Suddenly the big surf rod twitches, then bends sharply and line starts zipping off the hefty reel. We are hip deep in the surf of Smith Island, one of the charming and remote barrier islands reached only by boat along the seaside of Virginia’s Eastern Shore.

We are after red drum, a prestigious, inshore prize. A bowed rod and throbbing reel is why we’ve walked a mile along the beach at daylight.

The fight is on. More line is taken, regained. We hustle along the beach to keep the glittering line straight toward the target. Arms hurt. Legs are strained. A back aches.

Then something rolls to the surface well beyond the breakers. What you want to see is the back of a copper-hued fish with a big, ocellated spot at the base of its tail.

But what I see, out of the corner of my eye, is Claude Bain doing a duck walk, folding his arms and flapping them birdlike. Or raylike. We have hooked another ray -- maybe a cownose, bat ray, bullfish, stingray, skate, I’m not certain because I am not on a first-name basis with these critters. I just know it isn’t what I want. It isn’t a drum.

When a 50-pound ray is within about 30 yards of your careful reach, he really shuts down. The pancake flat, diamond-shaped animal appears to become a giant suction cup. It takes your every muscle to gain line on it. You hurt all over. You want nothing more in life than to rid yourself of this fruitless tug of war.

Your partners aren’t much help. Written on their face is a grin that says: “I’m glad it’s you not me.â€

now that is a very funny story,,

{Battle a bunch of rays in a row, and the time soon comes you are much slower grabbing a bowing rod from a sand spike. Suddenly you are polite. “No, you take it. It’s your turn.â€