Every summer I go offshore fishing with childhood friends. Freeport and "Captain Elliot's Party Boats" welcomed Pat, Doug, forty other anglers and myself.

Until my family moved to the farm in 8th grade, we grew up in Houston; Pat lived next door, Doug a few houses down. We met in '66 at age three, hit kindergarten running, and have ran together ever since. Like walking a worn out cattle trail, we weave down memory hill to the good old days, laughing louder with each passing year.

At 5:30am a parade of eager feet, high hopes, and heavy icechests eased onto the boat. Doug passed around a bottle of Dramamine to chase the seasick bug under the crab-ridden dock. Everyone took a swig except Pat. Uhh, that could be a problem.

Eighty-seven feet long with a capacity for 70, the "Captain Casey" rode thirteen hundred turbo charged horses out the mouth of the old Brazos river. Destination, Red Snapper city. Two guys made the rounds collecting five dollar bills for the "biggest fish contest." I smiled and shook my head, knowing if I entered that polka my pole would be dancing with small bony fish all day long. Free from the contest jinx, I felt a lucky tingle and big fish blood thump through my veins like molten steel. I wanted to shout, but knew luck did best under the shade of silence.

Looking for signs of a glorious bounty, we overheard the deckhands bragging about our skipper. We'd be on fish faster than a free jogging T-bone. On the edge of the hunt, with thoughts teetering between the pending duel and the boring ride, we attempted sleep in the cool, plush cabin.

Forty miles and four hours later, the two detroit engines slid to a crawl. Eighty eager hands quivered to attention over buckets of slippery squid portions. After a few "looptyloops" on the hooks, the squid were ready to ride the cold steel broncos down to dinner time. It was only a matter of seconds before the captain sang out quietly, "Let's go get 'em." Anxious twenty ounce weights plummeted 125 feet.

Pat fished for a few minutes and disappeared. Come to find out, he had a few things to get off his chest down below. He took it out on one certain porcelain fixture, roaring at it in a series of short visits throughout the excursion. Unfortunately, several others joined Pat in the bent over barrage of being seasick.

Waxed burlap bags tied to the rail began to fill slowly. The red snapper had to be at least 15 inches long to keep, and everyone caught their fair share of kiddies. Of course the snapper are not alone down there. A sprinkling of amberjack, angelfish, triggerfish, and ling began to flounce onto the boat. Baiting up with squid produces hands slippery enough to lose their $200 pole. Fortunately I caught the fading line before it sank. I tried to slow down and began wiping the squid slime on my shorts and socks. It sounds bad, but when the fish are biting, there's no time to smell neighborly.

Please hold onto your pole, unless it's stronger than you. A seventy year old man was once yanked in by a thirty pound amberjack. The current and fish pulled him under the boat while a deckhand dived in for the save; they both popped out on the other side. After being plucked out of the water, Lady Luck bubbled up from below--his pole was caught by a fellow angler. They yelled for the old man and he was strapped to the deck. Tied up and soaking wet, he was handed the pole as cheers thundered all around. Dinner was extra special that night, considering it almost killed him.

Once on a weekend trip with my Uncle Bill and cousin Mike, I couldn't leave the fish alone. After a day's dose of angling, my hands were still shaking--I needed more. (Thanks to my dad, I caught the fishing bug at an early age; he would wake me at four for Galveston or Freeport, and sometimes before midnight.)

While Bill and Mike retired to the lakeside cabin, I stumbled down to the pier with seven fishing poles. One by one, baited with minnows and worms, the poles lay strewn across the bulkhead like a line of bazookas. I never will forget holding my minnow up to the moon to frame it on the hook. When I wasn't bounding from pole to pole arranging bait, I was in a lawn chair with a pole under each arm. If it was toothy grin night, I would've won.

After catching a crappie and turtle, sleep gave up and limped away. It crawled back, and as a 3am zombie I caught movement out of my right eye. This was more than a nibble as the pole began a slow slide to the water. I just froze. The rod's steady retreat was so intoxicating I couldn't move. My ecstasy was shuffling away; agony stole my pole. Even worse, it was Uncle Bill's best zebco splashing into the lake.

Four hours of sleep later I was back down at the water fishing for the pole. With a party of hooks and weights tied to a nylon line, I drug the cove. Mike and Bill soon joined my side. Mike was trying hard not to laugh--Bill, trying hard to soften my defeat.

I felt so bad and was trying so hard, gauging my long tosses to cover every angle. Bill decided to help by holding the end of the line. Knowing of his firm grip, I slung the weighted hooks as far as I could. The line snaked out over the cove forty yards and more. It didn't stop. Bill thought he was helping, but was only holding a separate eight foot piece. The actual end floated out over the water. Seeing Bill holding the short impostor string, and the surprised looks on all our faces, bounced us on the grass with laughter. Bill was laughing so hard, and turning so red, I thought he would pass out.

Back to the snapper conclusion.

Something was on my line. With every muscle pulled tight, I hoisted a twenty pound amberjack to the deck. A fourteen pounder followed among a medley of assorted snapper. As the day wore on I kept thinking, "Just a few more minutes!" I kept mumbling, "one more baby, just one more." After catching several "just one mores", the signal was given to head to shore. My last "one more" was in the bag on ice for ten seconds as the anchor rattled onto the boat. Then something sentimental hit my squid streaked frame. I grabbed that last snapper, popped his ballooned bladder (necessary for it to live) and set it free. We all like to play the good guy, especially in the middle of a great day.