"Captain Marvel.... Hey, I like it!"
In the early years that I fished the shallows, we poled our boats from the bow; poler and angler were at the same level. Now the poler—the guide—is on an elevated platform and generally can see much farther than formerly. This should be an advantage to the team, not an opportunity for the guide to humiliate his angler, but this principle is frequently violated by a physiosocial disorder known by its acronym, PIMP—Platform-Induced Moronic Phase-out, and anyone who mounts a poling platform is in jeopardy of contracting it. I've had it several times. Standing up there with the graphite push pole in hand, with all its feeling of thrust and weaponry, you stare down at male-pattern baldness and sunburn and can't help but cry out, "What're you anyway, blind?"
Big snook, nine o'clock, 70 feet going left!"
I looked all over the brown-and-gray-mottled bottom for a gray-and-mottled snook.
"I can't see him."
"He's right there!"
"I don't know where the f—-he is!"
"He's right in front of you! He's right next to that little island!"
"I don't see any little island!"
Austin's shoulders slumped. The push pole knocked against the platform. "He's gone."