The Middle Aged Man and the Sea

One summer, my friends Jack, Chad, Dana and I all chipped in and we rented a very large and luxurious, almost palatial, vacation home in the Outer Banks of North Carolina. We loaded up our families and our vehicles and then we caravanned down to the Barrier islands off the coast of NC, for a relaxing week full of sun and fun.

After we'd been there for a day or so, the guys and I made plans for a day of surf fishing at the beach, with our families. Being an experienced salt water and surf fisherman, I was considered the resident expert and when our Deadliest Catch crew invaded the waters of a local bait and tackle shop, I advised everyone on the purchase of rods, reels and other assorted fishing gear. Our purchases made, we headed for the beach and the bounty of fresh fish that must surely await us.

After unpacking our families and getting them settled on the sand, it was time to get our gear together. I assembled the various rod and reel combinations for everyone, seven sets of them; two sets for Jack, and one each for Chad, Dana, his son Zack and one for myself. I strung the lines for everyone, added weights, leaders, hooks, bobbers and bait. One by one, I got everyone squared away before showing them how to cast their lines into the surf and how to set their poles in the sand without having them dragged out to sea. Everyone was all set up, fishing and as happy as a fat kid with a gallon of ice cream. I started assembling my own rod and reel. I ran the line, added weight, attached a leader, a hook, a bobber and bait and then I double checked everything. Satisfied with my handiwork, I was ready to start catching some fish.

I grabbed my gear, stood up and walked down to the surf line. I got myself situated, drew my arm back and cast out my line.

Snap.

Dafuq?

My line had snapped. Well, that was just fucking great, but not that big of a deal. Still, I was feeling a little frustrated. I had set up five other rods and reels without a hitch, but when it came to my own, there just had to be an issue. I dragged my rod back to where I had left my fishing tackle and I put everything back together again, before walking back down to the surf line. Once more I drew my arm back and then I snapped it forward, giving my cast a good bit of distance.

Snap.

Are you fucking kidding me?

The line had snapped again. I couldn't believe it. I started cussing up a storm that would have made a drill sergeant blush. I was overcome with frustration and anger and I took it out on the closest thing that I could; I looked at my fishing rod before throwing it down in disgust.

Jack looked over at me and said, "Wow, it really sucks to be you, doesn't it?"

Yeah, fuck you, buddy.

I wasn't about to give up just yet. Once more into the breach...

I picked up the fishing rod and walked back to where all of the fishing tackle was and set up everything once more fucking time, walked back to the fucking water and cast the fucking line back out. It was a perfect cast. Satisfied with my handiwork, I expertly set my pole into the sand and walked back to the where the coolers were, so that I could grab myself a beer.

Just as I had reached the cooler, I heard Jack yelling my name.

I turned around and looked. Holy shit! I had a strike and I had caught something. The way that my rod was bending, it was something big, too. I watched horrified as my rod bent over, was dislodged from the sand and was quickly pulled into the ocean. I started running like hell, but was slowed down by the soft sand. I was slowed down even more by the face plant that followed next. I got back up and started running again, almost making it in time, but I watched horrified as my fishing rod, like my dignity, was pulled swiftly out to sea. I ran into the ocean trying to chase it down, but it was already too late. I searched and searched, but I couldn't see the damn thing anywhere.

Dejected, I turned around and started wading back towards the beach. I was about halfway back to shore, when I was taken by surprise by a large rolling wave that sent me tumbling over and over and dragged me the rest of the way back to the beach. Let me tell you, I could have done without the fucking shortcut. Spluttering and spitting out half a gallon of fucking water, I rose from the ocean like a drowned rat and made my way back to where my ex-wife and son were sitting.

Medusa looked up at me as I approached and as she took in my bedraggled appearance, she raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Don't even fucking ask," I told her.