Well, since I've brought to the tone of this thread down a few notches by attempting to comply with the "less seductive" request, allow me to redeem myself:
Did I ever tell you about the time I caught my first bluefish? You see, the rule in my family was that at age 12 you are initiated to the craft. Up until then, my experience had been limited to catching mackerel, flounder caught in the bay by Seabrook nuclear power plant, the occasional sand shark, and of course, smelt. That's not entirely true; I did my fair share of freshwater fishing as well.
Catching one's first bluefish was a right of passage in my family. My dad felt that I would be ready by the time I was nine. He spent hours in the basement, handcrafting fishing rods. I would often venture into his workshop, smelling epoxy and watching him wrap fine thread around the graphite pole forming a beautiful pattern by the grip. My very first fishing rod made by him had a diamond pattern because, "diamonds are a girls best friend"? Never made much sense to me either, but it allowed me to catch plenty of small freshwater fish.
He begin crafting my Bluefish rod months before my ninth birthday. No surprise that the pattern was simply of blue fish: small then large, light blue, dark blue, a perfectly rendered reflection of my father's artistic craftsmanship.
He wanted to convey to me the veracity with which a bluefish would fight. We practiced many days in the backyard; he would grab the line and play the fish, trying to match the weight in the fight by pulling on the twenty pound test line.
Nothing would prepare me for the actual fight! I have been on Cap'n Mindy's chartered six person boat out of Rye Harbor on many occasions, but this was my first Bluefish excursion. The company included my dad, the cap'n, and some other male relatives/acquaintances of my father's.
I can still smell the Seaspray and feel the wind on my face as the boat picked up speed just outside the harbor and headed out to sea.
I can't remember what we used for bait, but I do remember someone throwing chum out along the side before we stopped. I cast my line and before much time passed, my line suddenly darted, and the rod was nearly yanked out of my little hands!
This was not a force that I had been prepared for; I had to use my entire body to brace the rod, clamping it between my legs and leaning against the side starboard side. My rod bent over double, as I watched swells rise and fall, I never lost focus. At first, the fish took the line out swiftly, throwing sparks off the line despite my reeling. I quickly ascertained that the only way for me to reel the fish in was for me to use both hands on the reel itself, winding it with every ounce of force I could muster.
My dad stepped forward to intercede and I just remember yelling and glaring at him
"no daddy, let me do this my own way!"
That fish fought like a son of a gun for at least twenty minutes. I was growing weak, my strength fading. Eventually, my weary little hands maneuvered that reel so that the fish was next to the boat, at which point my father gaffed it and brought on board.
The first thing he did was hang it on the scale: twenty pounds!
I don't know if any of you have ever caught a bluefish, but it's a big deal when you are nine years old. That's not a fish story.