Tragic Fishing Moments 



cast about for something to do that Saturday, and 

 finally agreed to go to Rocky Point and catch a million 

 little sheephead out of Tampa Bay. Those little chaps 

 about the size Q your hand are mighty sweet in the 

 pan. 



We went to Rocky Point and rented a leaky boat 

 for a dollar, and then for an hour and a half turned 

 over stones on the tide flats of the point hunting bait. 

 We accumulated a hundred or so little green righting 

 salt-water crawfish in the bottom of a coffee can and 

 set sail for the two-fathom curve, I ensconced in the 

 stern sheets and pardner doing the " sailing " with a 

 pair of mismated oars. There were two or three cans 

 lying in the bottom, and when the incoming ocean set 

 them all afloat, I was ordered to bail the boat. I 

 reached for the nearest can, scooped up a quart or so 

 of water and heaved it over the side. Scooping a 

 second canful, the squall of a maddened catamount 

 stopped me in mid-scoop and before my stricken eyes 

 appeared the shiny bottom of what had been our bait 

 can. Then followed scalding vituperation, stinging 

 references to ninety minutes of back-breaking bait- 

 hunting among the stones, invocations to Jove that I 

 be required to fish in Purgatory for eighteen thousand 

 years without ever getting a bite! Slowly we turned 

 about and slowly we returned to the beach. We 

 cranked the flivver and started for town, and only the 

 sequel lightened the tension. 



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