Channeling Papa H. for the Morning.

We did not intend to sport-fish. We intended to dinner-fish. But since we caught nothing worth eating and had to toss back what we did catch, we'll call it sport.

No pretension on the boat. This is not the place to bring your tulip glass. If the local beer is cold, that will do. The earliness of the hour stopped mattering as soon as we left shore.

Generally I'm not a rum-and-coke drinker. Tastes too much like a hasty high school party. But there is something about that taste after a puff of cigar smoke and throwing back one of those wacky animal-looking fishes like something that Steve Zissou spotted from his submersible.

In my case it was a handsome rooster fish with a serious, early '80s throwback punk-rock mohawk. That's what they call sport. Fun, but I would've rather caught dinner.