I was 11 and the fish outweighed me by 15 pounds. But I'd hooked her and I was going to bring her in if I dislocated both of my shoulders in the process. Because that's what Granddad told me to do and I was too dumb to know I couldn't. I don't know how long I fought her. Maybe a year. Maybe a decade. Forever. I'm still fighting her. That's how much heart she had, how much fear.
I was too skinny and weak to pull her in, but I was stubborn. Or was expected to be, so I was. I held on like my life was on the line. I don't know why it didn't break. I couldn't feed it out fast enough. She kept pulling it taut. Maybe she'd done it before, was expecting a snap and freedom. But my hook stayed set. I hung on, kept giving her slack. Sweet Jesus, did she jump. I thought my rig would break, my wrists. Sweat swamped me, stung my eyes, but I couldn't wipe it away. I wanted to rub my knee. I wanted to quit. I wanted to show her, maybe Granddad, maybe me, who was boss. I didn't know what else to do, but I held her. In the end, her own strength, stubbornness cost her her life. She wore herself out and gave up her side. I gaffed her but it took both of us to haul her in.
On the deck, she was just a big, dead trash-fish. I always cut them loose now. Wake them up and watch them swim away. But she was my first and Granddad thought I needed to see it through. To know that I was capable and what I was capable of. She was strong and living and free and I decided to end that. I made a choice. I acted. I succeeded. A life ended. She died. That was what Granddad needed me to understand. That's what it means to be a man.
We brought her back in, to be admired by whoever might be around, but left the carcass with a guy on the beach who said he'd chop it up for chum for crab traps. Tarpon are garbage to eat. Too bony.