Buddy Rich When I Fly Off The Handle

I was standing on a rock and I fell off it. I banged my shin, right in that spot where there’s nothing but skin over bone, and it hurt. The rod did not break. The reel had a gash in the bar stock but still worked fine. I pulled myself up and on to the beach and the person fishing near me laughed. (He was a plug fisherman.) I did not catch a fish.

This happened in New York. Fortunately there is a cure for every fishing drought and it’s called Florida. I fished from a lakeshore at dawn for bass and I did not fall in. There are alligators. I had pulled pork and sweet tea for lunch and a cuban with black beans and rice for dinner.


My friend further south has a boat and I ran down the turnpike and we idled through the inlet on an outgoing tide and the breakwater was loaded with pilchard. Two boats took turns drifting close to the rocks so someone could throw a cast net. When they hauled in the nets stunned pilchard fell out and snook bolted from the rocks and ate them.

Hooking a snook near structure can end badly because that’s what they do, and even on the beach their gill plates can cut through shock tippet or draw blood. Phonetically, the old-timers pronounce it snuke, but try mentioning that in a way that doesn’t make you seem like an asshole.


Pilchard are easy to mimic with fly tying materials, particularly super hair assembled with mono thread and epoxy in Hamilton Eat-Me fashion.

Snook also jump, and I like them very much.

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