I have a confession to make. Many of you know that I love fishing—a passion I discovered after I met Solomon. But I haven’t been completely truthful. Because, you see, it’s not just that I love fishing, I particularly love beating Solomon at fishing.

Ever since our first fishing trip together, I have always managed to catch more fish and better fish than Solomon. From the beginning, Solomon joked that I had an advantage—that the fish were drawn to a spiritual connection. Every time we would go, Solomon would laugh and tell the crusty old boat hands about his wife, the rabbi, who catches more fish and better fish even though she has only been fishing now for a couple of seasons.

But all that changed on our recent trip to Canada. We went out cod fishing out of Lunenberg, Nova Scotia. As usual, we joked about how long it would take me to catch my first fish. But when we sunk those lines into the water, I was in for a surprise. Unlike every other fishing trip, my line was quiet and still. But Solomon was catching fish like there was no tomorrow. Within a short window, he caught enough cod to feed the 12 friends we were visiting that night, and then started offering fish to the families around us who did not have his incredible luck. He quickly became the most popular client on the boat. I quickly became the world’s worst sport.

Up until that point, I hadn’t realized how much of my love of fishing had to do with my luck in fishing. Also, up until that point, I hadn’t thought it was luck, really. Somehow, I had convinced myself that I was just a superior huntress, that all the years of knitting and piano had made my fingertips more sensitive, that I had an intuitive sense of the fish. But on that boat in Canada, I employed exactly the same strategies I do on every boat, I was the same person with the same skills and the same track record, but my result was so different.

The next day I demanded that we go again.