Rescue

that little black spot inside the shrimp?“
    “Yes.“
    “That’s the vital organs. Have to be sure to miss those, or you kill the thing.“
    Doris swung the rig in a sidearm cast, gently sailing the Popper and shrimp maybe thirty feet out, then handed the rod to me. The popper was bobbing in the light chop. “You just let it sit there, but maybe three times a minute, give it a tug, so the thing actually pops.“
    “That doesn’t scare the fish?“
    “No. It excites them, makes them think other fish are feeding. Now, you feel a bite, set the hook right away—meaning, yank back sharply on the rod—but just once, because the trout have tender, almost tissue-paper mouths.“
    As she turned to bait up her own pole, I saw my popper angling away into the water, but didn’t feel anything, so I didn’t do anything.
    Howard said, “Might want to hook your fish before he’s gone.“
    I yanked. Didn’t feel anything still, and the popper came back to the surface. “I think it was just a mullet, trying to steal the bait.“
    “Not likely. Mullets are vegetarians. Probably not a trout, though. They’re pretty aggressive about taking what they want. Better bring in your line, see if you still have shrimp.“
    I reeled in until I could see the hook. Bare. “Sorry.“
    “Nothing to be sorry about. You’ll do better next time.“
    Next time was about ten minutes later, as we got near the end of the drift through the milky water. Neither Doris nor Howard had had any action. As I saw my popper disappear, I also felt a vicious vibration, and struck back. A strong run, zizzing line off the reel, then a silvery, almost dainty fish two feet long came out of the water, tail-walking across the surface before diving again and doing the same.
    I said, “A trout?“
    Doris said, “Ladyfish. Kind of a petite tarpon. Fun to catch, but can’t eat them.“
    I got the fish close to the boat before it tail-walked again, throwing the hook.
    Howard said, “Don’t worry about that. Saves me having to take her off.“
    Doris said, “With a tarpon, they call that ‘putting one in the air.’ Fun, huh?“
    I had to admit it was. Howard cranked up the motor.
    “You going to head up and drift back again?“
    He shook his head. “No. Our experience is, you find trout on a drift, it’s worth staking out. Otherwise, look for a new mud.“
    Doris stowed the fishing gear, and Howard moved us another five minutes, roughly northeast.
    I said, “Aren’t we getting kind of far from Little Mercy?“
    “Not really,“ said Doris. “We’ll have the wind behind us this afternoon, and even without it, our boat will do twenty knots. Plus, there’s less algae east of here.“
    I looked around. “I don’t see any.“
    She pointed. “See how that water over there looks cloudy instead of milky?“
    “Kind of.“
    “Algae bloom.“ A heaviness crept into her voice. “They’re everywhere now.“
    Doris spotted another mullet mud, and we went to it. After rigging and drifting a minute, Howard had a strike, and another fish slugged it out on the surface, but didn’t jump or tail-walk.
    Doris said, “Trout. Keeper, for sure.“
    Howard brought the fish alongside while pulling a glove on his left hand. Lifting the fish with the rod, he grabbed it at the gills, the back in the crotch of his thumb and forefinger. “About twenty inches.“
    The fish was even more beautiful than the ones I’d seen him cleaning, white with speckles from the midline up toward the dorsal fin, an iridescence about the scales that danced in the light. Howard put it into the large red Coleman cooler, now bracketed into the deck near the bow. Then he lifted a long pole with one sharp end and one forked end from along the top of the starboard gunwale, taking a rope with him toward the bow. After lashing the rope to a cleat, Howard sent the pole over the side, sharp end down, and began working the shaft forcefully, as though he were digging a posthole into the bottom. Then he lashed the rope around the shaft, letting the rope slip and tighten till it didn’t slip any more.
    I said, “And that’s ‘staking out’?“
    Howard said, “Right.“
    “That pole just sticking in there will hold this big boat here?“
    “Better than an anchor. The point works its way into the mud and marl on the bottom. Once the pole sets, it’s even harder to get the thing back out.“
    Doris rigged me up again, and I cast sideways. The sun was playing with the water, some large