In the piscatorial sense, we are all whores. No one does right by any one place or species. We experience long stints of faithful behavior to certain waters, or intense periods of focus in pursuit of a single fish, and sometimes we believe in our hearts that we are true. We are not. “I wish it would never end, this thing between me and you,” we tell the stripers all fall. “Forget about those albies that came rolling through in September. It was a lusty drunken physical thing.” And then winter comes and the striped bass go scarce and as Hank Williams Jr.** sings it, “But sometimes Lord, she just ain’t always around.”   There will be plenty of time for longing,…