Captain Ahab was a tormented soul doing battle with a vehement whale. Hemingway immortalized the pastime in prosaic tales of characters going mano a mano with giant beasts of the sea.

And me, I’m a 24-years-old woman with a store of literary preconceptions and overheard conversations about “the one that got away” in mind as I board a 32ft Hatteras for my first sport fishing experience. The following is my account of what took place on that day, October 28, 1996.

Wow, that chair looks exactly like one you’d find in a gynecologist’s exam room, sans the stirrups.” My pal and I exchange knowing glances as we climb aboard the “Flounder II”. It’s 7.30 a.m. and we are heading out of Flamingo Marina with excellent captain Steven Morcos at the helm.

I didn’t know he was excellent then. It would be a conclusion I came to after our first ordeal.
Which leads me to…our first ordeal. For two hours we troll through semi rough waters (I don’t know what would rate as “really rough”) with a web of poles and thick lines streaming off the end of the boat. I’m relaxed, feeling the spray come off the ocean and chatting with crew member Greysol Moreno. My friend forgot her Dramamine so she’s a bit out of commission.

Then SNAP! One of the pole dips, Greysol springs into action and Steven yells from above. Whoohoo! Our first guest shows up for the party.

With lightning speed they reel in the other lines and I jump into the exam chair. Greysol secures one of the poles in the metal, um, pole holder, and shouts “Reel! Reel! Reel!”

So I reel. The waves crash overboard, soaking me, getting in my eyes. I lick the salt off my face. The line goes slack for a half second and my heart begins to sink. But wait, the pole dips to new lows and I hear the zzzzzzzzzzzz as the line spins out.