Let's bark our lungs out.
Cool. Everybody ready?
Louder! Can't hear you on this end of town!
We're gonna bark our lungs out for Lop-ear. Anything in particular we're celebrating?
Some sweat-soaked human is trying to get some shut-eye downstairs, and I want to bark about it.
Awwright. All night?
Why not? I'll start. Yap-yap-yap-yap.
Give 'em tongue, boys.
By day, I worried about the success of our mission. Frank had been a guide at Los Roques since 1988, the first year that tourists began to pour in for bonefish. Born in Caracas, he had played shortstop at Tennessee in the mid-1970s, but his dreams of a professional baseball career ended when he broke his finger on his first day of minor league tryouts. "Any chance we'll get our supermodel a bonefish?" I asked him. "Niki's not going to be much of a caster. We'll need a trailing wind."
"I have a spot in mind for Niki," Frank said. "I'm saving it."