That’s Not My Shark

Pushing and twisting the hook into the deadhead I dropped the fifty pound line over the side of the boat. Dad shouted over the noise of the engines, “Ann Chore don’t lose that fishing rod ,” as I secured it into the holder fastened by strong bolts to the deck. Looking back at him with my hand in the air I give the universal thumbs up signal. I’m happy to be here on our family fishing boat, I’ve fallen hook, line and sinker. Being out on the ocean is the perfect place to spend my working hours. If you love what you do, it isn’t work.

We had left the harbour before dawn broke, headed out to the warm waters of the Pacific, 60 nautical miles from shore. The ceaseless roar and vibration of the twin outboard engines causing a constant buzz in my body. A long journey to go deep sea fishing but well worth the effort I say to myself. I fished down into the ice filled bucket and pulled out a bag of chum and threw it into the water shattering the glassiness. We began moving slowly in concentric circles eyes out for the telltale signs of albacore tuna.

The silence only broken by the purr of the engines in idle Dad and I wait coveting the quiet between us. We are comfortable with each other knowing that with a jerk on the line we’ll both be loud in voice and in action. I tug on Dad’s sleeve, “Look over to starboard, there’s a fin slicing through the water”. I jump up excitedly and lean over the side. ” Ann, no” Dad shouts and pulls me towards him. I look into his face and see fear etched in his wrinkles. “It’s a killer shark. He’s hunting for prey”.

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