Moments later, the fisherman's worst nightmare attacked my equipment--line tangle. The mass of 20-pound test line on top of my reel resembled something of a mix between a bowl of spaghetti and a hairy, matted armpit.

This problem had cropped up approximately five years earlier and had gone untouched ever since. I recall thinking at the time that the line would untangle by itself. After minutes of frustration, the line broke on its own. Dad was watching patiently. No pressure.

Soon enough, the line was fixed, and we were side-by-side again. Nearing the end of the morning feeding period, my father had caught the lone keeper-sized speckled trout, only about fifteen inches long. What became of it may shock you.

We fished until about 10:15 a.m. At about 10:10, the wheels fell off. Heeding a warning from an hour earlier about a shark in the area, the few wading fisherman, including my father, were trying to keep their stringers of fish out of the water. As I turned around to begin walking in toward shore, my father made his last few casts. Then, WHAP! A giant slapping sound and a lightning-like splash of water shattered our serene scene.

In one selfish chomp with scalpel precision, the neighborhood shark had bitten off our one keeper trout from the gills down. Irritated, my father offered the rest of our tiny fish to our new portly friend, seeing as how our haul could no longer make a meal.

Hoping to salvage some success with a few final casts, I reared back with my rod and fired with a strong flick of my wrist. Apparently, there was another soft spot in my line. I felt the way a pitcher must feel when someone goes yard on his fastball when my line broke and it and my lure shot approximately 100 yards into deep blue nothingness. "Yes, I believe we're done for the day," I thought to myself.

"We don't need fish," I told myself. It would have been nice, but, shoot, we didn't even need rods and reels. The goal of our sports excursion had been accomplished. Even though I would sleep the entire way back with nothing in the ice chest, I knew that the trip was well worth it, and that my dad was even more worth my time.

Next summer, we'll take "The Firechicken," or as the Mexican sealords know it, "El Gallo de Fuego."