The time is 8:30pm. The Mexican meal that looked like taco stuff to me but was called something else is over. The dishes are put away. The fish have been cleaned, bagged, and put in the freezer. The shoes are coming off and the table is being cleared.

This can only mean one thing at fish camp. It’s time for Dominoes.

I have been waiting an entire year for redemption. No longer a complete novice, I am determined to make a decent showing at the game table. I walked away with the high score in every round last year. And, in case you didn’t know, having the high score is not the object.

Meet the players.

There’s Terry, the old, Salted Dog whose game face is a bit of a scowl. A retired fire captain, he plays the game with no fear. Each move calculated. His favorite bluff: “Man, I can’t believe all my tiles are lining up like this!” He likes to hide his last few tiles in his cupped hand.

Then, there’s Beady-Eyed Sandra. She fishes circles around the rest of us on the lake. At the table, she holds her tiles close to the vest. She stares down her options, her gaze fixed and steely. She doesn’t make mistakes, and if you hand her an easy play, she’ll cut you.

To her left, Mona Romona. Her flowered cap is pulled down low, almost to the bridge of her nose. Her chin propped in one hand, elbow on the table. She arranges her tiles like Greg Maddux used to set up his pitches. No one is safe.

On the end is Easy Joe. He speaks softly and laughs quietly. But don’t let that friendly grandpa face fool you. He’s a whiz of a mind reader. He knows what you’re gonna play before you know, and he’s not afraid to reach across the table and bring you to tears. He’ll lay down a double 15 and ruin your game without blinking.

I sit to Joe’s left. Enough said.

Last, but not least, to my left is Hold ‘Em Marion. Her entire game is built around making you think she doesn’t have anything to play. When it’s her turn, she ponders her move so long you think she’s got nothing. Next thing you know, she’s out and the game is over.

If you think that dominoes is a nice, gentle game for old folks, like bingo at the senior citizens center, I should invite you to sit at our table one night. It’s more like sitting with Maverick in a game of 5-card draw at the Red Dog Saloon.

The first few rounds are fairly peaceful. We’re still joking about the day’s fishing and the ones that got away. We all start our trains. Somebody plays a double on the community train and the next three plays satisfy the double.

But as the night moves on. . .

“I don’t think you mixed the tiles very well.”

“Jeepers creepers, there. You took my play again.”

“You didn’t just do that! Really!!”

“You can’t play there until that double is satisfied. What are you trying to do?”

I’m not really sure what version of dominoes we’re playing. We call each player’s line of tiles a train. You have to play matching numbers end to end, unless a double is played. That starts a three-way spread that some folks call a chicken foot.

We kind of have our own rules that come from the domino ancestors before us. Best I can tell you, our game must be a chicken footed version of Mexican Train. I don’t guess it matters as long as we all understand and agree to the rules of play.

After about three rounds, it’s time to stretch. Work out the kinks from sitting on hard chairs. Usually, a piece of toasted pound cake comes out. Maybe blackberry angel food cake. A refresh on the water, or tea, or coke.

“Alrighty,” somebody will say. “Let’s get serious. And mix up those tiles really good this time.”

Plastic domino tiles “clink” when they bang together. Mixing them up is like stirring beans in a pot, except they’re lying face down and flat on the table. The more enthusiastic the swirl, the louder the clink.

How a player chooses his/her next 12 tiles is a matter of personal preference. No matter how much swirling is done, I always pick randomly from all over the table. Joe picks up the closest twelve to his side. Sandra gets up and leans across the table to avoid any tile anywhere close to her side. Marion waits until all the rest of us finish picking and then carefully selects her tiles.

“I have my own strategy” she says.

Millie, the speckled plump Beagle, is scouring for cake crumbs beneath the table. She’s a quiet dog. She’ll sniff your toes or thump your knee with her wagging tail. Every now and then she’ll step to the side and look at you with those sad golden eyes. Mostly, she just stretches out on the floor beneath the domino storm and sleeps.

Speaking of sleep, the hour is getting late by now. We’re in round five or six. The clock is pushing 11pm. We’re all giving it our best, but the sun out on the lake earlier has drained most of our energy. I’m not sure I can go on.

“One more round.”

Marion is yawning but challenging the rest of us old goats.

“One more,” somebody says, “but that’s it.”

Salted Dog Terry took leave of the game an hour ago. He said something about taking his meds before bedtime. None of us think it had anything to do with the 40,000 points he had accumulated. Our mascot Beagle left with him.

Something about being giddy and sleep deprived changes the tenor of the game. The moves that would have aggravated you early on now make you laugh. Doubles are funny. Somebody blocks your move, and you find it hilarious. A player tries to play in the wrong place, gets called on it, and when the laughter dies down no one can remember whose turn it is.

It’s my turn. Sandra is watching the table like a hawk. Mona has her chin in her hand. Joe is quietly rearranging his tiles. Marion is rubbing her eyes.

I have no move, so I have to draw from the pile. I feel something touching my knee under the table.

“Millie, what are doing licking my kneecap?”

I notice everyone is staring at me with a deadpan look.

“What?”

I’m not catching on.

“I can’t play.” I look at Marion. “It’s your turn.”

Sandra says, “Millie’s not here.”

Marion asks, “What are you and Joe doing over there?”

Joe says, “I thought it was Millie, too.”

“When did Millie leave?” I ask.

We could barely finish the last game. Joe had so many points that he didn’t even add up his last hand. I don’t remember who won that particular night, but I do know this.

We were all glad when the final “Domino” was called, and the lights went out.

This is Kissimmee. Fish by day. Dominoes by night.