Hooked

I stand back behind the bench and watch her reel in her last cast of the day. Here's my 15-year-old daughter in her wide-legged pants and with the back of her hair in a buzz cut. The headphones clamped over her ears are pumping out the latest tune from Orgy or Ozomatli. She knows virtually nothing of the rich fishing history of this pier. But it matters not. For she's holding the Sabre rod with all of the self-confidence and readiness of Yosh himself. Her right hand firmly grips the crank of the Penn Squidder, and she slowly and deliberately takes a few turns, pauses and lets the bait troll through the water before starting up again. If a fish should bite, she will be ready to set the hook, batten down the drag and fight it out. I don't know exactly when I taught her this. I can't remember exactly when my father taught it to me. But Natasha has learned it well.