“No. I’m going to do it myself.”

“Oh boy.” He laughs. “I heard your mom say that to your papa many times.”

I’m both happy and sad to hear this.

With Henry’s directions, I pull the pole back behind my head and then crank the reel, moving the pole forward, never letting the line get slack. Move back, crank the reel, move pole in front of me. Pull back and repeat.

By the time Henry plunges the net into the water to scoop up the fish, my arms are so tired, I can hardly lift them. But I did it myself. I caught my own fish. And I wish Grammy and Esme had been here to see it.

We measure it, and Henry says, “Whoa! A forty-incher! You don’t start off small, that’s for sure. I’m guessing about twenty-three pounds. At about three dollars a pound, you’ve just earned about seventy dollars.”

“Wait. What?! I get to keep the money?”

“You’ll get to keep whatever we sell it at. That’s a good estimate.”

I jump up. “Yes!”

Henry hoists the fish into the huge cooler filled with ice.

Ronan is happy for me, I can tell. But I can also tell he really wants his own fish. Henry puts his hand on Ronan’s shoulder. “Okay, son. Let’s pull out the big guns. My lucky St. Croix. One of the best fishing poles around.”

I turn around. “St. Croix? Isn’t that where Esme was born?”

“Indeed. Unique, beautiful island. Smart, beautiful lady.”

Henry offers to help Ronan, but he wants to do it himself.

With the first nibble, Ronan yanks too quickly and loses the fish.

“Happens to the best of us,” Henry says.

Later, I catch another striper that’s only thirty inches long, and Henry says we have to throw it back. It’s too small to keep.

Ronan gets another bite and he counts to three and then yanks his pole to the side, setting the hook in the fish’s mouth.

When the fish breaks the surface, we see it’s an enormous one, and Ronan breaks into the biggest smile I’ve ever seen on him.

“Now, when you get this one in the boat, this sucker will be a great picture for your dad.”

Ronan looks sad but brightens to agree. I can tell he’s faking.

Henry stands behind him with a slight smile and the ocean reflecting off of his glasses, and I feel thankful for him. Thankful that he took us out and thankful just to know him.

Ronan is cranking the reel on the St. Croix. Pulling back. Cranking again. Pulling back.

“Well, Delsie, I think this may be as big as yours! But it’s hard to hold on to the pole. Man, this thing is heavy.”

“Seventy dollars’ worth of heavy,” I say, smiling. “We’ll go to Saucepan Lynn’s and have all the pancakes we can eat!”

As Ronan laughs, his pole is yanked hard—a great white shark comes out of the water like a rocket off a launchpad. It comes up from underneath the fish with its mouth wide open, soars upward, nabs the fish, and then falls back into the ocean, almost on its side. It all happens so fast that it takes me a few seconds to realize Ronan has let go of Henry’s prized St. Croix fishing pole. It’s about ten feet from the boat and moving away from us.