The low hum of the motor and gentle rocking of the boat have relaxed me. I let the sun bathe me and savor the fresh breeze. A fish flashes as it leaps out of the water. I take a sip of my soda.
“Hold your pole with both hands, dear,” grandma admonishes. Grandpa raises his beer and winks. It’s a good day.
Somewhere below the boat a trout, vaguely the target of my hunt, spots my lure. Suddenly, the pole is ripped from my hands and disappears into the water. “Hey!”
“Weren’t you just told to hold onto your pole?” grandma shouts angrily.
“He dropped his pole over the side.”
“Not his fault. He got a strike,” grandpa says, “and it pulled it out of his hands. Looked like a big one, too, by the way the tip bowed.”
I’m devastated, on the edge of tears. I got that pole as a Christmas gift, and had waited months to try it out. On my first trip, I lose it. It’s the biggest disaster ever. And now, what will I fish with? This sucks. “Well, we know they’re biting” grandpa says. At least it’s pretty out here.
Fifteen minutes later, the waves, sun, and ice cream that grandma produced have made me feel a little better.
“How big do you think it was, grandpa?”
“Hard to tell, maybe 20 pounds. Maybe bigger.”
Suddenly great-grandma lets loose with her traditional fishing alert. “I GOT ONE! OH! OH! I GOT ONE!” Grandpa hands me the net. “Help her out.”
I stand by my great-grandma as she fights, playing it to tire it out, while slowly reeling it in. Suddenly, the line goes slack.
“Damn! The line broke! He was a strong one, too.” She reels in the remaining line, revealing a tangled mass. She snagged something.
She cuts away the fishing line. “What the? It can’t be. John, is this yours?”
She hands me the fishing pole she just caught.
“Huh,” grandpa says, “but where’s the fish?”
Grandpa’s just a little jealous. She is the best fisherman in the whole world.