By the time I reached Sunline, everything I owned smelled faintly of the lagoon. I hung the line between two palms and set a small pot beside the fire. It was meant to be an evening without fishing.
Then a bass rolled beyond the beach. Not a splash: a slow, enormous movement that bent the reflection of the moon. I picked up the rod, considered my damp boots and sat down again. Five minutes later I stood up. This happened three times.
The last bright line home
Eventually I made one cast from the sand. The blue lure came back untouched. On the second cast, a small fish followed it into the shallows, inspected my feet and turned away. The great dark shape never returned.
I ate warm beans beneath the palms and listened to the line drying in the breeze. There would be another morning. The notebook entry was only seven words: left a big one for another day. For once, I had nothing to add.
A good ending does not need a trophy.
