[dropcap]F[/dropcap]ishing for cobia can be a spiritual experience. I’ll tell you how such a day might go. The sun might shine, and you might stand high up on the boat’s console tower, looking down at the glowing green water. You’re searching for the ancient fish; the black kingfish that resembles a shark.

That’s exactly what I was busy doing one day.

Then I saw it.

A big inky cloud in the water.

I hopped from the platform. Our bait crabs dangled, all too happy to sacrifice themselves for such a noble purpose. There it swam, like a leviathan beneath the surface.

He took the crab in his great mouth, then ran with it like a fugitive. I cranked and cranked to no avail. The boat hit a wave. Another wave. And then another. I lost my footing,  falling overboard headfirst. In an instant, I splashed out of the chest deep water, still clutching the rod in my hands. The waves broke around me in a rather poetic fashion. I fought that bastard for nearly thirty minutes.

And won.

Later that night, while eating cobia steaks, I felt an indescribable, albeit triumphant glow around me. The same kind of pride our ancestors might’ve once felt when Alabama won a football game.

I noticed my wife had a funny look while she chewed.

“You know,” she said with a mouthful. “I just can’t put my finger on that flavor.”

“What do you mean, honey?”

“This cobia.” She made a face. “It tastes like piss.”

And she was right.

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