Off shore away from the piers they said big fish hid and waited near the drop off of the weed line where the buoys were marked with simple words: NO WAKE
The barrels tilted and bobbed on coarse plastic rope.
Joan and Richie in that chromium yellow wooden row boat of theirs blared the radio: Last Exit to Brooklyn.
The boy on the hot weathered planks of the pier with his new-fangled enclosed reel -- on a fancy graphite rod --dangled a treble-hooked Lazy Ike.
He cast with all his might, the arc of the filament line sky-high water and sky color.
You could see how the wayward cast had snapped the lure, far off the splash impact cratered the rippled sun-shimmered water.
The breeze flew the near invisible line looping it back through the eyelids of the fishing pole.
Richie stood up in the boat yelling, "Nice one Travis!"
Joan raised a green bottle of Liebfraumilch.
From beneath her sunhat, laughing, she shouted, "Now what?"