On the afternoon of Saturday, August 18, while trolling with Captain Matthew Quintano, one of our rods was pulled down by a vicious strike. The fish was there for a second, but two cranks of the handle later it was gone. We reeled the crankbait in and attached to the front treble there was a gooey, slimy, yet hard-shelled orb. Somehow we’d managed to miss the musky’s mouth, but completely impaled its eyeball.
I’m generally wary of overarching generational generalizations. The idea that there is or was a “Greatest Generation” is probably wishful nostalgia. If nothing else, it oversimplifies things greatly – for every birth year, there are good people and bad people, serious folks and clowns, patriots and traitors.