I kept looking at the sky as the sun set over the Gulf last night. It was one of those glorious pink sunsets that turns the whole world rosy: the Gulf waters, the sky before me, the sky behind me, the very pier upon which I walked, the two men visiting from France and posing for a picture, all of it, all of us, bathed in rosy sunlight.
Dozens of us had just watched on as a young man, strong of hip and biceps, battled with a fish all along the pier. Starting at one end and working his way over the heads and lines of other fisherman around the end of the pier and back up the west end, a crowd following close behind as he broke into a sweat from the sheer weight and struggle. He was mindful and relentless, knowing that this was the catch that he’d talk about for years to come, the story he’d tell his grandchildren, should he have any, about the day he caught the big one while the crowds oohed and ahhed him along.