This is the longest stretch I’ve had without hitting the water in 12 years. Seasons and external forces have conspired to keep me shore bound for longer than a person can take and be expected to retain sanity. It makes a grown man confront his fears, consider options he’d normally decline.
I’ve found myself watching fishing shows, something I swore I’d never do again.*
That last and seemingly insignificant striper brought to the boat last fall suddenly takes on disproportionate meaning in recollect.
The windburn, the sandpaper thumb, and the line cuts have all faded away. It’s a slow and steady spiral down the path to soft and suburban.
But that’s all about to change. I’m going to Florida next week. Going to get some saltwater back in my veins. Time to celebrate. It’s been too long.
*[The lone exception is Walker’s Cay Chronicles, seasons 1-4.]