2 Minutes. Go!

When there is no moon, and the clouds shield the stars, it becomes all about feel. Your finger on the line, the wind against the left side of your face. The mist and the water that is kicked up by the churning of the reel. There is a taste of salt and everything has the essence of fish oil. There is no light unless you light a cigarette, and then you become a glowing beacon for five minutes. 

It is cold. 

You think you know what cold feels like, but you have never felt cold like this. It hurts. It aches. It is a burden. It doesn't even feel "cold" - it feels like your skin is burning. You cover yourself and you try to keep moving, but the cold seeps into your bones. 

It slows you.

When you feel a fish on the line, it is a momentary excitement soon replaced by a sense of obligation. This is not going to be three minutes of bass fight and then a quick release. This will be hours of labor followed by autopsy and butchery. 

When your ten hours are up, you will drink cups of hot, black coffee and instantly go to sleep. You will sleep like the dead. Like the carcasses of all the fish you bested. You will wake feeling like rusted metal, but more coffee will oil your gears. The forced labor will loosen your joints.

Only three more months of this, you think. 

Three months. 

It's what you signed up for.