[dropcap]E[/dropcap]arly morning, I’m fishing at one of my favorite spots in Pensacola. I’ve been unsuccessful for the last few hours. It’s humid out, my clothes are drenched, it feels like I’m wearing pancakes for pants.
I hear someone clomping through the woods.
“Mind if I fish here?” says the young heavyset black boy, carrying his tackle box and ancient bamboo rod.
“Sure, by all means. They’re not biting though,” I say, cranking my reel.
My friend rigs up his line with a lure, one of the antique lures, red and white, like they used in the caveman times.
“Hey buddy.” I smile, “I’m happy to let you use some of my live bait, I don’t think they’ll bite on that there lure.”
“No thanks, I’m good.” He casts his line.
His line is in the water twenty seconds, he lands a speckled trout so plump and full that, I swear, I hear singing in the far off distance.
“Sir?” He plops the fish into his Spider-Man cooler. “You’re more than welcome to use my lures if you wanna.”