The radios crackle in synch with the skyline.
Get back to the boat, boys. We gotta get outta here.
Yeah, I don’t like the looks of that lightning.
Not the lightning, mon. The darkness. We need to get off the flats while we can still see the bottom.
Huh? You know this place like the back of your hand, Pinky.
Sandbars, Mike. They move.
Point taken. We turn and we race, Sam and I, as much as one can in shin-deep chop, the three-hundred yards to the skiff, dragging the rod tips in our wake. Pinky might not be sweating the lightning just yet, but, as the highest two points on these flats, we don't feel the need to add another nine feet. There’s enough of a charge running down our spines already.
These are the moments we remember. Sure, the thrill of the catch is what those back at home think that we’re chasing, but it’s more. It’s the rush. It’s the feeling of riding the thin edge of control. It’s the realization that you’ve pushed it as far as you should, and maybe then pushed it a little bit more.
It’s watching a big ‘cuda slide by, close, as you wade ass-deep, resurrecting every adventure article you read as a boy suggesting who’s really the king of the flats, then impulsively putting a fly on his nose, only to watch him confirm that reputation, leaving shredded mono, visions of razors, and questions of sanity in its wake.
It’s tip-toeing to the edge of a bottomless blue hole and considering swimming across.
It’s hearing Pinky transmit Bones on your three, coming fast. Two cruisers behind. If they show interest in your fish, crank the drag. Break it off. And if they show interest in you, throw a handful of bottom their way.
Throwing mud at sharks. Unconvincing.
It’s finding one of those migrating sandbars and, with the rain lashing down and salt spray in your face, jumping off and dragging the skiff to deeper waters; eyes on the horizon, adrenaline pumping, heart rising to your throat, and a big, albeit nervous, grin on your face.
Yeah, these are the moments we remember.
5 comments:
Those are the best moments.
Favorite memory from Yellowstone was a bear who took a little too much interest in Marc, Rebecca and I.
Feelin' alive!
Excitement arises frequently with being out in the elements! I always tell people that fishing isn't boring... Many of my stories have more adventure than I ever bargained for. The fish are just a side note sometimes... : )
The question is, Steve, among you and Marc and Rebecca, who runs the slowest? Bet 'becca beats you both.
Agreed, Emily. The fish are usually just a side note. :-)
I can only imagine the burning rubbery legs and gasping for breath lungs as you "ran" to the skiff always looking back at the storm approaching thinking Gotta keep going... Congers up memories of high humidity August heat pre-season high school football practice on the blocking sled.
It seems that it's most often the exhausting/on-the-edge unexpected/unplanned events that seem to pop up that we tell first with the most excited voices and animation. Lets keep making memories and sharing them with good buddies...
Makin' and sharin' memories, Capt'n. That's what we're all about.
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