“Give it some line before you start to reel it in,” adds Rob. “We’re gonna look for a nice rhythm, just like a dance. Jig, rhythm, jig.” He slaps my sunburned shoulder, and I hiss through my teeth. Whatever’s on the end of this line, it’s strong. The end of my pole bends at an impossible angle as I hold it with both hands, giving the fish resistance. “Whoa, she’s moving in a hurry—quick—come around to the front here,” Rob instructs, taking me by the arm. “Yeah, get it Langers,” Sully calls. “Keep it on the line.” Captain Rob stands at my shoulder. “Find your rhythm, mate. Reel it in and hold.
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