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third cast I felt the sudden weight which suggested a snag, but the set brought the snag alive and the reel shrieked like an alarm as the bonefish stripped off a hundred yards of orange line on its first run—a staggering lesson in purpose and velocity, all hell-bent on deliverance.
    I turned him as best I could, gained a full twenty yards of line, then clung to the light boron rod helpless as the bonefish made another sizzling run in the opposite direction.
    When the fish began to tire, well hooked, and I knew that it was just a matter of time and leader strength, I found my mind scanning the events of the morning, free to wander in that margin of delight where no moment could possibly be wasted.
    I thought about April Yarbrough and that perfect teenage body, and about the way her eyes looked the first time I kissed her.
    Every first kiss is filled with promise. But it can also be filled with dread. What right did I have to interrupt her youth with my wanting; my scarred-up past and future?
    That’s right, MacMorgan—take this nineteen-year-old girl and mold her into your own likeness. Pretend you are giving her your all when, in truth, you’re just taking, taking, taking because you know no woman can ever replace the one you lost. Not even this girl. So admit it. At least to yourself: You have absolutely nothing to give. And even if you play the game carefully, you will only end up robbing her of that precious thing—her own youth.
    But sometimes I’m a little too pious for my own good, and I felt myself grin in spite of myself.
    She wanted some time together.
    And so did I.
    So why not let the chips fall where they might?
    I could see the bonefish wavering in the clear distance, making a broad circle around my skiff. It kept nosing onto the coral bottom trying to free itself of the little jig.
    Now was the time I should have gotten its head up and gone to work getting it in.
    Instead, I let the fish take its course, giving it every chance to cut free. Even if it did, I had won as much from it as I could want—the pleasure of its strength, the lesson of its purity.
    Besides, if it did break free, the hook would corrode from its jaw within a day, and it would be fine.
    My wandering section of brain left the subject of April Yarbrough and drifted to the problem her father had presented me.
    Swamp monsters?
    Indians?
    Grave robbers?
    None could be counted among my few specialties. I was the anti-pirate; the sea sniper.
    I had done all my work on the water or in the water. What in the hell did I have to offer the land?
    Besides, how serious could it be? Somewhere in south Florida some artifact hunter had a gorilla suit hidden in his closet—and a plan to do something on the land inhabited by the relatives of one Hervey Yarbrough.
    I almost felt sorry for the poor bastard.
    He had no idea what awaited him.
    He had no idea he was dealing with people other than the common mass of men who run and hide when danger or the unknown confronts them.
    Hervey Yarbrough wasn’t the type to run. And he sure as hell wasn’t the type to hide.
    The artifact hunter didn’t know it, but he was playing kids’ games with a guy who wanted to see him spend the rest of his life walking on his knuckles.
    I chuckled to myself. If anybody could see to that, Hervey could.
    And if he needed help, I’d be right there beside him.
    When the bonefish had given its all, I brought him to the side of the boat without a net. It was a nice fish, well over twelve pounds.
    I held him carefully behind the head, taking care not to squeeze or touch his gill network. I removed the hook with my left hand, then cruised him back and forth through the water, reviving him.
    The old man had been right about the fish that fight well. When you are connected with them for a time on line or rope, you begin to feel both compassion and kinship.
    When I was sure that he was well, I released him.
    He was suspicious of his new freedom