After an intense two-hour pick of stripers, 30 inches to 38 pounds, during which we ran three wires and had at least one fish on at all times, I’m grateful for the certainty that even the craziest tide boils itself slack eventually. Now, our six guys are trying to poke holes in some sea bass, but it’s been slow so far. I remove my oilers and shed the sodden sweatshirt I couldn’t find an idle minute to take off during the bite, then head for the freshwater wash-down hose to rinse the opaque sheen of slime, salt, and blood spatter off my polarized shades—my Stevie Wondervision Pro Series. The routine’s almost automatic at this point in the season.Lisa Helme DanforthSep 1st, 2013
August. The word, when it first appears on the face of the calendar or beneath the date column in my inbox, triggers something like a panic. It’s not really dread or regret—just a sudden and overwhelming awareness of the speed at which sand dumps into the lower half of the hourglass. It’s like being 23, the world and you all full of promise and potential. And then you’re 35, no longer on the verge of becoming. You are what you are—hell, you have been for years.Lisa Helme DanforthAug 1st, 2013
If, without time to climb on a roller coaster or attempt to break a land-speed record out somewhere in the desert, you want to experience the sense of hurtling through space with no control whatsoever, here’s what you do: Promise your son and or daughter that you’ll take them out deep sea fishing sometime before the end of summer vacation. Then, e-mail me your phone number, and I’ll track you down the last week of August to check on your progress. Lisa Helme DanforthJul 1st, 2013
