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It is the one, single knot that every fisherman knows. Not the bowline. Not the half hitch, nor the hitch and a half. Not even the standard figure eight. It's the knot deep down in the pit of your belly that persists and, indeed, grows more intense as the hours pass with the six packs and bologna sandwiches from morning into afternoon.
It's a lump of malignant prescience that bursts, releasing all of the morning's pent-up tension and adreneline at the inhuman "click" of the brass ratchet on the eight hundred dollar trolling rig. It is the higher power that takes control when a world class sailfish takes the bait.
The universe is harmony. Twin Volvo-Penta inboards throb in counterpoint to one another. Five hundred pound test line hums against the hooked monster. And the brass ratchet screams an elongated fart-noise at the yet unseen denizen of the depths. Above it all, the kettle drum builds to a terrifying crecendo, and it startles you to realize that it is the sound of your own pulse.
Bethooven; Brahams; Strauss; Wagner: None of them could concieve such a sublime symphany or it's final movement; silence.
It's as though you've been struck deaf. The air, the sea, the universe, have gone into excruciating slow motion as twenty-four karat sunlight refracts from the thousands of points of the sea's broken surface. With the velocity and trajectory of a Polaris missle, the cobalt beast defies Newton's laws and proudly flexes a two meter body, brandishing another meter of rapier-like probiscus as if to pick up your thrown gauntlet and declare, "the duel is on!"
The charter captain barks unintelligible commands at the drunken first mate, who races the engines and wrenches the boat around incessantly to keep you facing your fearless foe. Your arms become pure lead and the fiberglass rod metamorphs somehow into a concrete telephone pole. You can't go on another second; but you don't have to. The magnificent monster is alongside the charter boat now, still except for the gaping jaw that seems to pantomime a final challenge.
But the fight is over. A few quick snaps of the Nikon are all the trophy you will take, although you're careful to focus sharply and bracket your exposures. Then you set the beautiful bastard free.
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