A Case of Vineyard Poison by Philip R. Craig Page B

eleven-and-a-half-foot graphites with Penn reels. Mine doesn’t have a bail. My other rods are fiberglass, also with Penn reels. Zee had and I had Roberts plugs on our lines, and I’d put Spoff’s Ballistic Missiles on the lines of the two fiberglass rods. Everybody had a thirty-inch leader.
    Dave hefted his rod and raised a brow. “A little bigger than a fly rod,” he said.
    â€œI’ll teach you everything I know about these things,” said Quinn.
    â€œThat shouldn’t take long,” said Zee.
    â€œWomen shouldn’t be allowed to fish with the men,” said Quinn. “Come on, Dave. We’ll go down the beach a way so when we screw up our casts, we won’t bother J.W. and his lady friend.”
    They went off to the right.
    Zee made her cast and hadn’t taken two turns on the reel when a fish hit her plug.
    â€œWahoo!” she yelled, and set the hook.
    Up the beach, David Greenstein turned and looked at her. I couldn’t blame him. He may have been around the world a dozen times, but he had never seen another woman like Zee.
    He watched her bring the fish In. His eyes were bright. As she carried the fish up to the Land Cruiser, she glanced at him and grinned. He raised a fist into the air and pumped his arm in a victory signal. She raised her rod and shook it in answer. They both looked happy.
    I went down to the water’s edge and made my first cast. The plug arched far out and hit with a satisfying splash. But no fish hit the plug as I reeled in.

— 7 —
    Quinn was not only a good fisherman but a good teacher, and David Greenstein, fly fisherman of yore, was a quick study, so it was not long before Dave’s casts were beginning to reach out to where the fish were waiting. And it was not much longer before he had his first hit. His rod bent, but as fast as the fish was on, it was off again.
    He shook his head and said a few words I had heard fishermen use before when their fish said good-bye.
    â€œYou’ll get the next one,” said Zee, as she hauled in her third or fourth.
    And he did. A few casts later another fish hit his plug, and this time Dave set the hook and brought him in. A nice seven-pounder that fought him all the way to the beach.
    â€œI believe ‘wahoo’ is the right word this time.” He grinned at Zee, and dragged the still-fighting fish up to the Land Cruiser.
    By that time there were nine other fish lying in the shadow of the truck, and it was high noon.
    â€œWhat a relief to finally be able to add one to the pile. I was beginning to think I’d never get one.” Dave looked at the fish. “What will we do with them all?”
    â€œFirst we’ll put them in the fish box so they’ll stay cool,” said Quinn. He cocked an eye at me. “What do you think? We want some more, or will this do it?”
    â€œIt’s up to you,” I said. “You’re the guests. You want to fish some more, get right at it.” I turned to Dave. “None of these will go to waste. When we get home, I’ll stuff yours and maybe another one, and bake them for supper. Any others that we have, I could give to some people who like fish but can’t make it to the beach, or I could sell. But today I’ll fillet the ones I don’t cook, so I can smoke them later. So catch as many as you want.”
    Dave was happy. He looked up at the sun. “How about one more before lunch?” He shook his rod. “Wow! I love it!”
    I leaned against the Land Cruiser and watched him go down and make his throw. He was beginning to get some reach on his casts. His line arched out and the plug hit the water with a splash. About four turns of the reel in, a blue hit the plug and Dave was on.
    â€œWahoo!” He turned his head and looked at us, beaming.
    We watched him bring the fish in, and all of us were grinning when he came up to the truck. It’s hard not to smile when somebody is as happy