'Hmph' is all she gets out of him, though it's softened by the way she claws at the bench: she can be right all she likes, he ain't the one afraid of a boat.

Hook's still intact, though. Sinker, bobber, line all check out. Whatever it was, that fish was a smart son of a bitch to play the long game, too. Suppose he can't fault it that.

Joel loosens his grip on the pole, lifts his chin up enough to dodge the sun's blinding glare and tosses another lengthy cast out over a different stretch of lake. Truth be told, he's got no clue about the fish in this area-- whether they'd be biting so soon after winter, how big on average they are, whether the fish they're yanking up are native or introduced-- but he's never been the type to admit that in the first place. Joel knows what he's doing, and anyone that's argued against it (except maybe for Tess) gets a thorough, stubborn brush off.