Today left one more day of the unlimited snapper season. A text message from Charlie DeCescenzo, a born in Brooklyn, raised in a tackle shop and nursed to adulthood on a fishing boat, said, “Let’s go get 'em, Tom." I put aside my plans to mow the lawn, grabbed my rods, a few iced-down beers and headed out the door. 

The prospects were slim as rumor had it that all the snapper were  gone, caught and fried up during the long season. Charlie, the Kelly Plantation transplant and licensed Captain, and I boarded my little Dusky known as the Varmint, a true 25’ fishing machine. Storm clouds painted the horizon, so a trip to the deep was not to be. We stopped about a mile off the beach. You could almost hear  the traffic on 98. Charlie said, “Let's try here." 

A handful of chum went into the water and our lone cigar minnow tumbled down out of sight. We were in 62 feet of water, but about halfway down the rod was almost torn from Charlie's hands. A vicious strike! Excitement filled the sea air. I called, “Shark!" But the man with gills instead of lungs said, "Snapper! And a good one!” Up it came - a glowing red beauty. To the gaff I went and cleared the rails with it. Charlie said, “No one's catching fish? What’s this?!” 

We hung a 14 pound red snapper for pictures. A few drops fell and lightning crossed the sky. A crack of thunder filled our ears. We cranked the engines and headed for the dock. Thirty minutes later we were washing the engines and drinking a cold one.