One day while on vacation in Maine, my mom dragged me into an old antique shop called the Carriage Barn. It’s the last place an 11-year-old boy wants to be, especially while on summer vacation.

I began to browse on my own and soon came upon an old wooden fishing rod that was leaning against a wall amidst an assortment of other items. I decided to pick it up and was immediately fascinated with it — though I quickly realized that I didn’t have the slightest clue how to use it.

The rod had to be 50 years old at the time, an antique which was fitting as I was standing in an antique shop.

My mom, seeing that I was fascinated with it, checked the price tag out of the corner of her eye.

“Do you want to get it?” she asked as I nodded feverishly with a smile.

Soon after that we went to another store to gather fishing supplies. I bought the strongest fishing line they had, strong enough to hold up to a 100 pounds (as advertised) as well as a shiny new lure.

I was so excited and had the fishing line strung on my reel before we even got back to the cabin. With rod, reel, line, and lure all assembled, I marched to the closest fishing spot I could find, on the rocks by our cabin.

With a crude quadruple knot on my lure, I swung the rod back and then whipped it forward as hard as I could, like I had seen in the movies, but my lure went right down into the rocks. Believe me, it’s not that easy.

After a few more tries, I finally managed to get my lure into the water and began to reel it in. It wiggled back and forth, to and fro making splashing sounds and causing bubbles on the water. It was only a few casts later when l felt a massive tug, followed by a strong sustained pull.

I grabbed the rod with both hands and began to pull back and then … SNAP! My rod broke in half, and I reeled in a broken string with no shiny lure at the end, let alone the fish I had expected.

“That was ten bucks,” I said somberly while looking at the end of the tattered string.

Even though I didn’t reel in the monster I was hoping for, it was the most exciting moment I had encountered up until that time, even better than Christmas.

I ran back to the cabin with the bits of my rod in tow and proclaimed that I had hooked a monster, strong enough to snap a wooden rod in half like straw, strong enough to snap a 100-pound test line like it was yarn.

I knew I had to try this again, only next time with a stronger rod. This was already getting to be an expensive hobby.

Two years of fishing passed without a single nibble from the ocean. My shiny, expensive fishing rod remained unchristened. Oh I caught plenty of fish during that time, but only small (stocked) trout from a little stream by my home, the kind you toss back without a second thought.

Nothing came close to the excitement I felt that one amazing day. But with that said, I never lost hope.

One day, while on summer vacation on Bailey Island, I decided to give fishing another try. A storm had recently passed and, according to the older guys, that was supposed to bring good luck.

I brought my younger brother, Dan, with me, an assistant at ready with a fishing net, should I happen to catch a monster. We walked down to my favorite fishing spot and I began my usual ritual.

I would look at the ocean and try to figure out which lure would be best suited for the day. I thought, “The fish won’t be able to see a white lure in heavy sea foam. A shiny silver one on a dull overcast day wouldn’t shimmer.”

Then I thought, “Hmmm, maybe I’ll try this new blue and black mackerel.”

Soon after that I had it tied to my line and tossed it in the water. It wiggled like a fish, dove down and made a rattle when I reeled it in which was very cool. A few casts later I actually felt a tug!

I was exhilarated as only a 13-year-old kid can be and began to scream at my brother, who was off in the distance swinging the net at an abundance of mosquitos.

“Dan! Dan!” I screamed. “I think I almost got something!”

He looked over and nodded, though I knew he wasn’t being genuine. He had heard it all before, but it usually turned out to be nothing more than a clump of seaweed.

I have already told you that a storm had recently passed. The surf was very rough, and the spot I was in only allowed me to cast so far. I knew I had to get out farther to be able to cast to the good spot, the spot that was churning like boiling water.

With a wave to Dan and an enthusiastic point to my intended location I began making my way to a slender and slippery outcrop.

Dan, realizing how dangerous and idiotic the situation was, made his way over as fast as he could.

I swung my rod back as hard as I could and really got my lure out far. As I was reeling in, I felt a tug, then another, then finally I pulled back and my line started spinning off of my reel like crazy with a high pitched buzz.

I had hooked something big, and I knew I couldn’t let it go. A minute or two passed, which seemed like hours, and I began to see the head of something skim the surface only a few yards away. From behind me I heard Dan exclaim, “Look out!”

Instinctively I turned around and looked at his face, which was painted with horror. I had caught a different monster. A monster wave! I braced myself behind the rock and prayed as quickly as anyone can in two seconds.

The wave washed over me and began to recede.

“Look out!” I heard again as I braced for another impact, not even daring to peek at what was coming.

The wave hit and then receded but I wasn’t going to let this fish get away. I feverishly reeled in the last few yards of line and there it was, a beautiful 36-inch striped bass.

I hopped over the ledge and grabbed it by the gill before running for the safety of the rocks. Dan and I screamed and laughed and cheered as he put it in the net.

We ran back to the cabin to boast to everyone about how we caught the monster fish during a storm and never gave up hope. In our minds we were local celebrities, the kids who could fish, no the kids who could catch.

ANDREW CAMPBELL lives in Haverton, Pa. His family still vacations on Bailey Island in Harpswell.