THE RIVER IS ON FIRE, LIT WITH 4,000 WATTS OF SPOTLIGHT BOLTED TO THE BOW. I WATCH THE MEN ON THE FRONT DECK, A PAIR OF SILHOUETTES AGAINST A RIVER THAT GLOWS GREEN, BLUE, AND YELLOW, LIKE A WITCH’S CAULDRON. Each figure holds the long shaft of a wicked gig, the barbed tines fat as cigars. The man on the right suddenly tenses, shifts forward, and slides the tip of the 14-foot-long pole into the water. The boat shifts in pursuit, the gigger on the bow deck tracking his target. Then, without warning, he jabs the gig down, into the green light. It’s a miss. He pulls the gig up, makes a second jab, then a third. I watch, spellbound. My turn is coming.
“That fish has him dancing,” says…