Fola's bass boat is already in the water, and she's already making way towards the fishing grounds. As she anticipates the best of this trip, she's having a ball.
Every time the boat's hull goes over a bigger wave, her boobs jiggle, within her white bikini top. Too bad there's no man aboard with her; he'd LOVE to catch some of that action. But then, it would also distract him from catching fish, so it's probably best that the men stay on land. Or at least, the men who Fola's not going to spend the next several days competing with... (God-forbid if they bring honor and glory to anti-feminism...)
If not for the sea's vastness, Fola would be more vigilant. It's easy to get bored out here, if what you're looking for fish. It's easy to get bored out here, period. Alas, if Fola knows the meaning of the word, she doesn't show it.
At last, she finds the spot. She slows the throttle, and leaves the boat to float underway.
Her sonar fish-finder is so advanced, it video-records what's under and around the boat. It moves around like a giant robotic eye attached to the boat's hull... It zooms in on the biggest fish, and pegs target-shaped icons on some of the smaller-yet-catchable specimens.
Down there, there are tuna. There are tilapia. There are tarpon. There are billfish. There are snook. There are snappers. There are redfish. There are peacock bass. There are mahi. There are groupers. There are clown knifefish. There are bonefish. There are barramundis. There are amberjacks... There's enough to keep Fola out here for a very long time. She wishes she could stay at sea for that long.
Her cargo hold is stocked with even more Bass Pro Shops gear than those of her competitors'. Of the four of them, she can wait the least to try the new stuff out...as well as reconnect with some of the old stuff.
She opens the cooler she's brought. It's stocked with Irish whiskey. She's Irish. She has one, and lets the whiskey's magic charm her...and jinx her, at the same time.
As she drinks, she ties a spinner bait to a line. The line's already attached to a rod.
She dips the lure in oil. To fish, the oil smells like raw meat; THEIR kind of meat. You know how a lot of guys feel about pepperoni pizza? Well, a lot of fish feel the same way about this oil.
With the rod, she casts the spinner bait into the sea. It starts sinking as soon as it splashes down...but not too quickly. Even so, Fola starts reeling it in. She doesn't expect to strike the first time...but it sure would be more exciting for her, if she did.
It would be even more memorable, if she reeled in her first strike without breaking the line. Alas, billfish, especially, aren't as easy to cling to as you might dream of. And Fola knows from experience that all billfish would rather commit suicide than settle down.
From below, a redfish sees the lure. Interested, he swims after it. With luck, he won't get so used to seeing the lure out here, that he'll stop chasing it...if he ever becomes smart enough to suspect that the lure is a trap. At least fish are forgetful. But then, as far as this writer is concerned, it's better that game fish are forgetful, then some of our baby boomer parents, as they start to age, and contract the memory failures that became the deaths of our grandparents...
(For those of us whose grandparents didn't die in a boating accident a few months after our parents were born, that is...)