[dropcap]I[/dropcap] looked at my fishing rods with disgust. They must’ve been cursed, unlucky, or jinxed. I hadn’t caught squat all day, and my scalp was burnt to a crisp.
Jamie came strolling down the beach, eating a bag of boiled peanuts, tossing the shells behind her. The birds followed her like disciples, pecking at the trail of peanut shells.
She meandered up to my fishing battle station, past my forest of fishing poles, tackle boxes and buckets. She rested her hand on one of the fishingrods, observing it.
“Wow,” she said. “I don’t think I’d even know how to work one of these, they look so complicated.”
“Well,” I puffed my chest out, and sniffed my nose. “It’s a skill really, takes a little know-how, lots of experience.”
She picked the rod up in her hands, and started reeling it slowly.
“Like this?” she asked.
“Hey, put that down, that’s not a toy.”
Just then, her reel zipped and screamed like it was going to spin apart in her hands. She yanked the rod backward, flexing her fibrous biceps in the sunlight, reeling and tugging.
The eighteen inch fish emerged from the Gulf water like a fighting marlin. She plopped it down at my feet, and grinned with big eyes.
“Bait it up,” she nodded toward the rod. “I want to try that again.”
“Nope,” I said, shutting my tackle box. “It’s getting late.”