tumbled beautifully back to the sea in the middle of a blast of foam. With this amazing display, the fish was changed from a terrible and unfortunate victim to a brilliant medical example of life. I cared no longer for any amazing out of this world ritual I must perform, but rather, I wished very much only for the possession of such a proud creature. I hungered to touch such a wonder and share the fantastic bond that a hunter must feel for his kill. I needed to have that fish at any cost.
The fight lasted for only ten minutes; anyway, it was a ten minutes which I will never forget. When my fish neared the boat, I felt more energized than I had when the fish first struck. At my father’s command, I netted the fish and dragged it into the bottom of the boat. I was nearly bursting with excitement. Released from the net, the fish dropped to the bottom of the boat with a hollow thud, and my jaw dropped with it. I stared in complete horror at the violently thrashing fish which was now at my feet. Within minutes, all of the fish’s life and energy, color and life had disappeared. Instead, came blood. Lots of blood. It sprayed from its mouth. It sprayed from its gills. Shortly, the boat was coated with the red life blood of the mahi-mahi. It now lay twitching helplessly while it suddenly took a short breath in and choked for oxygen in the dry air. I felt sickened, disgusted, and completely lost in heart-emotionally upsetting pity. As I watched the color drain from the fish, leaving it a scary and depressing pale-yellow, I realized that I was
