The Magic Plug

The wave broke over the engine cowlings. We were crabbing into the current, sternto to the white-frothed waves rolling over the reef. The tide was ripping out at 3 knots, the wind from the west was blowing 10 knots, and the submerged rock was 10 yards away on my starboard side. Wreathed in white foam, its hoary, green, slimy head poked out each time a big wave swirled around it. I was on the wheel, in a sweat, never mind the humid summer air, trying to hold the boat in position.

Andy and Tom, both standing in the bow, were nonplussed.

Their “watch the rock” comments would occasionally sally forth as they whipped their lures out, teasing stripers into performing spectacular aerial hits. “Thanks, fellas,” I muttered — as if I didn’t see the boat-eating monster lurking.

Andy could easily cast 50 yards with his lightweight rod. With his gymnast’s wiry body and thick, muscular