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Show 1. June 14, 2002. Melbourne Beach, Florida I'm knee deep in a blue run when Mama drowns in Arkansas Gull, heron, stork dive the bait-slick water. Bluefish leap behond the second breaker. For the quarter-mile school, I fish one rod Each hit is violent, tight line whistling through the lips of waves. High tide rolls in. It's overcast. The wind is southwest. Even six-ounces of pyramid lead swerves hard north A surfer girl runs past, neon board looped to one ankle. She ducks under my line, hits the board hard on her tanned belly, paddles for the good waves. I'm very much alive Be careful, I want to say, these murderous blues, they'll rip your head off, take a finger or a toe, it's happened. Fishing a good run brings on trance, the honest Zen of surfcasting the tide, horsing the lead and graphite with the eyelets swishing your ears Dance into the water and let fly. The repetition-hours pass. A Mexicari family~I guess Mexican and I guess a family-works the surf a couple hundred yards up beach. They're having a time. These big-chested dark men, brilliant casters, catching Jesus out of the blues, giving them hell. The baitfish are in thick-menhaden, finger mullet, spot and croaker, they zing past. And these Latino's wives or girlfriends or sisters stretch on colorful towels behind the coolers where sand sluices toward the dunes and signs say Beware of Sea Turtles-they're laying now. A mile-long stretch of public beach, you don't have to have a license |