Minutes later, the journeyman was hooking sand trout, ribbonfish, speckled trout, you name it. He seemed to be a few fish from writing his own article for Saltwater Sportsman. His stringer got more and more crowded. I, however, could not shake the goose egg for the day.

Slowly, but surely, I began to be more preoccupied with the jellyfish. Not only had they increased in number, but they were also picking up my scent, consciously moving toward me. Our Norman Rockwell painting had devolved into a scene from the movie Sphere. Trust me, after a few of the little guys start ricocheting off of your crotch, you become a little preoccupied. Then they executed a maneuver not soon to be forgotten.

One jellyfish reversed into me, chemically burning my belly button with five of its tentacles, and, as I recoiled in shock, another stung me in the lower back from behind. The hunter had become the hunted.

Determined to preserve quality time, I sucked it up, batted a few of them away with the rod butt and continued casting. I even heard my dad yelp from the stings a couple of times, which, strangely, made me feel a little better. Sometimes having tangible evidence that your father also experiences human pain can be comforting.

Meanwhile, almost out of nowhere, a portly, mustachioed East Texan waded into the water in an old collared shirt and a goofy canvas hat. Of the several things the loquacious man told us, solicited or otherwise, he turned us on to one lure--a "can't miss" speckled trout-killer known only as "The Firechicken."

Apparently, this man had unleashed its pink-and-white fury everywhere along the coast, from Matagorda to Port Aransas. Of course, he didn't have one with him. One thing that he said, to which I can attest to being true, is that a man can walk nearly a mile into the surf without the water rising above his waist if he finds just the right spot. Sometimes you just have to stop and let creation amaze you.

After switching to a spinner bait--a silver spoon of sorts with a hook--I snagged a small fish of my own. Actually, it is possibly the smallest fish I have ever seen. At time of print, I am not certain as to whether the tiny whiting was actually hungry or was attempting to engage in fin-to-fin combat with its peer out of insecurity.