When I was sixteen

When I was sixteen, summers in Veracruz meant adventure and salt-soaked skin. My cousins and I would gather at dawn, the warm breeze heavy with brine and excitement, as we prepared for shark fishing. We had no fancy equipment—just a thick rope, a giant rusted hook, and nerves braver than our common sense. We’d row out in an old wooden skiff, the sun climbing the sky as we reached deeper waters. Baiting the hook with slabs of raw fish, we'd lower it into the abyss, the rope coiling on the floor of the boat like a sleeping serpent. Then, we waited, hearts pounding, the ocean whispering secrets below.

The sudden yank on the rope was like a lightning strike. Our hands blistered as we fought the unseen force, the skiff rocking violently as though the sea itself were challenging our courage. Salt spray stung our faces, but we roared with exhilaration, muscles straining as we heaved the creature toward us. Finally, the silver-gray body broke the surface, thrashing, eyes cold and primal. We wrestled it into submission, the shark’s rough skin scraping against the hull as it finally lay still. We’d return to the shore triumphantly, our prize glinting under the hot Veracruz sun, proof of a reckless summer that tasted of salt, fear, and victory.

-JG

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