By the time the frenzy ends, no one remembers how many fish we've caught. We've drifted beneath the lighthouse. I lick my lips and taste salt, though whether from my own sweat or the spray, I can't tell. A moment's rest. Then there is a strange sound, the hiss that heavy wet snow makes when it hits water. In the shadows of the sheer cliffs we see bass coming. As they get closer the sound changes to that of hard pelting rain, and Dixon yells. The school splits around the boat and some of the fish are knocking into it, drumming down the fiberglass hull. This is too much. I flub my cast but recover quickly and the streamer lands somewhere out of sight behind a swell. Instantly I hook up, but almost as quickly as the rod jerks down, it springs back up. I look at Dixon and he winces.