When I was fifteen, we took our annual trip to the beach. There I was, in stupid teenager Heaven, taking in the sights, when I walked up on a dead catfish. In all the years we spent camping at the beach, I’d caught my fair share of sea cats. The little devils are basically worthless, but they put up a heck of a fight from the piers at Panama City and Gulf Shores.
I stood over the carcass of this dead fish, as it swelled in the sun. I was barefoot and bored, so I did the next logical thing for a stupid teenager.