Two old men, one young woman, and the sea: Part IV

So D told some jokes to try to make me forget my sea malaise. A sampling:

How do you get down from an elephant?
You don't. You get down from a duck.

To be said after someone has passed gas:
Did you say something? Your voice sounds different, but your breath smells the same.

Ah, me.

The jokes did help cheer me up and I was soon feeling, while not fit as a fiddle, OK enough to do some fishing of my own. I jigged for a little while. It wasn't the Irish kind of jigging, which involves moving your feet fast and also, often, whiskey. It was the kind where you move a fishing pole up and down so a silvery jig that's near the ocean floor, some 200 feet down, looks like something a fish would want to eat. I had no luck, so it was time to move on to bait.

As I am a lady, I did not touch the bait; PolackPappy baited my hooks for me. Casting involves letting the bait sink to the ocean floor. Then you sit there and crack jokes and pass gas and crack jokes about passing gas until you feel a tug on your line, at which point you set the hook by yanking up hard on the pole. Then you reel the fishie in.

And reel and reel and reel. And reel. And reel some more. 200 feet feels pretty far down on your forearms. I caught a few illegal cod, some cusk (which I felt bad about because due to an air bladder they often don't make it, leaving them flopping on the surface of the water while birds peck at them; when I told PP it looked like they were suffering he said "Don't go all PETA on me now.") and then...