When I was a kid, my dad used to tell me fishing stories. Lots of fishing stories. He grew up in Hollywood, Fla., and Fort Myers, so he’d fished both the east and west coasts. Allegedly, he and his brothers frequently filled the boat with Spanish mackerel in the Atlantic, caught all the bass they could ever want from golf course ponds, and regularly had epic battles with Caloosahatchee River tarpon.
But that was a long time before I came along. When I was a fish-crazy kid, Dad was very busy trying to get a series of businesses off the ground, and that takes a huge amount of time. We didn’t fish together as often as I would have liked (and not as often as he would have liked, I suspect).
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