A true (sort of) story by Capt. Christopher Garlington 
I left Richardson drunk in a boat at the Marina del Sol on the backside of Fiji three days ago to hunt for granders. Damn Hemmingway. Ruined it for everybody. Now you can't take anybody out on the water to fight Wahoo or a Yellowfin. You get one of those, the guy's disappointed. Polite--but not happy. I hate that crap.
I looked out at the blue water. I knew they were there: Black Marlin, Blue Marlin--thousand pounds if they're an ounce. But the sounder just showed baitfish and debris.
I rolled my Cohiba from one side of my mouth to the other, looked back across the boat to my man from Ohio. Guy’s paying me $500 a day for a tan. I looked up the other side of the boat to my tackle box, the ugly plastic one with Ron Jon stickers all over it. People ask me what's inside, I tell 'em flare guns. Flare guns are in the wheelhouse. That box was where I kept the sure thing. And now, three days gone and no big picture fish to speak of, I needed a sure thing.
I killed the engine and hauled the box up to the chair where my man from Ohio was deep into his fourth Margarita.
"What the hell is that?"
I didn't say a word. I went through the locks and opened the box, reached deep inside, and pulled out a miracle, I pulled out a
Rubber Chicken Lure
© 2008, StingRay Tackle Co. May be reproduced with prior permission.
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