Several years ago, when my sister lived in Pensacola, the Pres and I would drive down for a visit. We'd stay at her house for a few days then head on over to Pensacola Beach, where we'd rent a condo for a week. Typically, if they could get the time off from work, my daughter, her boyfriend, Angel, and my son and his then fiancee would fly down and share the week with us. The place was beautiful and, of course, the sand at Pensacola Beach is as white as sugar.
In the evening when the Pres and I were too "pooped to pop," the kids would walk down to the beach and fish. Dinner dishes done, bodies showered wearing clean cotton sweats and T-shirt, just sitting back with our feet up watching television. Hopefully, you've gotten a picture of total relaxation because we were.
Suddenly the front door opened and Jennifer's voice echoed up the entry level staircase, "Joe! Joe, come quick! Angel caught a shark and we don't now what to do with it! We have nothing to cut the line! Come and help us!" Picture now the Pres in his younger, more formidable years racing to get his flip flops on as he headed down the stairs.
About a half hour later, hearing the knob turn as the door opened, in walked the Pres holding a fish above his head as he climbed the open staircase and headed into the kitchen. It was only the beginning. Shortly thereafter, Angel in walked toting his own catch of the day!
We ate fried fish the next day and it was absolutely awesome. Oh, the shark? No we didn't eat the shark. The Pres was able to solve their dilemma as soon as he got down to beach. There in the black of night, he simply cut the line and released it back into the foaming sea.