This was no fish.
I knew something wasn't quite right when my rod was ripped from my hands without warning.
Before it went and turned itself into a resort, Sullivan's Island used to be a great place for all kinds of fishing, especially surf. These days you've got kids playing in the water and boats everywhere; too many things going on, spooking the fish. One great spot was the old bridge at Breach Inlet. The new one's great for biking and cars, terrible for fishing.
During WWII, there were forts and battery guns on both ends of the island, defending the harbor. If soldiers weren't patrolling the beaches with bayonets, or maintaining the gated checkpoints at Breach Inlet, you could find them at the beer parlor on Station 24, brawling with some sailors. It was as everyday as me and my rod catching a ride on some handlebars to Breach Inlet.
I had heard stories of strange great fish in the ocean, and I had heard of War of the Worlds. What had torn my rod from my grasp fit somewhere in-between: a manta ray of otherworldly proportions-12 feet from tip to tip-launching itself from the water in a series of terrifying leaps. Its sheer bulk had simply seized my line and moved on. Somehow washed in with the high tide, the ray was now trying to follow nature back out. But as rays have terrible eyesight, it could not pick its path, instead driving itself repeatedly into the bridge's pylons with maniacal force. After several long minutes, and to the relief of all upon the bridge, it finally hit a gap, dragging my now forgotten rod out to sea.
I learned an important lesson that day: when you cast--every time--take nothing for granted.
-Avram
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