MOLI VIEW™

About a year ago, I went along with my girlfriend to go fishing for the first time. We were in Rhode Island, and it was early evening along a cut in the shore where freshwater and saltwater meet. After a few attempts at casting, I sat down on a bucket and watched her fine form as she reeled in her line, checked her lure, and cast again, avidly. After that, I figured I loved everything about fishing. The water lapping against the shore was soothing to my overactive mind, I tuned into nature and that opened my heart, and that's what I thought fishing was all about. However, this summer, to my great surprise, I caught a fish. A big one. And it totally freaked me out.

I had a small rod from my girlfriend's parents' basement, and a wiggly two-dollar rubber lure called a plug. She gave me instructions: to cast the line as far as I could, let it sink to the bottom, slowly reel it back, then cast again. So I did. And I did it again, and again, until I got a certain feel for the rod. Anyway, the line started casting out farther, and each time the line came back, it had less and less seaweed attached to the lure.

Then the crazy thing happened. My rod started having fits and starts and my easy reeling-in pattern was broken apart. I was suddenly alert, but the sky was pitch-black and the life of a fish was on the line, a two-foot bluefish with sharp teeth. I wanted to fight, to win, to pull it to shore and see it because it was fighting with me.

I dragged it up about three feet from the shoreline, and the fish let go of the line. Smart fish, I thought. I better get the net. As I ran to find it, I knew I wanted that fish. We netted it, then watched it flopping around and biting through the string. My girlfriend dragged it 15 feet up the beach. That's when I backed off, because I was the one killing it, and I knew it wouldn't die fast.

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