Everyone knows what it’s like to want something. Economists say that people have unlimited wants, but I disagree. Sometimes there’s just one thing you're looking for; something to find, something to accomplish. During my vacation to Sanibel Island, I had this tunnel-vision mindset. I wanted to catch a shark.

         The ocean has always held my fascination. Its endless horizons and inky depths brought to mind a hill insurmountable, untamed and free. Textbook descriptions don’t do the ocean justice; you have to see it in person to understand its enormity. As I first gazed upon its wonder, the reality of my goal hit home; this was going to be very different than fishing in a lake. I’d never felt so small.
“What have I gotten myself into” I muttered more to myself than anyone else.
“I suppose that depends on how patient you are.” My dad stood next to me at the
end of the “T” shaped pier.
“Well, if stubbornness runs in the family then I should be set.” My response was
sincere, but it didn’t change my odds. I was merely tempting a chance.
As I stood vigilant over my bait I contemplated the water’s glassy surface, a
polished window with curtains drawn. A translation for the less poetically inclined; the water wasn’t very clear. This wasn’t a hindrance to my bait (a hunk of Mullet the size of my fist) as its whole point was to attract things by smell.
As I stood there waiting, hoping, the world seemed more quiet. I still don’t know if it was concentration or longing that kept me focused. The rhythm of the
swells lifted and dropped my line; the sensation resonated up the rod to meet
my hands. Despite this, not once did I feel a bite.
Minutes blurred into hours. The sun ventured from barely peeking over the horizon to its apex in the sky, glaring down at the world below. Gulls hovered overhead.
Their obnoxious calls were a facade, in actuality they were carefully watching
for unsupervised bait. Who doesn't love a free lunch?
Despite the noise of the gulls, I remained rather quiet. The monotony of reeling in bait, replacing it if it went bad, and casting out again left me with little
inclination to speak. “Should I be doing something different? Should I just
wait it out? What am I doing wrong? Should I just quit?” These questions filled
my mind with a feeling somewhere in between indifference and despair. The
uncertainty gnawed on me and slowly even hope began to fade. 
Then, in a moment of supreme irony, as my dad declared that we’d be heading back to the house soon, the line pulled, hard. This sensation was immediately different from anything I’d hooked into before. Most fish in Michigan pull on the line and swim in a single direction for a few seconds then “burn out” so to speak. As soon as I felt the tug I pulled back with my rod to set the hook, and then was immediately yanked
back down as though my line were attached to a motor boat. The line felt as
though whatever was attached was constantly chomping on it. The fish would
swim in one direction then turned the other way so fast and with such force that all I could do was hold on. I couldn’t reel, I couldn’t set my drag, I just held on to the rod praying the line wouldn’t break!
“What the h*ll did I hook?” I yelled to my dad. He was standing behind me turning on his camera.
“I think it’s safe to say you got what you asked for!” his voice almost giddy.
One of the regular fishermen on the pier took one look at my rod (it was the shape of an upside down “U” by the way) and rushed over to instruct me on what to do.
“Follow the fish, walk down the pier with it, if you try to outmuscle it, the fish will break the line.” I did as the man said, hoping he actually knew what he was talking about.   Mere moments felt like an eternity as I struggled to reel and hold the rod at once. After several minutes, the pulling on the line slowed and I became hopeful. Despite my arms begging to rest, I took the opportunity to reel the fish up to the surface to see what it was. The fish strongly disliked this idea and promptly darted back down. Then, all of the sudden a light silhouette appeared just under the surface. My heart climbed into my throat. The shape in the water was a shark, and it was connected to my line. I quickly reeled in as the fisherman lowered a net to scoop up the still thrashing fish. With little more than a grunt, the man hoisted the shark over the rail and down onto the pier where he held it until it stopped whipping around everywhere. What lay before me was something special. A dream made real. The fisherman removed the hook and then showed me how to hold it so it couldn’t take off a finger or two.  I just nodded dumbly, hearing every other word. When he handed  me the shark  I was surprised just how energetic it still was, I could feel its muscles coiling when it was about to kick. I identified it as a three-foot Bonnethead Shark; a species of hammerhead but without much of a “hammer”.
The doubt and fears that had plagued me were replaced by pride. I realized that my persistence played as much a role as luck in my success. Once I’d posed for pictures I
felt the need to return my catch back to the ocean. I didn’t need a trophy to remember this, the memory and pictures would be enough. The sense of accomplishment really hit home not when I first caught the shark, but when I saw it swim away, back to its home. My persistence paid off after all. This is why the phrase “hang in there” should mean more than a cat poster.