bully-boy should never have been born, never have...
The pink mist became a deeper red. The sun must be coming out stronger, but the air and the sand were damp and cold. Something jerked at the rod real sharp, then another big jerk. I dropped my beach blanket as I stood up, grabbed the rod. I sure had a fighter hooked, I could barely hold the rod. I said, “Watch me reel this baby in. Got something big, maybe a baby tuna or a hell of a blue. Will you look at the battle the slimy fool is giving me—damn near snapping the rod.”
“His pulse is getting weaker. Mr. Bond! Mr. Bond!”
The rod was straining so I couldn't turn to see who was talking. The fish never slacked up. Instead it seemed to grow stronger, hitting the line again and again with a steady pull. It was a hell of a fish. My arms began to ache, the rod was slipping out of my hands. It was a regular damn whale. I don't know how the line held, but the jerking was too much for me to haul in, or even hold on to.
The rod began to shake and I made one last effort to hold it—
Then I let go.
