a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day three

I had every intention of chasing crocodiles yesterday. No, really, I did, but as is often the case while one is on vacation, I got sidetracked.

I walked the pier (not to be confused with walking the plank as I did in fact stop at the end of it) and met a motley crew of fishermen and fisherwomen who were more than happy to indulge my curiosity about why in the world people are so hooked on fishing. And fisherman and fisherwomen, by the way, have mouths like sailors.

Admittedly, I have never understood the draw of throwing a string into a body of water and waiting for a Spanish Mackerel to bite. I have never understood the pure, unadulterated joy reeling in a catch seems to bring these people. And, I have never understood why so many of my male friends have pictures of themselves knee high in rivers and lakes brandishing a mediumish fish above their heads while sporting grins usually reserved for those who have just completed the Boston Marathon.

Is there a legitimate sense of accomplishment in catching a fish? It's not as though it's really a fair fight. I mean, imagine if a more intelligent, superior being who was 100 times our size lowered some tempting morsel (a Kate Spade handbag, an Ipod, a box of Girl Scout Cookies) on the end of a rope just within our grasp. Who among us--I ask you--wouldn't take the bait?

Perhaps my tepidness towards fishing can be traced to a particularly vivid moment gleaming from the murky depths of my childhood memories: I stand beside my father as he helps me reel in a rainbow trout from a well-stocked pond. As a three year old, I'm feeling quite proud of myself for having caught this pretty fish. As it flips and flops around on the ground, I think to myself: this will be the best pet ever! I will call him Henry! Wait til mom sees!

And then in what must have surely been my full induction into the adult world of violence and death, the stocked-pond guy comes over, grabs the fish by what I considered to be his throat, and cuts off Henry's head! Oh my God--he cut off my pretty fish's head!

I cried all the way home that day knowing that my poor headless Henry was wrapped in butcher paper and stashed in a cooler in the trunk of our car.

Um, OK, enough of that--I'm thoroughly depressed now. I had no idea I had so much to say about fish. Off to Barefoot Beach today, where fishing is thankfully and utterly illegal as is stepping on the sea oats (no idea) and running over one of the thousands of turtles that supposedly reside there. As a very wise woman reminded me before I got on the plane: M, watch out for the turtles. If you hit one or drive over one in your car, someone is going to jail--and it's not the turtle. ;)

Tomorrow: Day Four