Zziinngg The Song of the Angler

The course is set on departure,
GPS coordinates clearly marked
“Shark Hole” the saved destination
Ten miles out,
He finds the spot,
And drops anchor.
In algae colored water
deep and clear.
The fish finder displays
A sandy bottom,
beds of weed and grass,
with a hole for fish to hide.
Next the shrimp,
In their yellow plastic prison,
Are put over the side.
Once in the fresh salt water,
They dance the mamba,
Mistaking freedom,
Till they hit the hard lattice door.
Poles are rigged and
quickly baited.
He casts the line out far.
His line finally wet,
He sighs,
And cracks a cold one.
My angler,
Stands poised for the first strike.

As I observe his routine,
I prepare my own agenda,
Cast my blanket out over the bow,
Shed all of my clothes,
Applying oil,
of a tropical blend.
Like a thin overcoat.
Turning on the I-pod,
Spray bottle close at hand,
I finally lie down on my back.
The boat rocks slightly,
As the anchor takes hold.
A breeze floats over,
Moving fine glistening hairs,
On belly and thighs.
As the sun emerges,
From behind clouds,
Serpentine tongues,
Flick over my skin.
Dissolving the oil into a sheen.
Pores tense and tingle,
From the radiant heat,
My body relaxes,
Melting like salt water taffy.

The ziinngggg of the drag,
As line races away,
Calls me to attention.
I smile,
Grab the camera;
Aim and shot,
Record the proof,
Of all of my angler’s catches.

Repeat till we run out of shrimp.