He's barefoot, clad but with his black swimming trunks. Weighted down with his net, red bait box, black Phantom rod and his reel, he backstrokes through the troughs to the last sandbar, plants his feet solid as he can
on shifting sand, and catches what's left of his breath. His treble hook glints with first light. A black pouch wave-slaps his belly, his sodden nylon depository of weights, hooks, and a sharp fishing knife.
Deep into his bait box, he plunges an open hand, dodging the poisonous spines of live shrimp till he lands a big one, pierces it just behind its eyes with a hook barb, and he casts. In his dream of hammerheads
brushing his calves with the thick buffed leather of their skin, he works his treble hook like a master, casting his life of dice again and again on the undulating, foam-strewn crap table of his destiny.