The Fisherman's Luck

A small sixteen-foot boat sat still on a calm autumn morning as the last of the dark was fading away, and the orange crown of a new sun rose slightly above the horizon.  The boat's captain, sitting alone near the aft, was just ridding himself of a headache from his fair share of last night's drink and smoke.  It didn't bother him, for this morning was what life was about.  The inlet hadn't awakened quite yet, and only one other boat was in his view.  This morning was cool; cool enough for a long sleeved shirt underneath his black t-shirt, but not for a jacket.  Cool enough for his tattered jeans, worn from being one of two pair in a weekly rotation.  A slight fog rose from the ocean's glass top.  He had cast his lure towards the south east and was reeling gently.  His belly was full from a sandwich of bacon and scrambled eggs.  And a traveler mug of coffee sat steaming on his bench just to the right of him.  With his problems miles away on shore, he was content.  At this moment in his life, things were right.  Things were figured out.  Little did he know that with a strike of a lure, his life would take an unexpected turn.

His fishing rod bent just a bit at first, and it let up.  His attention was now alert.  He jerked his arms back over his right shoulder to set the hook.  Now the rod was stressed immensely.  His forearm and bicep immediately flexed to battle his formidable foe.  A whirring sound arose from the reel as he let off the drag, and the fish took off.  He had brought in two other fish this morning, but they were smaller than the legal keeping limit.  This definitely would be a keeper.  The bow of his boat drifted towards the east, and the fisherman stood up.  He walked to the front of the boat, carefully stepping over the front bench and avoiding a bucket.  He did not, however, see the small tank of extra gas to the right of the bucket.

As his foot clumsily landed on the handle of the container, he felt his balance shift to the left.  His left knee banged against the wall of the boat, and he started to fall.  Fearing the inevitable, he clenched the cork handle of the rod.  The horizon shifted, and he turned his shoulder towards the water.  It smacked the glass-like top, and soon he was through. The upper portion of his body was under water, while his legs were sliding down the side of the boat.  His hand maintained the tight grip against the reel, and suddenly his body stopped descending.  A tear at the bottom of his jeans was wrapped around a cleat used to tie up the boat.  He was being hung upside down in the cold water while the upper portion of his body was being pulled in the direction of the fish. Now, he had a decision to make.

He flailed his free arm to bring his body towards the surface.  His face reached the air above, and he gasped for a breath.  Then, he was back under again.  This time he was prepared.  Fishing was in his blood, and if he died doing what he loved, so be it.  His other hand reached towards the reel, and he started reeling.  He focused on the task at hand to calm himself.  He would need to control and conserve his air.  He tightened the drag, and continued reeling.  The leg of his jean was still wrapped around the cleat, and it was holding tight.  He thought for a moment to kick his leg to free the tangle, but this proved ineffective.

After further reckoning, his thoughts turned to the silliness of drowning for a fish.  He pondered ways of getting his body to the surface while maintaining the fish, but it was no use.  Rising was going to take both arms.  He reluctantly released the fishing rod.  The rod slowly glided into the abyss below.  He swept his arms to the side and lifted his body once again for a long refreshing breath of ocean air.  He curled his body up towards the tangled knot on the cleat, but it was stuck.  He was going to have to remove his jeans to get out.  He unbuttoned and slipped out.  If only he had thought to do this while he was battling the fish, he may have had a chance to reel it in while kicking his body towards the surface.  It was too late, though.

He pulled his water logged body up and over the side of the boat.  The soaking wet shirt and under shirt weighed him down, while his lower half was cold from a new breeze.  Damning his luck, he stood up to walk towards the steering wheel to start up the boat and head home.

As he walked towards the back of the boat, he heard a quiet rustling from behind him.  He turned around to inquire.

It was a gorilla.  It ripped his arms off and beat him to death with them.