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Who gets to fight the fish? Who gets to sit in the fighting chair and engage in a titanic struggle against the mighty fish? There s some confusion on board.

A fish? More akin to a whale, really.

And then after those two marvelous hours, which the lucky angler s spent in the chair bringing the rod up and down, taking in slack, fighting a beast five times his weight? Once the beast is exhausted? What then? Then it begins the death circle, wandering aimlessly around the boat, nearly all its life-force spent on straining against a line it cannot break.

What s it like to bring something like that over the side? You ve gone through the roles in your head.

Hours, with a fish on the line.

The captain maneuvering the boat.

You run through the situation in your mind, over and over.

One is in the boat s head, being seasick.

Line begins to streak through its guide, pulled out at an unbelievable rate, a dozen yards a second.

In the meantime, there s nothing really going on.

One guy strapped into the fighting chair, along with the rod.

And then it happens.

The day is pleasant, the slap of the waves against the hull lulls you into a drowsy stupor, your eyes nearly closing as you stare out into the glassy horizon.

Your friends are scattered as well.

The fish is hoisted over the side .

Two mates gaff it in the head.

And the long, violent fight is over at last.

You re thinking about a nap.

Two others are eating a snack in the cabin .

One thousand pounds.

Which can last hours.

The captain nudges the boat a bit more, a leader man takes the line in hand and maneuvers the fish to the side of the boat.

And then the fight.

The reel is screaming, and the men and women around you have all gone crazy, running around, shouting even the sick man and the two men eating lunch have heard the calls and sprinted up to the deck.

Two others to clear the lines.

Whose....

A rod mounted on the stern pops.

Moby Dick, indeed.