Angling for Adventure

I love being on the water at night. A full moon hanging over head, shinning just enough illumination to make out a few shapes, maybe the crest of a wave here and there, lapping at the hull of a pristine vessel as it idles along a mangrove shoreline towards Biscayne Bay. The sea air awakens the senses in anticipation of adventure the mind drifts to images of the first cast, the strike and triumphantly hauling a midnight catch into the boat. Nights like these create memories that last your entire life...unfortunately.
I decided this particular evening that I needed to bond with my brother-in-law. Take the young man fishing I thought. Crack a can or two, set him on a Snook, and return home with a nice carcass to bar-b-q. Apparently I was off my meds.
Brother-in-law has issues, far too many to list here. The evening began with a low thumping bass moving slowly through our quiet suburban neighborhood. As it approached the volume grew to a crescendo and a white Pontiac with tinted windows parked cock-eyed on our front lawn. It was Brian and his lady, affectionately known as "Cudda", a nickname she gained no doubt from her sharp, biting wit. Brain was late, about an hour or so, just enough time to begin the evening's festivities before hand. He opened the passenger-side door and in a Jeff Spicolli fashion, fell out onto our lawn in a cloud of smoke and empty forties. Cudda managed to get off a salutation, "hey David". "Hi Cudda" I replied. "Ya'll gonna catch some fish, huh"? I sensed her tone of sarcasm by the glint from her fronts as she smiled slyly. "That's the plan". Brian turned towards Cudda, "quiet woman", then he leaned into the car and said goodbye.
I packed the Jeep with supplies and looked around for my shipmate. I found him inside, sneaking a shot of vodka from the liquor cabinet; by shot I mean a large swig straight from the bottle. With a swift boot to the ass, he was out the door to assist me in mounting our vessel atop the Jeep. Our craft for the evening was a 17 -foot fiberglass canoe named "shallow minded". I impetuously badgered the original owner until he bade me remove it from his yard for 40 dollars. It leaks, needs paint, and weighs far too much for me to easily maneuver alone. Brian and I made our way through the jungle beside my house in darkness, braving the labyrinth of spider webs and landmines to reach the resting place of Das Boot. We heaved the behemoth towards the front of the house setting it along side the Jeep. I turned to grab the straps that would hold the canoe down and heard the sound of a Schlitz malt liquor open with a "Fischt". "What are you doing?" I whined at Brian. He shrugged his shoulders, "What?"
We made it to the launch point around midnight, far past planned. I unloaded most of the supplies myself, everything except the cooler which Brian insisted on man-handling alone. He hoisted the beer laden 48-quart igloo with pride and a smile, traversing the rocky shoreline down to the water's edge with the grace of a linebacker in a tutu. After fishing the cooler from the canal, we ported the canoe, filled it and with a twist of the transom mounted trolling motor we made our way deep into the heart of darkness.
"Pass me a beer". Twenty yards from the launch and Brain was already into our stash. "Calm down, you're gonna be schnackered before we even get to the spot", I was beginning to wonder if this trip was gonna to be an exercise in futility. Brian replied, "Stop being a bitch and drive". We passed by million dollar homes that sit on the Snapper Creek canal, the residents blissfully unaware of our intrusion. My plan was to fish on the way out, in the off chance that we might happen upon a rouge Snook. I deftly made a one-handed cast, my knee on the motor, beer in my other hand. My lure landed expertly, high in a mangrove tree beside a 32-foot sport-fisher perched above one of the docks. Ten minutes and a few derisive comments later, I was free, a mere 60 yards from where we launched. We puttered along getting close to a small private marina. Brain was growing bored already, "Dave, let's steal one of these real boats and get rid of this piece of crap dinghy". I let out an exasperated sigh as at that moment my second cast of the evening careened off a piling and hung up on the railing of one of the immaculate power-yachts. Luckily the guard never noticed the dumb-ass, standing in a canoe at one a.m., hanging onto the side of a yacht, trying to free up his five dollar Rapala. We ventured on, approaching the Old Cutler Bridge, the last vestige of humanity between us and nature's booty. The current was picking up as we veered towards the center support column. I cast yet a third time. Directly overhead I hooked a rope left over from another angler's misfired cast net, before I could reach the trolling motor to slow us, we shot through the bridge and my rod slipped through my fingers. At that point I decided not to fish anymore, at least until we made it to the spot.
The rest of the trip Brian let me know what a master angler I am, "I guess that's why there ain't any fish on the wall at Tanner manor". With that comment I opened another beer and handed him a rod. We anchored at the end of the canal, on the edge of the bay. I shuffled through my gear as Brian made his first cast. While tying on a new 5-dollar lure, a curse from Brian alerted me to an unforeseen issue, Brian can't cast worth a crap. He managed to backlash a spinning reel, not an easy task.
The next few hours consisted of very little fishing on my part. The order of operations went thusly. Brian would tangle his line trying to cast. I'd fix it and show him how to cast properly. Then I'd untangle the line again and cast it myself. Mangrove snapper would pick his pocket and since Brian couldn't bait his own hook, I'd bait it for him. Then rinse and repeat.
I managed to get my line in the water once or twice, but every time I'd get a bite Brian would do something to distract me. Amazingly I managed to remain calm, even as Brian began complaining. I began a lofty discourse on the beauty of nature, the serenity of man sitting in silent reverence to the grand immensity of the elements, "hell", I said "that's why I come out here, it's not like I keep any of the fish I catch". Brain hit me in the back of my head with an empty beer can, "We better catch Moby-freakin'-Dick after all this". We ended up arguing about the finer points of catch-and-release; me laying out regulations on catch size and talking points on how the seas are being over fished, Brian letting me know how much of a puss I am. Apparently for Brian all things in life boil down to bragging rights. It got worse as I started catching fish and tossing them back. The insults grew in severity with each new beer and each released fish.
Brain's insults and complaining combined with the inability to "handle his rod" threatened to break my otherwise cool-headed demeanor. All of this culminated with a disastrous miss cast hitting me in the back of the head. I turned around and scowled at Brian, grasping desperately for something more intense than merely a scowl; I mean nobody scowls anymore. I took a deep breath and untangled his line. It was at that moment I decided to ignore Brian for...ever.
I made my last cast of the night. It was a long cast, landing perfectly next to a channel marker. I let the bait drift. Brian may have been saying something to me, but who cares. Suddenly, I got a hit like never before. I set the hook. A beautiful baby Tarpon jumped high, it's silver scales glinting in the moonlight like Cudda's front teeth. It headed towards us as I reeled franticly. Adrenalin poured through me, my first Tarpon! As it approached the boat something amazing happened, something that erased all of the previous misfortune. The fish jumped again, in slow motion I watched as it sailed over the canoe, it sparkled and with a twitch, it slapped Brian right across the head. I smiled as Brian began to bitch, and I desperately struggled to recover. I landed the fish and released it with a pat on the head, in thanks for the triumphant end to a glorious evening.