Joe Coogan lounged on the boat’s rear seat, his crusty Topsiders crossed atop the Ranger’s gunwale. He held his reel in his lap, rod tip down. His slackened line coiled on the water’s surface. Shadowed by a hat brim, aviator sunglasses, and a burka-like head gaiter, he would have looked rather suspicious, but I knew better. Likewise, I slouched on the front pedestal, beer at the ready, minding my bobber as it worked through saw grass. I spat sunflower seeds and jabbed at Coog for his strange history of snapping selfies with my fish and posting them to Facebook.