Jesse Wilbur Thompson
“Mind you now, Marty, you got to hang on for dear life. I knew a fellow once, poor Ansel Wiggins, he got drawed right in the water by a big halibut that weighed a thousand pounds. The fish took the bait, down went the end of the pole, and over the side went poor Ansel. He had store teeth and they fell out when that halibut took the pole down and when Ansel grabbed for his teeth they went over the side and so did the pole and so did Ansel. Teeth and all. We never saw him again. “No sir, he disappeared complete. The last thing we saw of him was his heels. So I’ll tie you to the boat, Marty. We don’t want to lose you.” He took a length of rope an inch thick, wrapped it around Marty’s middle and snubbed it off to a stanchion with a bowline knot. “Now that will keep you safe in the boat, anyhow,” he said. Behind Marty’s back, he winked at Milly. She kissed his cheek. The kiss reminded him of the first time he’d ever been kissed. “A woman in Portland Oregon one time,” he said, “before the war, when I shipped on a tanker for Shanghai--” He no more than started this story when Marty’s pole jerked. “Hang on, son! They don’t have speed, but they’ve got power. It’s no different from pulling up a barn door. Hang on!”
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