My dad and I had always enjoyed bass fishing on the lazy Illinois River. We would get our canoe parallel to the bank, and then he'd pick up his rod and cast his favorite purple rubber worm somewhere that looked "fishy." But there was a problem. Right after the cast, a rock or submerged tree limb always seemed to pop up to threaten our canoe's well-being. Whenever this happened, my dad would speed-reel in his lure, drop the rod, grab the paddle, and narrowly avert disaster. After about the fifth time my dad had to retrieve his worm at Mach 5 just to avoid a log, he got a little perturbed. Dad went home that time frowning and fishless, swearing revenge on that dastardly river and its "raging" currents.