When I was a little girl, one of my favorite things to do with my dad was fishing. It helped that we frequently went to my favorite library in the same trip (I’m a born bookworm – slash – mermaid, so a library that sits on the banks of a river? No better place on earth.)
The area of town that we lived in was called Eau Gallie – “Rocky Water.” Our river’s edge was piled with jagged rocks that I loved to use as steppingstones, precariously balancing and occasionally “accidentally” winding up in the water.
One memorable day, Dad and I, along with my mom and brother, went out along the riverside to fish. I was maybe six or seven years old; young enough that I needed help baiting my hook but old enough to be left holding the fishing pole independently.
There I sat, only half expecting anything to take the bait. My joy was in sitting at the water’s edge, listening to the swoosh
