Mike Corey

Let's drop one last big one right now.

Let it soak for an hour, then haul it back in and head home.

Sound good?

Mike DeCapua is the first to reply.

Uh, one big line.

How big exactly?

Right now we got 25 skates and 5 miles of long line just sitting ready to go.

25?

I don't know, Cap.

That'll take...

five hours at least morley scowls this isn't the first time decapua has challenged his authority and honestly he's getting tired of it it'll take four hours if we all haul ass what are the rest you say for a moment there's an awkward silence finally bob doyle speaks up we're with you captain great now come on let's go make some money

As Morley leaves the galley and steps back onto the deck, he casts a wary gaze across the choppy seas that surround the Le Conti.

The swells are definitely picking up, about 12 feet high now, but they're still nowhere near as bad as they were a few days ago.

And the fishing, it's excellent.

It's the best he's ever seen.

He can't tell the ship's owner that he gave up just because of some rough weather.

So, gripping the handrail tightly, he climbs the stairs to the pilot house, while his crew heads to the bait shed to prepare their line.

Mike DiCapua sits on a wooden crate near the Leconte stern, head down, coiling up long line.

At some point this afternoon, it started raining, and now it's mixed with hailstones the size of marbles.

He tries to ignore them and concentrate on his work as they bounce off the brim of his baseball cap.