This column is dedicated to the recreational fisherperson who wants to have a good time, get the boat wet, spend time with friends and family, and maybe catch a couple fish.

My boat has been in for repairs lately and my buddy, Larry, told me that his friends, L.B. and Tony, felt sorry for me and invited me to fish with them. I jumped at the chance.

All boat owners have their own ways of doing things and first trips on strange boats, with new people, can be daunting events. It's easy to feel out of place the first time aboard a boat. Old-time fishing friends complement each other in form and movement; just like old married couples they even finish each others' sentences. It's the same on my boat for new guests. You can always expect some idiosyncrasies. So, it was with an open-mind that I approached L.B.'s 32-foot Blackfin.

"Rinse the bottom of your shoes," L.B. bellowed his hello. "I didn't spend an hour cleaning the cockpit just to have a bunch of people drag dirt all over it." Bunch of people? There were only Larry and me. Larry handed me a hose. I sprayed my Crocs and scraped the bottoms on the cement dock. "I've learned a really cool way to do this at the Dolphin Research Center," I offered. "I don't give a #%$& how you did it up north," L.B. replied, bellowing once again. Now, I've lived in the Florida Keys for nine years, but this was the first time I ever heard Grassy Key referred to as "up north." So, in my most non-defensive voice I replied, "Nice to meet you too, L.B. Why don't I just stay out of the way; and if you need anything...you just let me know."

After bellowing at Larry for putting the sandwiches in the wrong ice chest, and then bellowing at Tony for untying the stern line too soon, L.B. idled the immaculate Blackfin away from the dock. Obviously, this was a retired guy with the time to clean and polish every inch of this boat. Thick coats of paint were buffed shiny, and perfect beads of white caulking waterproofed every seam and corner. This man loves his boat and has the time to dote over it. It's very seldom that I have someone else driving the boat; and since I had decided not to offer any more suggestions, I settled down to enjoy the trip through Sisters Creek.

I was taken by the fact that I live in the middle of the Florida Keys. This is boaters' paradise. We passed anchored and docked boats. The boat names told the story: Diving Me Crazy, Extravagant Promises, Reel Thing, Imagine, Believe, Grouper Trooper, Seas the Day and countless others. I've realized my life's dream by living here. We passed the outer marker at Sisters Creek and headed due south to deeper water past Sombrero Lighthouse. The fresh smell of salt-air filled my nostrils. The big boat shuddered just slightly as it hit the head-waves and held rock-steady in the tight seas. The supercharged engines purred out a rhythmic drone and all was well with the world.

Conversation was a mix of hopeful expectation, wary exchange of information and lighthearted chiding fueled by boredom. We were participants of a common passion. The water became a deep sullen blue, undulating and surging in huge rounded masses that developed 650 feet below. It was time to set out trolling baits. I stayed out of the way and watched the dance of experienced anglers performing their assigned duties. L.B. and I struck up a conversation recounting fishing experiences from New England to Mexico. He's a true fisherman's fisherman.

Recalling the no "up north suggestion" rule, I asked tentatively, "L.B., are you heading somewhere in particular or would you like to fish under that great big bird just off our port bow?" Silently, he turned the boat and we trolled a zigzag pattern under a soaring frigate bird. Just as we had hoped, one of the trolled ballyhoo was hit by something that pulled line off the reel as easily as Christmas ribbon coming off a spool. "Whatever it is, it's big," we all screeched in unison. L.B. barked, "Someone take the rod, someone clear the other lines."

Larry took the rod, Tony cleared the lines. "This drag feels too tight, I need a fighting belt, the boat is going too fast," Larry moaned under the weight of the behemoth on the end of the line. L.B. put the boat on autopilot and ran into the cabin. He reappeared holding a small plastic jug. "What are you doing with that?" Larry groaned, "I told you I needed a fighting belt." "I just figured if you're going to keep pissing and moaning, you might as well do it in here, so you don't make a mess on my nice clean cockpit," L.B. taunted.

Finally, Larry was given a fighting belt. The fish was still pulling line off the reel. I approached Larry to offer moral support. "Why is the rod upside down?" I asked him. "I don't know" he replied. Suddenly, we realized that the reel seat, the threaded ring that holds the reel to the rod, had come loose and the reel was rotating to the right. And, as if things weren't bad enough, the butt of the rod had come loose and was rotating to the left. The fishing line was wrapping around the fore grip of the rod. This was bad, this was very bad. "If you don't baby that fish all the way in Larry, we'll never boat him," I cautioned.

Inch by inch, foot by foot, Larry finessed line back onto the reel. We got the rod and reel back in proper alignment and all the while the battle continued. It's a clash of wits, and wills, with a big fish like this; but finally the reel was beginning to fill up with retrieved line. "Keep the pressure on him. Nice and easy, don't panic him," I reminded Larry. He was too winded to respond other than a sweaty head shake and a grunt.

The first flash of color appeared deep beneath the boat. "Oh my goodness," I gasped, "That's the biggest wahoo I've seen in a long time." L.B. handed me the gaff. I moved in front of Larry as he moved to the center of the cockpit. The wahoo came within striking distance and I landed the gaff just behind his gill plate. He was so heavy I struggled to lift him over the gunwale and into the fish box. The boat exploded with screams, hoots, high fives and happy expletives. The fish hung out both sides of the custom-built fish box. This WAS a big fish. We rounded out the day with a nice catch of 20-pound-plus skipjack tunas and headed back to the dock in time to clean the boat, and filet fish, before the sun went down.

And there you have it, another spectacular fishing adventure right in our own backyards. We created lifetime memories, lifetime friendships and a lifetime fish-story of surmounted adversity. I love catching big fish. And, I love catching wahoos. So what could be better than catching a big wahoo? Nothing I can think of. And as always, life is good in the Florida Keys.

C.J. Geotis is a life-long fisherman who followed his dream to live in the Florida Keys more than eight years ago. He lives in Marathon with his wife, Loretta. His e-mail is fishstories@bellsouth.net