Magnus Jormungandr

	The line sprang taut with a sound like a hammer on a saw blade. Sam let go to avoid being catapulted into space. The pole was nearly ripped out of my hands, taking my fingers with it, but I somehow held on.
	The chair groaned. The leather straps dug into my collarbones. The entire boat leaned into the waves with timbers creaking and rivets popping.
...
	I gritted my teeth. My arm muscles felt like warm bread dough. Just when I was sure I couldn’t hold on any longer, the pulling stopped. The line hummed with tension, laser-dotting on the grey water about a hundred yards starboard.
...
	I turned the handle. It was like arm-wrestling the Terminator. The rod bent. The cable creaked. Sam pulled the line, keeping it clear of the rail, but even with her help I could barely make any progress.
	My shoulders went numb. My lower back spasmed. Despite the cold, I was soaked with sweat and shivering with exhaustion. I felt like I was reeling in a sunken battleship.
	From time to time, Sam yelled encouraging things like, ‘No, you idiot! Pull!’
	Finally, in front of the boat, the sea darkened in a fifty-foot-diameter oval. The waves sloshed and boiled.
...
	The rod began slipping from my hands. ‘Help!’
	Sam lunged and grabbed the fishing pole. She wedged herself next to me in the chair to assist, but I was too tired and terrified to feel embarrassed.