It was a perfect day for fishing, so my friend Bob and I boarded the On Time and headed for Chappy. The sky was blue, the sun was high, and a gentle breeze was blowing. Boats of every description floated by, including a small fleet of Optimist sailing prams, captained by eleven- and twelve-year-olds, led by their Edgartown Yacht Club instructor. We began casting. Two hours went by; Bob caught four bass, I caught nothing . . . but I did intimidate quite a few.

Suddenly it struck: it had to be the mother of all bass. My rod doubled over, I could barely hold onto the gear. I frantically called to Bob, “Come help me, I’ve got Moby Dick on my line!” Bob ran over and quickly surveyed the situation, “Your hook is stuck in the hull of one of those prams and the boat can’t move!”

I looked over to where Bob was pointing and saw a young sailor with a bewildered look on his face, standing in a boat that had come to a complete stop, while his fellow mariners were sailing by. He was hollering to his instructor that his boat had stopped for no apparent reason. Moments before, I was fantasizing about my picture with Moby Dick on the front page of the Gazette, the admiration of my family and friends, and on which wall my trophy would hang. Then my friend reached over and cut my line to fishing immortality.