Mexican sun
Early morning sunlight burned my forearms, five miles offshore Mexico. My hands were raw from pulling up line. Pure muscle attached to the other end. The fishing was occasional yet bearable. My eyes tired from the glare of sparkling sunlight off the Pacific blue swells.
Let’s try by the rocks! he said. Fly fishing for gamefish on a surging ocean is next level stupid. You must use your whole body for a single cast of line, only to repeatedly fail. The boat lunged up and down ten feet as the waves violently smashed against indifferent, remote rocks. Again! Again! Closer!
Then, finally, some beast takes the bait. You think: this is my turn. Now is my time. Sweltering under the sun, rising and falling, you battle your strength against a creature clearly regretting its own instinct.
In it comes after the fight. Adrenaline pumping and you get a pure moment, in the moment. A quick whack of the bully stick brings peace and you hold up a bloody fish, the champion. Joy and satisfaction. A broad smile and contentment for a brief moment of time.
I always gave my catch to the skipper. His hungry family needed it more than my privileged sunburnt hide. I imagined his family sitting around a plastic white table, feasting on the white man’s catch. Kids laughing with bellies full. A smile in their mother’s eyes.