IT STARTED WITH a single knock—just one quick bounce of the rod tip. If the fish committed, within two seconds the ancient chipped and scuffed Ugly Stik would bow over and not pop back up. “Here we go, bud,” I said to my 5-year-old son, Jamie. “You ready?”
He hustled to my side of the drift boat, tripping over anchor ropes and coolers and knocking over his Gatorade in transit. In the time it took him to get to me, the rod had bent in the holder right down to its shredded foam grip. I wrenched the rod out and handed it to the kid. To me, the fish felt, at best, like a sizable channel catfish. But to Jamie—all 42 inches of him—I may