Everyone takes the bait, if you give them time. Take that guy, over there. There he is, suit, tie, briefcase, picture of his daughter in his wallet. He has it together you think. He won’t bite. He’s not strung out on a street corner, he goes to a nice little church. Mows the grass there every Sunday, has a beer afterwards with the other clean cut, happy men. Would you believe he’s been tapping on the lure for weeks now? I can see the cork bob in the water, if only you could.

What about the skids? They’re easy, too easy. There’s no sport in it. Who’s proud because some poor sap in desperation snatches the lure at first sight? No good, no fun. We are trophy fishers, Pete, trophy fishers! We aren’t grabbing every minnow we can get. You wouldn’t understand. It was different when you were out fishing.

What’s that? No. No, that won’t do either. We turn ‘em all over, the big catches and the little. We have our work, just like you, only we like the sport of it, too.

Now, ssh, watch. See her? That’s the secret of trophy fishing, you need live bait, none of that fake stuff, and not some grubby worm either. You need a fresh catch, just a little smaller. No minnows, no fakes. Save those for the skids. A trophy fish can smell bad bait miles away. But, a fresh catch, and time? I could empty the ocean.

And now it’s done, and if you’ll excuse me, I like a smoke afterwards.

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03 October 2019