Fishing by M. N., Old Orchard Beach, ME

We make our way to the red Dodge, baggage and all. Our arms are heavy with gear and brown paperbag lunches. The ride there is a long and quiet one. Anticipation. Dad and I are ready for our adventure. Ripped blue jeans and ratty old sweatshirts are our attire. We make way for the harbor.

It is a clear morning. The cool breeze is welcomed by many early morning fishermen. Dad backs the truck down to the water's edge. The twelve-footer is launched. I hold the boat by a rope as Dad parks the truck. I stand, keeping vigil over our floating castle. I am proud.

The sun shines brightly off the water's surface. Dad wears his silly glasses, the kind that turn green when they hit the sun. I've always found them peculiar, the way they change color, and often stay green long after he goes inside. I call them his "chameleon" glasses.

We laugh and joke, as we begin to ready our onboard feast: peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, salted cucumber slices and chocolate chip cookies, the standard Sunday picnic. Dad and I never begin eating until the lines are out and the poles in their resting places. We keep a careful eye on the tip of our poles, as the main purpose for our trip is to catch our dinner. "Keep a close eye!" Dad reminds me.

Movement. Ever so slight, yet unmistakably, movement. I watch, afraid of having to execute the task that Dad has prepared me for all day. I cautiously grab the awkward device. It is big, and I am afraid of what could possibly be on the other end.

"It's a big one!" I scream as I use all my strength to keep the fishing pole from flying out of my little hands. "Hold tight! Keep reeling!" He coaches me, as I turn the crank of the pole, in an attempt to pull my prize closer to our ugly green aluminum fishing boat. With a huge grin on my face, maybe even a hint of grief, I continue to reel in the line, anxious to see some sign of the ill-fated fish on the end. Dad never stops cheering me on, as he maneuvers himself close to the edge, net in hand.

After what seems like hours of struggling and squirming, I can finally see the fish. Sparkling under the water, the colorful scales of the bluefish call out my victory. I did it! Dad gracefully envelops the fish with his smelly fishing net. I watch with excitement, as I know that I'm the one who caught dinner this time. "Won't Mom be proud of me!" I shout as he jerks the hook out of its mouth.

The ride home is filled with excited conversation, different from the ride there. I can hardly wait to see the look on Mom's face when she sees me walking up the drive with a thirteen inch blue in my grips. The door opens and Mom greets Dad and me with a smile. "Hi, Mom! It's been a long day."