September 23, 2016 ☼ writing
Picture this. I’m on a boat, about a mile off the coast of Cancun, and everyone is shouting at me.
I’ve hooked a fish. A barracuda. And it’s gigantic.
I’m with four of my friends and a few Mexicans charting boat.
We’ve been on this boat for hours. It’s 90 degrees. Dry heat.
I’m disorientated. Hungover. Sunburnt. Red as a tomato.
I’m gripping this fishing rod, like my life depends on it. The line is screaming out to sea. The rod is slipping out of my hands.
The fish is huge. It’s leaping out of the water. Flipping through the air. Diving. Racing around the boat. Ripping through the waves. And I’m putting all my effort to pull him in. All my strength. My arms get weaker and weaker and weaker.
All of a sudden, the fish is yanked onto the boat, and is at my feet. Flapping around. Slapping against the floor. Gnashing its sharp teeth at me. Everyone is cheering.
The skipper pats me on the back and hands me an ice cold corona from the esky.
I collapse into a chair. I did it.