The minute we passed the jetty breaks our tiny bay boat started to bob on open ocean swells. By the time we had made it three miles from shore dehydration, a scorching Texas sun, and too much indulgence was mixing with Champe's equilibrium at a savage pace. His balance only got worse as bait was set, lines thrown over, and chum grinded into the water. When the first line screeched off the reel Champe was in position to yak. But our captain didn't give him the chance. He thrust the howling set-up into Champe's hands and started barking. For more than twenty minutes all Champe heard was, "Set the hook! Don't stop pulling! Reel 'em in faster! Don't you die on me! Come on, let's go!"