CAMERON MOREY RATTLED open the rusty hinges of his stepfather’s tacklebox, sifting through decades’ worth of weathered tackle in search of the perfect bait. He shuffled through a pegboard of soft plastics and forgotten spinnerbait blades before landing on the one — a hot pink Strike King Bill Dance frog.
Then, Morey walked across the pecan-shaded lawn of his childhood home and grabbed a boat. Literally. At 15 years old, Morey could not drive and, besides, he didn’t own a trailer for the silver 12-foot Alumacraft anyway. Instead, he simply dragged its riveted bottom along a quarter-mile of asphalt before finally arriving on the banks of a neighborhood pond. I should know because I was there. While big brother dragged a boat down the street, little brother rode around the driveway on a tricycle.
Raised in a fishing family, my time on the end of the line would soon
