Lead by Strangers. 8/9/2019

I fished the beach yesterday for the first time in over a week. It is typically gin clear this time of year in current conditions. The chalky swirl I witnessed was too much for my soul to bare. I thought for sure I would have at least another month of good sight fishing before seasonal winds pick up, and my son is introduced to the world.

I found myself in conversation with another fly angler while fishing the beach earlier this summer. He told me about catching tarpon on fly from the sand, how he lives for it. Big pods of swirling red sardines, ferocious poons, feet from the sand. This intrigued me. I always thought of tarpon from the beach as more of a fluke. Typically, once the surf churns up on a daily basis I no longer haunt the beaches. Blind casting has never peaked my interest much, but migratory tarpon wreaking havoc on bait pods near the ocean’s surface does.

I take the same rout as usual to my preferred stretch of coastline. At this point during the journey I am usually peering out the top of my windshield trying to get a glimpse of winds and cloud cover. This trip is different. Its 5:30am on a Friday. Most of town is still asleep, especially the tourists. I am ashamed to say I haven't been up this early in a while. Work has been slow and living has been easy this summer.

Here I am at a picture perfect beach. The only truck in the parking lot. The only person for miles. I study the water in a new but familiar way. Reading the surface, with no option to look below as I have grown accustomed to.

As sun breaches horizon, it doesn't take long to note bait pods peppering the coast. For a brief while the pelicans and I share interests. A few modest strikes here and there, but no tarpon. I came here craving just enough evidence for a new addiction to take hold. Another chunk of the year I can obsess over. Light barges underneath my hat brim. Eyes scour the ocean surface. Darting from one slight moderation of contrast to another. Then, a flash of silver- and another. Out too far.

I watch for over an hour only as they wish to show themselves, without boredom. Some roll cordially, others feed violently. Gentle swirls and flips of bait juxtapose the violence surely taking place beneath the picturesque surface. I witness the drama unfold between fish, fry and bird. The feeding becomes more frequent, but they are still out of reach. I start to ponder different tides and conditions, and when I should return. The earliest signs of giving up.

I study the untouchable dinosaurs as they frame a red cloud of bait with thrashing and holes in the water. Even my most violent double haul proves fruitless against the expanse of the Atlantic. I long to be on a suitable skiff 50 yards from my current position. Thoughts of warm coffee in the truck and the whine of a weed-eater mark the final stages of giving up, tourists come back to life. I pry my eyes from the water.

I will be back.

The Keys Conclusion: Day 3. 6/7/2020

We launch the skiff from a little dirt mound off the shoulder of US1. She glides across emerald and turquoise stained glass sliced open by three blades and 50 horses. Winds are low, the sun is bright, hopes are high. We are on course to the ocean-side flat I have wanted to try the entire trip. The five or so miles of open Atlantic and high winds have made it impossible for my modest skiff the last two days. We split bridge pilings and are welcomed to the calm Atlantic expanse, showing no resemblance to the ocean of 48 hours prior.

We are the first boat to the flat. It’s more vast than anticipated. Lush sea grass mingles with sandy holes under a gin clear barrier. I hardy know where to start. I kill the motor and can’t wait to jump on the poling platform. My eyes already searching while my buddy mounts a rotomolded casting platform and strips out 11wt shooting head.

We debate and form theories about which direction to head and what the fish will be doing. It is not long before a powerful black back and an emotionless eye breach 20 yards off our starboard. We decide to find a sandy hole within the same vicinity and stake out. It is slightly too deep to pole effectively. We start getting shots at 20-30 minute intervals, the fish are swimming all from the same direction and into the tide, but at different trajectories and speeds. Some meander in and set us up for a perfect shot, others barrel towards the back of the skiff at bad angles.

The next fish comes in fast, straight at the back of the boat. It is clear that she is keen to us, as she gives the skiff a wide berth. I have called her location out regardless. We both figure the chance has passed as my buddy rolls out the obligatory black and purple offering. She shears off course by a few feet and bull rushes the fly, stopping a few inches shy of fluttering rabbit hide. Comrade and I instinctively get low as he ticks the fly in short pops. Water flows through fur and feather in a seductive dance. The fish follows the fly until the leader is in the first guide and peels away. Between shaky knees and gentle Atlantic rollers, we both can hardly stand.

As the tide drops our stake out loses depth, and fish become less frequent. Because we are only getting shots every 20-30 minutes, it takes a while to realize they are not swimming this shallow. We bump out further and deeper, desperate to stick a fish before the long drive home this afternoon and work tomorrow.

A few other skiffs come and go from the flat, along with more than a few jet propelled crotch rockets. We watch other skiffs to compare notes and methods to our own. The closest skiff, which is still more than a hundred yards away, and considerably deeper than us, is getting a lot of shots. Before long, we hear a faint “Woop” and we can see that they are on. We are both glad to see how the fighting etiquette is handled in person, and we take solace in the fact that tarpon eating a fly is not just reserved for TV shows, Instagram, and 60k dollar skiffs.

The other boat’s fish is making a B-line right for us, the guide is motoring to lessen the fight. We watch for a while as the stoked crew and resilient dinosaur get closer. we stare in awe at the amount of pressure the angler on the bow is putting on the fish. Through no fault of their own, the other skiff motors right through our line, we pull up anchor with no hard feelings. As they fight the fish, we idle out to even deeper than they where staked. Careful to keep a respectable distance from the carbon fiber place marker.

We are now in seven or more feet of water. Poling is next to impossible. We only have about an hour before we need to head to the ramp. We toss out the anchor and hope for the best, now I am on the bow. I have changed the toad from black and purple to chartreuse. No fish pass by, but 25 minutes do. Filled with jokes about sticking one in the final hour, and fighting them till dark.

“Got one coming from back here.” the seriousness of my comrade’s words slice through the otherwise jovial tone.

I lay out a good shot, but the tarpon is apparently appalled at my choice of fly. I receive the same reception from the next fish and promptly switch back to black and purple. A few more fish come through in the half hour. We are seeing a lot more than we have all day. I make some good shots and blow more than a few. We are both eyeing our watches as we push our wives collective deadline back further and further. The sun is getting lower and the glare increases.

“5 more minutes.” We pact.

At minute four the poon comes through and sees the boat before we can react. We decide to leave the rod and bucket to be stowed last. As we meekly ready the skiff for the final departure, Just as I hoist 65 quarters of slushy ice and empty beer cans-

“Here comes two.”

I lurch forward in my best effort to delicately set down the cooler and grab the rod, but as cooler hits liner the fish head for the Bahamas. Fuck. Everything else is ready to go. Only 11wt, stripping bucket, and anchor remain in use. My buddy stands on the poling platform watching, as I shimmy up the anchor, looking over my shoulder like a 7th grader on pornhub.

“Group of 3 coming right at the back of the boat.”

This time, I set the anchor down with a painstaking gentleness. I grab the rod and start false casting, I stare at the lead fish's shadow, in line with the stern. I lay fly line along side the skiff, in an effort to place the fly far enough so the fish wont see the boat, but not to line the fish.

To my horror, the fly catapults right on the lead fishes prehistoric nose. All three fish make a simultaneous and violent U-turn.

Neither of us say anything. I slide each guide into the rod tube with a painful clack. I blew it. My buddy knows I blew it. He knows he doesn't have to tell me. I should have left him on the bow. I find it hard to enjoy the beauty of blue bird skies and calm seas as we run through the perfect conditions we prayed for all weekend. back to the ramp. I have only my self to blame. I spent too much time pouring over google earth, rigging quick release anchors and greasing hubs. Not enough time casting the 11wt in the yard. I try to blame it on nerves, but no excuse will suffice. We did learn a lot, and we only had one good day of weather- But I blew the last shot.

The only thing I can offer my knotted stomach, as we sit in US1 traffic: We will be back.

The Keys: Day 2. 6/6/2020

Skiff and turbid waters meet rattling joints and pounding cartilage as we run into uncharted territory, tracing the edges of banks and cuts in an effort to avoid open water- until the last possible moment. Every mile or so, we come off plane and bob hopelessly in the open basin, to clear rouge sargassum from the prop. Tunnel hulls and floating vegetation do not get along. Before we can start fishing I am already enthralled with the backcounty. A place so vast, no amount of “google earth-ing” could have prepared me. The spot that is “just over there” on the smartphone, is eight miles through teeth of an angry basin. A place so wild even intermittent channel markers seem sacrilegious.

We decide to valiantly pole some banks known for tarpon, despite the windward orientation. The skiff barrels down the last possible channel from the leeward, no ocean rollers today, but sustained winds carry over miles of open water to terminate at the 15ft hull. We pole a bank with the wind, out of spite, where backcounty meets open gulf. It feels more like riding a longboard than poling a skiff. Hopeless.

The large bonefish spotted yesterday ease our minds into giving up on tarpon for the day. The wind is again blowing from the Atlantic, 18-20mph. We brave another turbid basin until we are leeward of an exposed bank. Miles of shallow turtle grass calms the relentless wind. Sun is high, illuminating grass and it’s grazers.

At home on the southern Indian river, if you find any turtle grass its a good day, and will often hold fish. In Florida bay, there is so much grass it becomes a desert. Plenty of rays and a few sharks. But no bonefish or promises after an hour of poling. We run deeper still into the back country, in search of diverse habitat.

We settle on a pair of islands jutting from a leeward bank, divided by a large channel and surrounded by more turtle grass. We pole to the island begging for shelter from the wind. Hoping to see a tail breach the surface or pronounced wakes of game fish.

Needle fish, lemon shark and barracuda peruse leisurely. Rotating between mangrove, grass and channel. Each juvenile shark offers a spike of hope preceding a letdown just as steep. As we near the natural channel’s edge, multiple wakes push onto the flat, right toward us. We immediately infer that they are not sharks or cudas. I am on the bow with trembling knees. Wakes form in the water and vanish just as quickly, with no clear direction or intention. School after school materialize from the channel’s depth and dissipate before casting range.

Finally a lone wake pushes towards the nose of the skiff, we assume they are bonefish for sure. Until I finally get a glimpse at one of the hollow fish-

Permit.

Each school is comprised of young permit, much more wily and unpredictable than I had imagined. Once I learn this, my knees grow unsteady and my casting gets more arrhythmic. We end up staking out. A couple hours go by, we each try our hand at plopping a fly down anywhere near school after school. Even a 12 foot lead results in blown out fish.

Eventually the frequency of the schools ceased, we have a few more spots in mind before the day’s end. The next flat yields nothing. On a whim, we run to a semi-protected bar that looks likely to hold back country tarpon. We gently pole in the direction of two large logs, suspended by water. Both of us strain eyes in disbelief, until one of the logs flicks a tail and advances a few feet. Holy shit. My buddy fires a good cast too late.

With new hope, we pole windy bars jutting into basins, but the sun is waning and glare is increasing. I would have rather caught fish today, but I am feeling ok on the long run home. We found a couple laid up poons and permit schools on our first trip to the back country. If the weatherman is right, we are going ocean side tomorrow. Winds less than eight mph they say, ill believe it when I see it.

Gobblapocalypse. 3/14/2020

Haustellate mouthparts pierce creamy white thighs as I relieve anxiousness in the dark. The time changed last weekend. I got here way too early, leaving me plenty of time to anticipate the ensuing hunt. Last weekend there were at least four gobblers in this cypress head. I called two of them within range but they vanished silently. My thermacell hisses an orange glow. I sit quietly with slate, diaphragm, and firearm laid out neatly in the grass. My brim is low, gloves are on, mask is up and hood is tight. I Motionlessly repel mosquitoes with all I have. Darkness gives way to silver light. Fog forms in the field I have front row seats to, dew materializes on foliage.

A gobble or two fires off from the cypress head. Not as many this week, and certainly less enthusiastic. A few minutes before fly down, I figure I will give a few light clucks, to let them know where I am. The slate is my confidence call. I have only recently taught myself the ways of the diaphragm. I bring striker to stone and exude a noise that sounds more like a question than a call. Panic sets in as I realize the exposed slate was not spared by the newly formed dew. I wipe it free of beaded moisture, searching for my lost piece of scotch-brite. I rub my striker on shirt sleeves. In desperation, I attempt to dry the slate on the busy thermacell. Nothing works.

The birds have flown down and are gobbling purely out of obligation. I am set up right in their kitchen- Or, maybe just outside their kitchen window. They start to trail off, mating calls become dispersed and distant. I forgo the moist slate and resort to the newly learned diaphragm. I am certain, that in turkey speak, my calling sounds like a deaf turkey at a funeral. I don't think I am saying anything inappropriate, but I felt my volume was misjudged. I convince myself to wait a while, calling periodically before chasing them.

After an hour or so, fidgets and self doubt can no longer be subdued. I stow everything in my vest and rise slowly, my head is stationary as pupils bounce wildly across the landscape. I am less than three careful steps to my west when black figures materialize from behind parthenium. I look through magnified glass at two strutters. About 120 yards. They haven't made a peep since 15 minutes after fly down.

I nuzzle back into my tree row and open the case to the diaphragm call once again. The call shuffles around in saliva as I think back to all of my practice in the truck. I focus and try and make the call match realism in both sound and volume. It actually sounds pretty good to me, but no answer. I scan the direction of the bird through my binos until it is time to call again, still nothing. I continue to scan and doubt my turkey hunting prowess, until I see a flame-red ballsack bobbing toward me. Casually stopping every so often to feed and lackadaisically half strut. I slide binos down and ready my gun, shouldered with barrel on boot toe.

He continues this pattern into 80 yards, to 60, to 40. He starts to graze a little more than strut as he feeds his way into the tree row, putting him well within range but completely out of view. I nervously shift weight and ass cheeks to ready myself for him to breach the right side. Minutes of labored breathing go by. He gently feeds back into view, out of the tree row but back to the left hand side, at 20 yards. He is oblivious to my presence- But weary. No more strutting.

Every time he drops his head to feed, I slowly and deliberately readjust my weight and shotgun like a stick-bug in the wind. 15 yards now. His feeding becomes less frequent. He starts to “fake feed” like a deer. He Scans, picks a few morsels, then snatches his head up to catch any predatory movement.

His instincts are correct. I can hear him pecking gravel and bugs, I hear alien toes baring his weight over dry grass. I raise my barrel, and draw a bead on his phantom head at 12 yards. He raises up to check for predators one last time.

A Lust for Tarpon. 6/29/2019

Anticipation shoots through my loins on an hourly basis. I may actually have a fighting chance to feed a 100+ pound tarpon from the bow of my modest tunnel hull. Although I have enjoyed the company of acrobatic juveniles I have never landed a migratory tarpon, nor have I had my skiff within a reasonable proximity of one. Weeks of research online has resulted in only a few cryptic lines of information on tarpon fishing the nature coast. After hours of studying the shiny lamination of the correlating “Top Spot” map and I have settled on a few flats to try first. Hopes rise and fall as I peruse social media, some folks don't mind tagging locations and some folks can’t resist the urge to vomit what their day on the water looked like.

A few buddies and I took the skiff to fish theses waters about two months ago for the first time. A good weekend exploring new water followed by drinking and eating through local cuisine. Activities Home-based from a stranger’s double wide. I like the nature coast. Calm gulf waters, diversity of habitat, cozy bars and a refreshing dose of “southerness.” We knew we where a little early for tarpon to be showing up, but we gave a noble effort to learn the lay of the land and found a few redfish along the way.

But this trip, we are in the bowls of tarpon season (the best I can tell). After settling into our air bed and breakfast, which strangely resembled a Winnebago, We washed down some local chicken wings with part of tomorrow's ration of light beer before curling up in the queen sized master bedroom. Tomorrow, I would be happy to see one, let alone jump one, or land one, for that matter.

We set out early, but late enough so that we had hope of seeing oyster bars lurk under the surface’s murky sheen. My trust in google maps was betrayed by a seemingly misplaced barge of mollusks last time around. The next vessel we came across was a Carolina skiff christened: “Bumpin’ Bottom.” Misery loves company. We made it to the edge of the gulf, gel coat mostly intact and spirits high. We poled around for some time, not knowing exactly what we were looking for. A roll, a wake, any sign of life greater than 80 pounds would suffice, but nothing.

The four-stroke hums across slick water, navigating to plan B under moody skies as the sun fights low hanging stratus clouds.

The skiff graces contours of various keys, powered by man and carbon fiber, two sets of eyes stare into the glare of the gin’s surface. My eyes catch the aftermath of a large boil that my ears heard a moment ago. The skiff pivots and we both see a deep green back breach the surface, hover in a display of defiance before slinking away. Holy shit. The nervous buddy on the bow frantically strips out line- another roll. Every strike of the plastic foot on hard bottom seems to echo throughout the gulf, surely spooking tarpon from this string to Belize, But the pack lackadaisically meanders right into range. Eight giant figures materialize from the glare. A black and purple offering flutters perfectly across a cold prehistoric face. Neither of us expected an eat at 15 feet away, That would be too easy. I don't think either of us cared as we tried to console wobbling knees.

Solar conditions were tough, a few more strings emerged from the glare, most of them to close to the boat by sight fishing standards. We found a kind of “choke point” where we could keep the skiff bobbing in place with gentle pokes at coral and grassy earth. Enthralled by the task at hand, I didn't notice the other boats until they where about 150 yards off our starboard. First two boats, then four, then eight. To my amazement the trolled right up within 60 yards and dropped anchor, equally spaced from us and each other. It felt like a dove shoot.

Although I am not accustomed to fishing within 100 yards of another skiff in which I do not know the operator, I said nothing. I have never tarpon fished here before, and they where obviously guides. I figured I might learn something. I quickly learned that doing this many days a week must render you rather unenthused. Intrigued by this foreign etiquette, I would have been happy for any of the boats to feed one of these dinosaurs, just to see how how the chaos is handled. A few hours passed along with a few mammoth sized sardines with expressionless lock jaw.

A short lived attempt to find some redfish was punctuated by a rather angry storm, we promptly sought shelter back in the truck to fuel up with cold food and warm beer once again. The final day was the same story, only less fish. The all to common mantra: “Its not all about catching” (or whatever variation one prefers), never sat quite right with me. I would never go pole a boat around for hours if there was no such thing as giant game fish. It’s not all about catching, obviously. But I sure do have a better day if I catch, or my boat catches. However, this trip did seem oddly satisfying, my first shots at 100+ pound fish and a few lessons gleaned from peering into a parallel guide’s world satisfied my appetite.

At least until the skiff was safe and clean on the other side of the state. The trance of Google maps grabbed me once again as the hunger began to return.

Opening Day. 3/7/2020

I drive in a little too far without headlights. I park the truck a little further out than needed. I got here a little earlier than necessary. Peace of mind comes with not being in a rush for once, I begin the meditation of a silent walk in among darkness. Headlamps are shunned and eyes adjust.

At the close of deer season, each year I am excited for spring turkey. The pressure of trying to get a deer for the freezer leaves me selfish and stingy with hunting opportunities and meat. Turkey hunting is refreshing when compared to silent and wary deer. A horny gobbler can become so brazen he is borderline intimidating. Spitting and staring. They know something is not right with this wad of camouflage, but after a few weary seconds, air sacs re-inflate and snoods drip upon masculine breast. They disregard fear to fight and fuck like adolescent men. Their spring bravado leads a hunter from thick cover and hairy swamps to lonely dirt roads and groomed meadows.

I have been comfortable in the dark silence for 20 minutes now, reclining under my valencia tree. I figure these turkeys to inhabit a cypress head that creates a seam along a wandering irrigation canal between grapefruit and orange. I have a fifty-fifty chance of guessing exact fly-down locations. The sun begins to scrub away the last cold morning of Florida spring. Orange light and three simultaneous gobbles race across crisp air, From the cypress head as predicted. Answered from behind me by a mouthy lone gobbler. The chorus and refrain continues for several minutes from perches, then furthered from a well mowed stage and a cypress back drop.

I talk with slate meekly. Before I know it two gobblers are screaming at me, from just behind a ditch with a 10ft girth and a 3ft berm. I shoulder my gun and try to imagine where red heads might crest over. After a few minutes the gobbler’s intensity slows to a stop as they wander off.

Over an hour has passed, avian dialog has seized. Internal dialog has been bargained with, suppressed, and bet against. I eventually decide to slowly stalk the direction they trailed off. With each passing tree row creeps in a slow rhythm. As I crest each row, I observe the length of it for signs of life. I make grand plans for the mile-long skirt around the outer canals, to head off the rafter. If I can get between them and the state land quietly, I might have a chance. I crest another end tree carefully, only to notice a mass of erect feathers, shimmering, variegated and taut.

I duck with my back to orange foliage like I am reloading in a fire fight. The silent strutter is 60 yards down the row. Pupils crest the outermost leaves of the tree and he becomes focused in view, the heating sun burns pinholes through his thick fan. A display of white veins and marabou shield his head. I hunch up against the end tree and frantically fumble for striker and slate. If I see him from here, he will be close. Dry wood scrapes rock gently for a modest yelp. I set my pen on the ground and grab my ready sword. I know he wont gobble. He is either coming in or not. I just have to be ready. I have know idea how much time passes, surely hours.

I eventually convince myself to move, under the condition that I first yelp again. For the distant chance of a shock gobble, or a new gobble. Nothing. In stealth, I tuck slate and striker away. Before I can stand up, I hear it-- Drumming. No noise is more synonymous with good things to come. A wild turkey’s drumming is fetishized by a small and dedicated fraternity.

I flick off the safety and eyes dart to every blue hole in the thick limb, searching for movement. Finally they lock on to a white head as it crests the edge of foliage and immediately fades to pink. Bravado gives way to nerves. An engorged head raises up with concern 12 yards away, in unison with a 12 gauge barrel. His snood loses flaccidity and I have more time than I envisioned. His neck goes limp before his first step in the opposite direction, thanks to a healthy does of number five lead. He drops rather motionlessly. I secure his head with my heel. The dinosaur commences obligated death rattles. Prehistoric talons unknowingly rip at rubber boots. Once subsided, spurs are secured and hoisted out.

A ritual of appreciation and admiring commences before memories and meat are claimed.

Two birds per season is not enough.

Redfish Blues. 2/22/2020

This is the weekend. My first weekend-long fishing trip since the birth of my boy. The boat has a new battery. Eyes nor mind can stop perusing satellite images of endless keys and cuts comprising the nature coast.

Unfortunately, time and age erodes all but just a few pillars of people. After sifting through family, friends and career only a few nuggets of personal freedom remain. For some folks those nuggets are gold, for some they are old iron. For me- these nuggets are most precious mettle.

Two days before departure my buddy backed out due to family health issues. I cannot blame him, I suppose. But devastation comes all the same. Before sobering up, I seriously consider going it alone. A full weekend across the state, poling and fishing my skiff alone. It just wouldn't be the same.

It used to be easier to find people to fish with. We all had multiple hobbies and ample free time. Now its like pulling teeth, although my two dentist acquaintances have not seen a skiff in years. We used to fight over who got a spot on the boat, the week before a big trip was once a time of giddy texting and fly tying. More recently, the week prior seems like a prayer that responsibilities don’t rear ugly heads like lice in a playground.

I don't think the laments will ever understand how these trips feed a soul- just like I don't understand golf. I suppose most look down upon leaving your wife and baby to go fish for a weekend. The more tied down I become the more I long for exploration. When these rare opportunities arise, wind and work are hard-pressed to stifle enthusiasm.

The wife and baby went out of town, as planned. I spent the first part of the weekend drinking and smoking pain away- another hobby that is slips away with time. For the best. I stumble into the last morning of hunting season late. I bump two deer on the walk in, exacerbating temporary depression. My head reminds me of age at the end of each moment with steady throbbing.

Sunday we cobble together enough time for a somber trip to mosquito lagoon. An occasion I am typically thrilled about, Now seems like the shadow of a weekend that could have been. A good day on the Lagoon will leave me insisting the nature coast would have been even better, A bad day on the Lagoon is a bad day all the same.

Clear skies and cool temperatures aid in fighting negative thoughts. Gin clear water and struggling sea grass have fish spooky, but movement free to be spectated by watchful eyes. We find some intermittent singles, Lethargic and weary from the crisp clean water. My buddy manages to stick one from a meandering school, Roaming doldrums aimlessly. Depression melts away, my head clears like February water.

Nothing can be done now but soak it all in. Fresh mangroves shroud weathered and dead main beams of ancestors. Silence is only broken by distant waves and the thrash of a redfish. Light dances across hard bottom into an endless masterpiece. The brilliant blue sky blinds.

There will be more trips. And much to look forward to. The sooner the better.

Solo Mission. 11/25/2019

An unexpected Monday off of work. A high temperature of 70 with a gentle breeze of five knots. Friends and family are busy today, but taking the boat out can not be avoided- comrades or not. Since having my two month old son I have scrounged together a few opportunities to run the boat, but have yet to go on a dedicated fishing trip. Today, I am free. The water is high, and a few recent cool snaps have helped the clarity. Solo trips are tough, I have yet to land a fish on fly from the platform alone.

I plan to fish the banker’s hours today. I pull up to the empty ramp around 9:30am, leisurely sipping coffee. The weather begs that I put the boat in a few ramps south of the area I intend to scour. Extending the run to about 10 miles each way. Even during the first wave of the annual snowbird migration, traffic on the water is light.

I lurch onto plane and gladly watch cobwebs and mummified mosquito carcasses blow from the gunnels. Crisp air stings bare feet. The skiff slicing through glass as it graces the contours of spoil islands. Damn it feels good.

The outboard hums through this same stretch I have fished since I could drive. Escaping the cul-de-sac bass ponds of my childhood. Long before I had a boat, I waded any portion I could get to by jeep or foot. Upon the acquisition of a poling skiff some years ago, extra elevation revealed that this portion of the treasure coast is not highly conducive to sight fishing. Although it can be done, redfish and sea grass have seemingly become harder to come by. Still, every so often a wandering mind pinches and pulls google earth, scanning the same home waters. In search of any clues or patterns. Usually a fish-less trip or two is enough to stifle local intrigue temporarily.

I arrive to the first spot, a known stretch where freshwater flows freely into brackish. After poling for a few minutes the fear seems to be reality. Sometimes the flat is full of new bait and life, this time full of red muck and blue beer cans. The second spot on my list is no more enticing.

I coerce the skiff back to life and charge full speed to the last spot on the list. A previous local outing revealed a glimmer of hope here- product of the aforementioned satellite image study. The water is gin clear, by Indian river standards. More like reposado tequila, good enough for me.

Carbon fiber pushes fiberglass slowly, with the entire mangrove laden pocket to myself I take time to evaluate every shadow and aberration. No influence from the wind. Perfect conditions for one to fumble with a fly rod, 40 feet of coiled up line, and an 18 foot push pole from atop a platform. Redfish in this area can be elusive, but it seems they often show little reservation to eating a well placed fly. I can only assume due to the lack of sea grass and truly organic crustaceans.

The first few redfish immediately prove my theory wrong. Sneaking by presentations like a Mercedes by panhandlers. I change from my favorite redfish pattern to a slightly heavier fly. Figuring the high water renders the fly unseen, fluttering overhead while fish scavenge the barrens for morsels. They aren't to fond of the extra plop. I hastily switch to a baitfish pattern. Each fly change is a frantic blur of feathers, pliers and balance.

To my surprise, I am seeing lots of fish. Also to my surprise, I now have the same fly I started with tied on. Redfish are using the high water to slink in and out of mangrove shoots, trout lay stoically camouflaged on the bottom. The occasional hidden snook darts from mangrove to oblivion. I coerce a few weary reds to follow the fly, but commitment eludes them. The trout and snook don't hang around to investigate.

My mind slips from the world and into this game I play for a few hours, without a single eat to show for it. I often hear people say that it is “not about catching fish,” or “its just about being out on the water.” I always thought that was a nice way to comfort one’s self after getting skunked. While I certainly appreciate the sentiment, I typically am not so easy on myself.

Having my first child has not changed me in any remarkable way, like I thought it would. But I think I have a new understanding of what people mean when they say this. I am honestly just happy to run the boat today. Getting shots at local fish in beautiful weather was an unexpected bonus. I drink in every moment of the prolonged idle speed zones once loathed.

Close Encounters. 12/06/2019

The last three trips out here, I have yet to lay eyes on a deer. All three morning hunts, the latest of which resulted in two downed hogs. partially for meat and partially to further gain good graces from the land owner. I am offered a spark of hope by the irrigation manager, who claims to have seen a buck after shutting off a pump one afternoon last week.

There are no trees on this property, other than citrus. Which are not well suited for a tree stand. Most folks who hunt citrus groves do so from a truck. As I did for many years. I plan to hunt the afternoon this time. I set up on the far end of the grove along the barbed wire border. I get there early to walk the fence line and examine each wallowed out crossing. Looking for the freshest and most used trail. There is a dozen or more down the hole stretch, coupling ranch and grove for game. Between the lack of rain and the over abundance of hogs it is hard make sense of anything. Too far for a rifle shot from end to end.

After overly excessive deliberation, I settle in on the grassy dike. I figure the most likely crossings are in range from my nest. The furthest crossing is quite a poke for anything less than a perfect shot. The closest, is a little close for comfort. About 20 yards in front of me. a definitive edge of pine and palmetto scrub runs right into the fence, continued by a raw dirt path, under the fence and across the dike. I nuzzle my left side to the over grown fence line. Slumped over a rifle wedged into my Brazilian pepper tree limb. To my right I can see clear down a tree row. Directly behind me, I have a view of the opposite border of the grove. Although I don't anticipate much traffic behind me.

Once my over-analyzing is done I can settle in and breathe in the scene. The rut is on the down trend. Its hot. Even as a native Floridian today does not scream deer hunting. I have never claimed to be a great deer hunter. I consider myself to still be learning. I find it hard to hunt deer in groves. There's not much to rub on, and an infinite amount of potential licking branch for scrapes. My past few seasons hunting has more or less come down to intercepting deer in parcels I have permission to hunt. Examine crossings, estimate the time of day they are around, and wait. At times it seems impossible that I will happen to be there when a deer passes through. And even less likely that it will be a buck.

90 minutes left of legal shooting light.

A handful of cows and a barred owl announce their presence. Beauty berry shadows grow, furthering my concealment. A loud shriek gives away the position of a large pack of hogs. trampling through the citrus. I try to keep my eyes looking down the dike, but its hard not to watch these morbidly unmajestic creatures. They eventually cross onto the ranch. I make note of the time, just in case the fear of no venison this year manifests into reality.

45 minutes left of legal shooting light.

I have a bad habit of living for the next trip, or the next shot. Even if I bump a deer, my mind will immediately start decoding changes, planning for the next endeavor. With the added fuel of knowing how close I came to success. Maybe this is a blessing, always having something to look forward to. Sometimes I feel it stifles me from living in the moment and giving everything I have to the day at hand. The only fear worse than having a deer blow and run off would be to unknowingly bump a deer. Learning nothing from an unknown mistake.

30 minutes left of legal shooting light.

Crunching saw palmettos rattle my cochlea and rip me from the redundant inner dialog about an amateur’s virtues of deer hunting. It’s close. It’s probably the hogs from earlier I remind myself. Trying to sooth my racing heart. With a still head I stare through the overgrown barbed wire, eyes darting from blowing spiderweb to wriggling grass seed, in search of any movement. Begging fate for it to be a buck. The setting sun breathes cool on my sweaty palms. After a few minutes, intensity subsides, and the palmetto crunching trails off.

10 minutes left of legal shooting light.

The shifting of weight from knee to hip to ankle becomes more frequent. Back muscles burn. Thoughts wander consistently to standing straight up and stretching arms behind my head. I force myself to sit for the last 10 minutes. As I always do. Hope is lost. The mosquitoes are not, Keenly aware of my knuckles and any other protruding skin.

In between wining of insects I detect a gentle sweeping of the broomsedge. I slowly turn my head until the white necks and snouts of two young bucks jump out at me. A tall six point is followed by a spike, about 35 yards away. Marching fearlessly through the ranch grass and toward the grove. Right at the fence line I sit. Right at me, more specifically.

My shaking hands manage to dial my scope down to 3x, and shoulder my limb propped rifle into shooting position. If he jumps the fence, I will be ready. I have no choice but to remain completely still. He reaches the fence with the spike in tow a few yards behind.

He stops and stares through my soul at eight yards. bobbing his head back and forth, with alternating feet. Man and beast’s eyes are wide with fear. He tilts back his modest rack to lift his nose. I know it’s over. A quick blow and both ungulates prance out 40 yards to watch me. An easy shot, if they weren't on the neighbor’s property. My heart rate returns to normal as I begin mentally cussing my choice of location.

But hey, there's always next time.

Beach 5/22/2019

I stared into the chalky surf all last week. the waves were a moderate 1-2 foot, but strong east winds had the Atlantic churned and frothy. It was the same story yesterday. I prodded a few different spots with hope that a low tide would flatten out the break making for better visibility. But still, nothing of worth spotted.

As I head back east on State Road 60 I triple check the surf report and wind stations. I got off work a little early today. If I haul ass I can get to the sand and fish an hour or two of a slightly higher tide stage. If I haul ass I will most likely run into the same conditions I did yesterday. Against my better judgment I keep east toward the Atlantic. holding out hope that the fish where pushed out off of the second bar yesterday.

My newly single father is renting a sort of bungalow/garage apartment on the beach now. I have never fished there before, the private parking should save time and cut down on people. I whip into the gravel driveway. I rush inside to throw on my boardies and reassemble my latest warranty claim. My dad asks to come with me for five minutes. Of course I oblige.

“So you can’t eat them?”

He is picking my brain about surf fishing. The latest hobby that he has yet to start. We begin the tight walk down the winding trail through the sea grapes and over the dune.

“What else do you catch out here?”

He points out the last known location of the nomadic homeless camp. As we approach the surf, it is just as I feared. Hopeless. Too bad, I would have loved to show him a snook.

“So you Don’t cast at all until you see one?”

I never fail to feel slightly silly answering innocent questions from someone who doesn't fish much. I gave up trying to explain sight fishing for beach snook to the laments. A purely natural evolution of a fisherman not out solely for meat.

I want him to get a real hobby. To become obsessed and driven by something. His newly purchased kayaks will likely see little sunlight. Just like my wife’s paddle board. In my view, there needs to be a drive behind such tools. I am either blessed or cursed by such all-encompassing pursuits.

A few minutes later he leaves me to it. I walk south slowly. Evaluating the make up of the ever changing ocean floor. Already plotting the best future conditions for this new stretch of sand. I get the occasional window of clarity with visible bottom. The water is chaotic. Relentless waves and foam spill atop the swirling sand. Shrouding the ocean floor. Wind loud in my ears. Water pulses from ankle to thigh in no apparent pattern. Hopeless.

As with every disappointing trip to the beach, the reptilian part of my brain continues veering my eyes from wave to wave, searching for any aberration in the chaotic pattern. The mind slowly wanders.

Maybe I should jump in and cool off. At least that wouldn't make this a complete waste of time.

What time would I get home if I left now?

I wonder how the beers in my over-priced-abominable ice box are doing in the truck bed?

Finally hope was lost on the hopeful. Bits of sargassum and swirling sand has been playing tricks on my eyes for hours.

Suddenly it was all voided. What I saw stuck out like soar thumb. Swimming right at me. He is hungry. I started hauling and released just as the male snook came into range. Right on the button. Way too close on any day lacking a 15mph onshore wind. He keys in immediately. As I strip he trails the fly intently. I lose sight of him as he is consumed by foam. As I meagerly hoped, he uses the veil of oxygenated water to inhale the fly and I come tight. As I watch him thrash among waves and sargassum my heart rate returns. it sinks in. the first fish of the season. Fuck yes. I gently coerce him into an inch of water. The validation rushes over me. Glad I came today. I don't think I can bare another weekend of 2-4 foot surf without having caught one.

I watch him swim off like a proud mother in the preschool parking lot. Clouds roll in and the surf turns gray. I could care less. The first fish of the season has been to hand and swam off healthy. Pressure is lifted. Pressure invented and faced only by me. I stare into the black waves even though everything underlying is currently invisible. The kind of staring you do when you are preoccupied. Staring at nothing. Staring at the air in between you and something. When you are someplace else.

I stare a few minutes more and the sun reveals itself once again. Illuminating blue and green. The chaotic surf now seems peaceful. I blissfully scan for a while, content that I will see no more today. I got a lucky shot. A merciful blessing before surfs rise, damning me to another week of fantasizing.

I wander back toward the access. In my mind I am done fishing. But man nor God can resist staring into the surf with polarized glasses on. A shadow catches my eye. A glimpse of a slightly larger male, sauntering impossibly under the treacherous surface. I start my false casts as he fades out of existence. I drop the fly about 6 feet in front of his last known location. My eyes start searching for my fly as I blindly strip. Fur and tinsel are highlighted by a powerful black lateral line. The belly of my rod comes alive. Once inanimate, now at the mercy of a breeding age snook.

Weeks and miles on the beach validated. Two fish on the first catching day of summer. I commemorate the evening with a quick dip in the Atlantic. A long talk and a beer with my dad. I sip Busch lite with my marred thumb. At peace. For now.

Lagoon 5/18/2019

The morning is going smoothly. My coffee is done about the time my buddy Cush finishes loading his gear into the skiff. It will be nice to have a companion on the drive this week.

I strapped down the motor this time, to keep it from flopping around violently and avoiding the cringe that accompanies every pothole. I have no idea why it has taken me this many years to do this.

Upon the arrival to the ramp we initiate the tradition of loading remaining gear into the boat, unstrapping and installing plugs. All three legs of the fisherman's triad are looking good today. A rare sight. Slick calm, blue bird skies, and clear water.

We make the long run without a hitch. No wrong turns or misplaced gray locals. We arrive at the spot and begin poling. Fishing takes on a different form when it is slick calm. The intensity drops, gliding on top of the water in silence with minimal resistance. When it is your vessel winds add pressure to have alert control at all times. Especially with a tiller, even idling needs a constant hand. When the wind is absent you are free to move about the skiff, sip beer or take pictures. Both modes have there perks, but the rare relaxation of a windless day is always welcome.

We see the first redfish after poling about 100 yards, Cush makes a perfect cast and sticks him on the third strip. A healthy mid slot fish. He slides him into the cooler and we trade places with a gooey handshake.

Within 15 minutes we have had a few shots and i feed an average redfish. I quickly remove the fly and release him. In an act of valor, Cush insists that i stay on the bow.

We happen upon a school. wadded up and tailing unmolested. The copper mass is between us and another skiff. We reason that we are “slightly closer” than the other boat and push towards them.

My first cast blows them out a little but immediately feeds one on the outskirts. During the fight the school disperses and they push towards the gear fisherman, they stick one in short time. Everyone is happy- a silent truce is formed between the two petty forms of sight fishing.

We switch places again. Some how we have managed to claim the flat, as the other boats are pushing out to the running lane the reds keep trying to school up, we get shot after shot. Fish swimming in no recognizable pattern, looking for each other. They are pickier now, only a well placed shot and a convincing strip will seal the deal.

Bryan feeds one and again positions are switched. The action gradually slows to a stop. we spot a big black drum and I present the fly over and over until I am cane poling the fly into his face. He eats it. A big fucker but unenthusiastic. After a few minutes he just lets go of the fly, seemingly out of boredom.

On the run back we decide to try a new spot. Clear shallow water and wispy turtle grass. Trout are popping on the flat behind us. The calm has graduated to a gentle breeze. Also welcomed, it cools our backs as we drift. Poking the submerged earth only intermittently to keep our line. We see multiple large trout but the water was clear and skinny. And they are trout. I have still yet to catch a big sight fished lagoon gator trout. it haunts me playfully.

We make a run to a few familiar spots, punctuated with more shots but don't capitalize. We shoot the shit as we drift off the shoreline a while before the long run back to the ramp. Once everything is stowed i twist the throttle and the skiff comes back to life. I feel the earth grab the skeg momentarily before it breaks free. We get back to the ramp a little early for my usual liking. But I decide to embrace the relaxing nature of the day with some shrimp and grits on the meandering route home.

There is just something magical about pushing a skiff around in low wind and seeing fish. Its the greatest thing ever. What i dream of and long for multiple time daily while at work or wedding showers. The reason why i bought the skiff. It seems rarer now than ever.

I will still pole in a 20 mph crosswind if there are fish around. Windy days have an another appeal all there own.

My confidence is growing. Although i still love to catch fish, Being the captain is getting me more excited than ever to fish and to explore. Getting my boat to the spot adds another level of adventure. I’m getting some glass work done and a few more minor touches to the skiff this week. After that it will be exactly where i want it. For now.

The drive home does not stray from the relaxing pace the day has taken on. Cruise control set on 72, i pass a truck doing 68 in the left lane. The truck who ran up my ass pulls next to me as a merge back to the right. I oblige to his obvious gesture for me to make eye contact. I am not surprised to see his middle finger. It is met with a smile and his ford raptor speeds off. All is well when fish have been caught.

Beach 5/15/2019

I check all manner of human knowledge on my pocket sized human-knowledge-apparatus. It looks like beach season is officially here. The powers that be are calling for 1-2 foot surf all week. slightly cloudy but the Atlantic should be glass with this light west wind. Driving straight from work I pull into the park and can hardly wait to unlace my boots and initiate the frantic ritual I do as often as possible on week days during summer months. Although it takes 5 minutes tops, it seems like an eternity as I shimmy off my jeans in the drivers seat and lace up my boardies. I step out to assemble my 9 weight and feel a few rain drops on my back. Doubt creeps in. Afraid to look up and risk losing hope, I conclude the ritual by filling up my water bottle. In typical Florida fashion I feel the sun wash over my shoulders as I lock up my trusty steed.

I look up to the sky thankful to see what might be a decent day. I briskly walk down the trail and through the sea grapes. My heart warmed by the glassy blue-green water for the first time since last season. I reach the foot of the surf and look south, slightly disappointed by the by the smattering of condo dwellers uniformly dispersed down the beautiful shoreline. I don't like to fish near people, but I will certainly dodge a few yankees on inner tubes if there are fish around.

Before I can even get past the first couple walking towards me, a male snook shows up inches from the dry sand, swimming parallel to me. I act casual, as an out-of-towner walking with no fly rod. Unable to resist, I lay the fly in front of the fish, a little too close for comfort for the approaching couple. Half-expecting a comment or protest, it never comes. But the snook does come. Flashing his jowls on the second strip, I feel him momentarily before the line goes limp.

I move past the couple. Moments later another male appears as a tern sails over my head. the snook and I are both alerted by the bird’s shadow and trajectory. Fish and fowl both crash a single sardine in a foot of water. The tern arises with the bait fish as the snook swims back towards the break empty handed. I strategically place my fly on the other side of the break, where I anticipate the male to appear. As the foam clears my eyes pick out my fly, brushing the snooks back. He reacts by tying himself in knot and snapping at the intruder.

I figure the fish are feeding up shallow and mostly swimming north. I plan to stay high on the dune and cover ground. I get a few more shots but no feeds before I lose sun. I turn around to discover a large storm cell moving offshore between me and the parking lot. The squatters have all ran for cover and abandoned their rainbow colored shanties. I decide to wait it out. The cell is all but offshore already.

As I wait for the sun to re-emerge, I cant help but miss it. It flirts with the cloud cover, momentarily converting the Atlantic from grey to emerald. As the condos engorge with people, I have the beach to myself.

Surely God made the sun to illuminate big, broad shouldered predators, cruising in search of morsels in clean shallow water. And surely he made this handful of parks sprawling publicly along the Atlantic just for me.

God’s great sun came out again and I was met promptly by a cruising school of three males. They seemed to all see the fly at once. They fought each other until the victor had my fly in his jowls. I come tight, again momentarily. The snook headed for Cuba and my line went limp. Reminding me to keep fly line taught in the rolling surf.

My heart is pounding in my throat. I thought myself to be above getting riled up by small male snook, but he would have been the first of the season. I look down at my trembling knees slightly embarrassed. I have never given much thought to the phrase “the tug is the drug.” especially when adorned by bumper stickers or t shirts. But damn it, that's a true statement.

How else do you explain staring into the surf for hours, hoping to only glimpse a fish? Let alone feed one. Further still to land one. Just to let it go? All is right with the world after fish have been caught. Big or small. Although the euphoria is less fleeting if the fish are big.

The clouds are back. And I haven't seen a fish in a while. I keep scanning until the wind switches from the west to the north. Howling cold in my face and peeling foam from the cresting waves. Drifting across a landscape of white caps. As if to agree with my watch, that the fishing is done for today. As I find shelter back in the sea grapes, I am already giddy about tomorrow. Summer is here.

Lagoon, Mothers day 5/12/2019

The turbo impresses pretty onlookers from “Ron Jon’s” surf shop in the predawn as I make my way north on I-95 to meet my buddy at the ramp. I'm happy to have someone to fish with that also longs to be more than the causal weekend warrior. For some reason conversing over distant grand plans feeds my soul when contemplated with the like minded. My worst fear in life is to devolve into one of those “dads” who falsely assures himself, “maybe next weekend.” Meanwhile the skiff rots in the side yard and bucks prance around unseen.

I have been on a cold streak the last month or so. The beach is still a little blown out to sight fish. The last few turkey hunts have produced not even a gobble. Buddies and I had an awesome inaugural trip to the nature coast. We fished hard and started to learn the lay of the land, but with only one redfish fed to show for it.

Hopes are always high for me when the lagoon is on the agenda. A world renown redfishery, famously on the decline. I wish some of the guys up here would pole the treasure coast for a day. It makes the lagoon look like a dissected beehive full of redfish compared to the sad brown waters of the southern Indian River. Often boasting more Florida gar than gamefish.

As I graduate to the deserted Us1, the rising sun flickers through invasive foliage. The lifeless skiff straddles a gopher tortoise. I mumble a guilty prayer to catch fish. Pretending I don’t remember James 4:3.

“When you ask, you do not receive, because you ask with wrong motives, that you may spend what you get on your pleasures.”

I am Hoping catching fish counts as a necessity to my sanity rather than a pleasure. Dreading the skunk. The wife is upset. I will never understand how a marriage can be so great 6 out of 7 days a week. Working all day hours away from home results in nothing more than a kiss goodbye, but fishing a day of the weekend seems to be worse than infidelity.

I peer through the top of the windshield at the passing Sabal palms. Trying to analyze two legs of the sight fisherman's triad. Sun, wind, and water clarity. It looks do-able. A little breezy, but I am excited to have and enthused buddy on the bow. A south wind of 12-14mph is not ideal, especially for my flat bottomed girl to traverse the 3 miles of open water necessary to get to the spot.

The mood was light and we fished hard, Bringing four specimens to hand altogether. Spirits where high and beer was sipped. Afternoon thunderstorms where taunted. A fine day.

On the jagged run home a zephyr hills bottle whizzed by the gunnel. Without a second thought I eased the throttle and swung wide to complete the 180. Although the outboard had managed to avoid multiple rafts of gray beasts up until now, this straggler was not so lucky. I saw his mottled back just before the inevitable happened, all we could do was grit our teeth as the massive herbivore detonated five columns of water into the atmosphere before reaching the depths. I offered myself a consoling word, “there was no shortage of them today – he definitely lived.”

I cranked the motor back up and idled over to the piece of timeless trash. Wondering if the lagoon was any better for my skiff gracing it today. I prayed for fish, and I let them go.

Beach 5/4/2019

The love bugs are worse this year than any other in recent memory. The wiper fluid has been empty for a few thousand miles now. The rain brings some visual relief, as the wipers fight through the mangled thoraxes and wings. Relief interrupted by the dreadful thought that I wont be able to see anything at the beach.

I pull into the park. Plenty of spaces today. glancing up at the hopeless clouds I strap on my backpack and cobble together my 4 piece. The rational part of my brain begins to bicker with the part that drives me to fish and to be free. Hopeless, yet somehow still excited I walk north.

I make my way through the pastel shanty town of umbrellas and tents that the pasty families have erected. I see a man in the distance fighting something, hard. As I walk past he casually mentions that its “probably a tiger.”

We wish each other well as I press further north. I settle in on a modest point and stare into the gray water. Not much to see. A little further north I spot some turbidity in the water, multiple fish breaking the surface, feeding.

In a fever more common among gear anglers, I frantically rush over to lay out fly line in the middle of the chaos. The fever subsides rather quickly. Cured by a few acrobatic ladyfish and a chalky tippet. I clip off the manged section and re-tie. I glance over to check on the shark fishing man in the distance. He is wrestling with what indeed seems to be, a large tiger shark.

I resist the urge to throw once more into the frothing frenzy. My stoicness is rewarded in short time as my eyes start to make out thick green shoulders underlined by the iconic black lateral. My rusty instincts kick in as I fumble with excess line and begin double-hauling. All the while my eyes locked on her- gliding through this dimly lit aquarium. I clear all the line and land the leader knot right on her under slung face. Fuck. My heart regains rhythm and my breath deepens. I strip the fly in to check for fouling. In with it comes my ego. Creeping in. Embarrassed to be thinking of the hero shot that could have been. I quickly remind myself that it doesn't matter, its not about that. Just as I do on almost every other trip.

Especially the unsuccessful ones.

90 minutes go by with no confirmed sightings, thus no casts. My patience proves worthy as the high gray clouds slightly give way. The sun unknowingly displays hints of the Atlantic's emerald beauty. My eyes feel the relief as they can start to make out the ocean floor. Spirits start to rise.

Then I am yanked out of my weather-induced daydream by my electronic leash. Buzzing and moaning its awful tone mercilessly in my backpack, as it does so often. I remind myself that I would not be able to do this many days without the leash. I set the boss man’s mind at ease as I cup the microphone facing away from the surf.

As soon as my feet and soul re-enter the calendar like scene I see her. Almost as if a reward for tending to my professional duties. The rusty instincts are a little more fluid now. A good shot, but her reaction is lost in the breaking waves as she fades out of existence. A few more fish come and go. As I stare into exactly what I have been hoping for all winter, I turn away and head for the truck. To my obligations. As I often do. But its ok.

Beach season is here.