Tales of Fish That “Sea” Differently

In my early twenties, when I was still living in St. Augustine, Florida during my first marriage, I was broken inside, but you wouldn’t have known it on the weekends. I knew how to mask the pain with laughter, friends, and more than a little alcohol.

We had friends who lived right on the beach and owned a small catamaran. Nearly every weekend we’d pile in, sail past the break, salt air whipping through our hair, coolers clinking with cheap beer, and laugh until the sun slid down like a melting creamsicle.

One weekend I went a little too hard, and the next morning I woke up face-down on that catamaran, clinging to the front bar with one arm dangling in the water like shark bait. My back was scorched, redder than a boiled crawfish, because, well, I hadn’t exactly been wearing a suit at the time. The boat was empty. Just me, the ocean, and a thousand terrifying thoughts:

Did I take this thing out by myself?

Did someone fall overboard?

Did I lose somebody out there?!

By some miracle, I got that boat back to shore, sick, sunburned, and staggering. And there they all were, snoring in a sandy heap. Right next to me? My bathing suit top, lying in the sand like a little lost puppy.

That wasn’t my first wardrobe malfunction either. Once, body surfing, a wave ripped my top clean off. When I stood up, half the beach was staring. At least gravity was still my friend back then…wink, wink.

We often fished off the pier or tossed nets for bait. I never could get the net to flare out right, it usually plopped in a sad little heap, so the boys took over. We’d catch small sharks, triggerfish, orange roughy, sea bass. Perfect sizes for meals, compliments of Mother Nature. With restaurants way out of our budget, we turned our tiny kitchen into a test lab, oil popping, butter sizzling, lemon juice hissing on the skillet. Fried, blackened, grilled, baked, every experiment somehow came out delicious.

Then came the deep-sea trip. The waves were rough, and I was greener than a lime in a Corona, hanging over the railing, losing everything I’d eaten that week. Just when I thought I was done for, my line jerked so hard it nearly yanked the pole away.

They strapped me into a harness like I was auditioning for Deadliest Catch, and for two hours it was me against the beast. Reel in a little, it stripped the line back out. Arms shaking, sweat dripping, stomach rolling, but I held on. At last, it surfaced: a 35-pound Amberjack. Not a whale, but close enough for me.

When we docked, we paid a few bucks for the fileting crew. Knives flashing, the belly split open, and then horror. Hundreds of worms wriggled out like living spaghetti. The man shrugged, and in slow motion, tossed it overboard, and said, “Too bad.”

Two hours of agony, and nothing to show for it but sore arms and a fish story no one believed.

Fast forward. Years later. Divorce behind me, raising my son, remarried. My new husband’s family had a tradition: summers at South Padre Island. Everyone expected to show up.

It was fun, different from my wild Florida days. Card games at night, little Kyle chasing seagulls, me still trying to fit into a family that felt worlds apart from mine.

One year, the brothers came back from deep-sea fishing with a cooler full of fish. Only problem? Nobody knew how to cook them. I quietly raised my hand and said, “I can.” My husband looked nervous, he had no idea. But once I got going, the beach house filled with garlic, butter, citrus, and seasonings. Plate after plate, every dish a hit.

Tim’s pride was written all over his face, but what did I focus on? That he doubted me in the first place. That’s the thing about shame and low self-worth: they whisper louder than applause.

Every fisherman has a story about “the one that got away.” Mine didn’t just get away, it got filleted, found full of worms, and tossed like garbage.

But I redeemed myself years later by proving I could cook a mean fish dinner. From topless body surfing to family chef, that’s a glow-up!

And if nothing else, at least I’ve got one heck of a fish tale.