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Killer FishWill SwaimPublished on May 19, 2005You and I will spend the summer fishing—if we fished, and we don't; we can't stand the stench, the scales and the senseless suffering—out of Davey's Locker or Newport Landing alongside 60 or 70 beer-bellied, sunburned guys from the Inland Empire on a sportsfishing boat that is positively pincushioned with poles and floating at anchor just off the poop plume at the mouth of the mighty Santa Ana River in Huntington Beach. Eileen Padberg? The 60-year-old Republican political consultant closed her Corona del Mar home a year ago and moved to Baghdad, part of an American team helping to steer postwar reconstruction projects to Iraqi women. Between business seminars that wouldn't seem extraordinary in your local Holiday Inn, the mortar attacks and the grim advent of summer heat that makes ours look positively autumnal, Padberg fishes the Tigris River—every Friday if she can—with two friends from the Army Corps of Engineers. Is it safe to fish in the middle of a war? Does she bring a security detail? "It's like fishing at home," she says, except her friends "carry their guns. But I wouldn't call them security." Doyouwearprotectivegear?
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