Randy White - Seduced

It was a log-had to be. This wasn’t the season for tarpon, and a shark would be on the move, not lying stationary in this low, falling tide.

“Quiet,” I whispered, and crouched low.

The shadow seemed to drift backwards, as buoyant as light. The shadow turned a degree with the slow flick of a yellow-glazed tail.

It wasn’t a log.

Mr. Gentry saw the shadow, too. “Whoa, look at the size of that thing. What is it?”

“Snook,” I said. “Twelve o’clock,” meaning directly in front of the boat.

“Can’t be.”

“Twelve o’clock,” I repeated, “but too far to cast. I’ll tell you when. Who’s up?”

Casting a fly rod requires room, so anglers take turns when a fish is spotted. Mrs. Gentry had already missed a shot at a redfish, yet I asked anyway out of politeness.

“Darn thing’s as long as my leg,” the man whispered. “Are you sure that’s a snook? Never seen one so big in my… Oh my god”-he turned to his wife-“she’s right, Hannah’s right, it’s a snook. See there, Dolly?”

He liked to call her “Dolly,” or “Dollface,” although his wife’s name was Sherry.

The push pole I use is eighteen feet long. It’s so hollow and light, the pole vibrates like a reed when I auger its tip into hard sand. I skated the boat forward, saying, “I’ll swing the bow around when we’re in range. Go ahead, start stripping out line. Mrs. Gentry, watch for knots when your husband casts; then, if you don’t mind, come sit back here by the wheel.”

They were a nice couple, the Gentrys. Retirement age, or close, vacationing from Tennessee, where they’d just sold their business that had something to do with science-the biotech industry, they’d said. They had money and their health, and treated each other with an easygoing deference that was fun and showed their relationship still enjoyed some spice. The pair had fished all over the world-rainbows in Argentina, bonefish in the Yucatán-but never again would they get a shot at a trophy fish like this.

Reggie’s Old Florida snobbery regarding the species had been unfair and misleading. A snook is among the most beautiful, powerful fish in the world: long, sleek, silver gray with yellow highlights, and a black racing stripe on its sides. As table fare, it is excellent, but the season was closed this time of year, and I am strictly catch-and-release anyway when it comes to game fish.

What little bit of breeze there was came from Mr. Gentry’s right. I babied the skiff around until he had an ideal left-hand wind. When we were eighty feet away, I wedged the pole as an anchor. “Don’t worry about the distance, we can always sneak closer. Take your time… If you’re not happy with the cast, just strip in and give her another shot.”

“Her?”

I said, “Loosen your drag a notch, too.”

“How can you tell it’s a female?”

“Male snook, at a certain age, become females. I’m judging by the size. I could be wrong-hurry up, move.”

Mr. Gentry, instead of hustling to the bow where he belonged, was grinning at his wife. “In that case, you’re up, Dolly. I’ll take video while you set a world’s record. Go on… my knees are clacking, I don’t think I can cast.” He pushed the fly rod at her.

It was a sweet gesture, yet I felt a sinking feeling. The husband was a better caster; a snook of any size requires strength to land, and this was no time for a polite debate.

Mrs. Gentry, thank god, wasn’t demure. Instead, she grabbed the rod and slipped up onto the casting deck with the aggressiveness of a falcon, then eyed her prey.

“Holy shitski,” she murmured, and began arranging line at her feet and doing all the other little things anglers do before launching their first cast.

I felt better after that.

The fish lay broadside my skiff. In the quiet pool of gold, a glazed tailfin maneuvered a slow pirouette; the fish resembled a cannon swinging into position.

“She’s not going anywhere,” I whispered. “No rush… nice and smooth, take your time,” but, in my head, I was thinking, For heaven’s sake, cast the darn thing.

Mrs. Gentry did. I had rigged four rods, all top-of-the-line Sage gear, but each with a different fly, or lure. The lures were feathered streamers, some with hackles, that I had tied myself. It’s something I like to do at night on my boat-when not engaged in dangerous behavior with married men. Her red-on-white streamer whistled past my ear on the first false cast, her tailing loop was so bad, but the woman regained her composure. She double-hauled… waited for the rod to load, hauled again, and then shot eighty feet of line with a loop that could’ve pierced armor.

The feathered lure, deployed by fifteen feet of invisible fluorocarbon thread, plopped softly on the surface. It landed beyond the fish and to the right.

Mr. Gentry, watching through his camera, said, “Hell of a cast, Dolly!” while I urged the woman, “Strip!… Strip!… Strip!…”

The rhythm was important. Slow, at first, like a funeral dirge. After that, it all depended on how a fish behaved.

My focus narrowed into a tunnel of turquoise and shadows. From my elevated perch, I could see the lure’s red hackles breathing clear water. I could see the fish’s dark mass pivot to find the disturbance in its golden pool, then move in slow pursuit.

“She’s on it,” I said. “She’s following… If she hits, let the rod do the work. Mr. Gentry, you be ready to clear knots, and make sure your wife’s not stepping on line… A little faster, ma’am.”

Strip!… Strip!… Strip!… Strip!… Mrs. Gentry’s right hand moved with the rhythm of a wounded bait, her technique perfect: knees bent, rod tip almost in the water.

The snook exited the pool. It was gaining speed when it slipped over the sandy rim and vanished into a field of shallow turtle grass.

“Where’d it go?”

“Oh, shitski… Did she spook?”

“Keep stripping… Strip faster,” I ordered, for the fish had reappeared not as a shadow but as a submarine wake only a few feet behind the feathery streamer.

Strip!Strip!Strip!-red hackles breathed a desperate rhythm as if trying to escape.

“Slower… Slower,” I said. “Okay… stop. Let your streamer sink… Now strip fast.”

That’s when the great fish hit. In the shallows, on a small boat, events happen simultaneously when thirty pounds of instinct and muscle react to the strictures of a fly line. The glassy surface boiled a whirlpool of sand; Mrs. Gentry’s rod melted into a question mark, bent by an inexplicable weight. The glassy surface exploded; salt droplets showered us. The massive fish shot skyward, levitated a slow-motion arc; then water imploded when it fell from the sky. My boat rocked; a stunning calm ensued. But only for a microsecond. A series of cannonball explosions added more waves and confusion, then the fish ran. It ripped off a hundred yards of line with such speed that, in Mrs. Gentry’s hands, the reel screamed of metal tolerances better endured by a machine gun.

“Let him run, keep the rod high,” I yelled. The push pole was free of the sand. I turned the skiff in pursuit. “Mr. Gentry, grab your wife’s belt. She almost went over on the first run, and I’d rather lose you than her right now.”

Laughter was a form of nervous release.

“My god, what a cast. Perfect, Dolly; perfect location. Hannah, you ever seen a better cast in your life? That fish has to weigh forty pounds.”

Nice, the proud way he spoke of his wife.

“More like thirty,” I said, yet wanted to believe he was right about the weight. He’d been right about something else: the fish might be big enough to set a new world record. Not in terms of weight overall, but in length, and possibly weight, too, for I’d tied a fairly light 1× tippet into the leader. Even with Bimini knots at both ends, the tippet would test out at less than fifteen pounds of breaking strength.