Five hours later, my hands numb from filleting a couple dozen iced-down fish ("It's [expletive] hell on your hands, but it keeps the fish from going mushy," Paula explained), I realized I was going to be late to pick up my daughter. I drove home, dumped the rods, threw the fish in the fridge, and raced to school. Emma came over at a gallop. "Retta's mom is taking some kids to her grandma's house at Lake Barcroft," she announced breathlessly. "Can we go? Can we?" Ten minutes later, we were caravanning to a tiny private lake in a community so upscale you can probably be fined if caught doing your own yard work. We were six kids, two moms, and one fishy-smelling dad. The kids ran for the beach, screaming and kicking sand at one another.