WTF?

Can’t believe it’s been over a month since it all went down. Changing out some spent line from a reel I haven’t since used reminded me of it. I looked through my photo records of Andros and this one stuck out.

A stake through the heart, purist.

Props and maybe a free hat* or something to anyone who knows the score.

*(Hat or t-shirt may be slightly used.)

SECOND PERSON

You come on the scene three days into it, and walk into the Slack Tide at Andros South and immediately someone drops a line at your expense. Ball busting travels. Then you wake up in the morning and you’re on the flats, stepping quietly, and trying to figure out how the hell the guide walking next to you is looking at the same water but seeing entirely different things.

Your line is floating behind you and you’re creeping forward hoping you get it done. The guide stops and points and you don’t see anything but you lay down the line and strip, and you feel the tension as the line starts clearing but it catches on the reel handle and that’s it. Mistakes are not abided.

People compare bonefish to false albacore but they are similar only in their backing runs. Chasing albies is hyperactive and a little bit demolition derby. Bonefishing seems to work best when you slow down your heartrate and make the moment small. Easier said than done.

You start seeing the fish and you race. Thinking about what is 50 feet and are you making too many false casts and the next thing you know you’ve left it short and the fish keep swimming. You pick up your line and shoot it and you overthrow and watch the water explode with spooked fish.

You keep walking, wondering if you’re ever going to get this right when your guide stops and points and you finally see what he sees and he asks, Can you make the cast? I can try, you whisper and before you can overthink it your line has landed and you watch a fish make a move to your fly. You raise the tip and the line comes tight and starts ripping out of your hand and the reel reverses. Then everything else that happened before doesn’t matter. Except for the comedy at your expense. You’ll have to think of a way to repay that sumbitch back at the lodge.

THIRD PERSON

Norman noticed the dark clouds forming behind and started the long wade back to get the skiff. He said to keep moving forward until he returned to pick us up. Gracie spotted a ray gliding ahead, fanning its wings and kicking up marl. “There could be bones trailing behind that,” he said.

Gracie had taped his fingertips because of the line cuts accrued in the days prior but unfazed he talked across the flats about data encryption but then suddenly stopped, and the only sound echoing across the water came from his reel. That ray swam right by him and he made the cast, picking up the lead fish of four about two feet behind the barbed tail.

Watching other people stalk bonefish is just as interesting….

The tide is barely over our ankles on the flats and Smithhammer is rolling through a set of off-color guide jokes. After walking a distance over several football fields, Ellie notices separate sets of tails working in opposite directions. He points Smithhammer, who doesn’t need the same help, off to the fish on the right.

Ellie walks and walks, then stands patiently, then points at the disturbed water about a hundred feet forward. The sound of a reversing reel interrupts him and he turns his head back to witness Smithhammer holding his rod over his head to keep the tension on one of those other tailers.  ”He’s done it,” Ellie says, and then turns to move closer for a shot at our rooting fish.

FIRST PERSON

I’m in the dining room trying to hold down some cereal in a digestive system unsettled by last night’s beverages, and from losing straight up cash to Gracie at the card table. I’ve played Texas Hold Em five times in my life and never sober, so it always needs to be re-explained. Never won, go figure.

The van is just outside and it’s time to leave. I get a window seat on the Western Air flight to Nassau. The prop plane pulls off the runway in Congo Town and that’s it, mang, time’s up.

I didn’t count my fish but I can replay every take in my head and, jesus, it’s about time I took a day off to go striper fishing.

Footwork.

Released.

Smithhammer

Gracie hooks up, with storm approaching.

Deeter's Flats Shoes

Bone release

Free swimmer...

If there’s any blogger that should be a part of FIB Fest, it’s the guy who names his blog Bonefish on the Brain.

Bjorn couldn’t join the crew because real life got in the way, but last week he tied a handful of flies and sent them my way. The idea being that if he couldn’t be here, at least his flies could help a brother out.

Caught all my fish today on flies from Bjorn’s vise, with Michael Gracie as witness.

Are such diverse elements as fear, surprise, ruthless efficiency, and an almost fanatical devotion to the… cause. Getting things in order for FIB Fest at Andros South next week.

He sure didn’t need hoisting like Big Mama. But he did come from the Chessie, so sort of kind of the same experience. Yes, that’s what it was.

The first striped bass release of the year.

Tosh Brown flew in to Baltimore and I was an hour late picking him up, violating one of my guiding life principles: Never piss off a Texan. But the book project rolls on.

We beelined it up to Havre De Grace, where the Susquehanna River empties into the northernmost reaches of the Chesapeake Bay. From there we drove up through Delaware and to the Jersey Shore. I had to bail after the first five days of this leg, but Tosh headed back down to Maryland to catch up with more rocks on the way down to Annapolis.

Special thanks go to many people for making this trip possible:

Capt. Tom Hughes

Capt. Sean Crawford

Bob Popovics and his entire crew. (And for that awesome dinner at your restaurant, Shady Rest.)

Capt. Shawn Kimbro

And last but not least the tireless John Page Williams of the Chesapeake Bay Foundation.

More details to come, and just in case it’s not patently obvious, the above photo is mine not Tosh’s and will not be found in anything remotely resembling a fly fishing photography book.

Pre-tournament scouting results

The first thing you do is drive west. Past all the planned communities and through the endless horizon of cane fields, some thick with smoke from controlled burn, and make your way to the big lake.

Then drive onto and over the levee and the single lane bridge and meet buddy Don at the launch ramp. Don is a tournament bass fisherman. He’s pre-fishing and you’re going along for the ride, skating at 60 on the pad.

The ride takes you through some tight on the quick.

Don can do some things with a baitcaster in his hand. He’s working the bass in shallow, going off the grid and you’re trying to cast your fly rod in and around the tall grass and strip your so-called weedless through the  dense vegetation.

Hitting on the Gambler.

The bass key in on that soft Gambler. You can watch them follow your fly back to the boat but only the little button bucks take action. You’ll let Don have all those seven-pounders come tournament time.

Who let that fly rod slide into the quiver?