The boats line up in the treacherous rock-filled channel.
             The boats sway to and fro as the waves roll six feet high.
             The boats of fishermen have come from near and far to Walkers Cay.
             The boats have come for fun, for competition, in a tournament for the big blue marlin of the deep blue sea.
             And from the pink and green and blue old English clapboard houses
             The locals watch a hundred boats lined end to end, in the shape of the sinuous Suwannee River that many have paddled a hot summer day.
             Like the shrill blow of a referee's whistle,
             The roaring of the diesel engines signal the start of the tournament.
             Dawn brings forth the sun as a fiery tangerine.
             And now, on my Father's boat, sitting back and observing the chaos of these fishermen and the deep blue sea.
             The chaos of the fishermen, tying their knots, setting their drags, fixing their lines, putting out the "riggers" in their massive sportfishing boats with their silver towers reflecting the morning light, maneuver into line.
             This chaos is the force that excites
             These fishermen, these doctors, lawyers, accountants, teachers all share a common bond in going out to sea.
             A fisherman takes a slimy piece of bait and skewers it with a hook to prepare the rod for fishing.
             A fisherman, tired from last night's festivities, lays down on the gunwale to rest.
             A fisherman sneaks, stealthily, aft to relieve himself of the dreaded affliction of seasickness.
             And I, on my Father's boat, look to the blue sea for that momentary glimpse of the dorsal fin that excites all fishermen, and feeds the fisherman's soul as the blue springs feed the river.
             ...