Charter man Jack and fishing on a Wednesday. 

Early is to rise on a Wednesday morning like today. The tide low, angular to the particular pattern of the wind, eyes sharp for the swimming prize—The ‘score’ the ‘get’

We press off the dock in stages, the first being the mettled wake breaking trot down the alley of the docks and once under the bridge, secondly, a cannon-like shoot off into the open domain. 

The waves are rough out here, the prawn surely feel it too. But this little fifteen foot boat equipped with a one-hundred and fifty horse power engine soars over just about any interrupting wave. 

It’s got its charm, fishing in this neck of the woods. Surrounded by this giant infrastructure of privatized home building, with two sixty year old men who have just about seen it all. Their gripes, complaints about the whole thing keep the trip interesting. These men are fishermen. 

This old log we ride on is not the fanciest boat in the harbor. But it carriers this confidence of some kind of Cop Boat or Pirate Sloop. Something ready to pounce on any pretentious little fuck that might be out here today, stealing the wake, the spot… the fish. 

It has its beauty though. It’s pearl white, minus kisses from the sea, and just big enough for a couple guys my size to make a decent fishing day out of. 

We cast into the bellies of the rich, right underneath the one million dollar boat. There are Snook here. They will bite. 

The spot hasn’t changed, it seems, potentially the land owner solely—Or the city entirely. 

But beckoned, the men ensure that they bite here like they had used to. Back in the seventies. When I’m sure all of this shit cluttered in and out of the water wasn’t here. 

But contrary to my view on it, I’ve felt big bites underneath the shade of the dock. Big ones that jerk you forward, laugh, and reassure your crew that you are after ‘em.