A Fine Bit of Fishin'

It was a fine bit of fishin'. Perhaps the best sequence I've ever witnessed. As fun to watch as it was to do.

After a tough morning fighting the winds, we had taken a leisurely lunch at the Palm Street Pier, imbibed a bit to drown our disappointment in the conditions, and contemplated our next move. In truth, not much contemplation was really necessary. We settled our tab and Chris and I headed back to the flats. Wind, be damned.

The blow gave us no quarter, ignored our attempts to dispatch it with mid-day spirits, so we moved northward, pushing a mile up-island, around a wide sweep of dunes in hopes of getting a little protection from the blast. We were moderately successful in attaining the protection, but there was no improvement in the fishing. Until…

Fish, says Chris. Where?

There. Three of them. Forty feet, along the edge. Looks like sheepshead. I saw nothing.

Chris casted. The fish looked. Hesitated. Wandered on. At least that’s what Chris said. I still saw nothing.

He quickly stripped in his line and dug in his fly box. Crabs, he said. They eat crabs, which, we had noted earlier, we had seen none of.

But he dug out a small, leggy, tan crustacean-looking piece of fluff, tied it on, and resumed looking. Said his “fish eye” was dialed in. I still saw nothing.

There. Eighty feet. Same three. Moving away. One shot.


And he made it. One false cast. Laser straight. Dropped it on their noses. Eighty feet. In the wind. It’s only right that a cast that good gets a take. And it did.

It was a fine bit of fishin'. Perhaps the best sequence I've ever witnessed. As fun to watch as it was to do.

But don’t tell Chris that I said so.