A Rod Problem

We sit, mesmerized, as they emerge from the rod case, one shiny blue Helios2 after another, and another, and another.

7 to 11wt, with redundancy. We watch as each ferrel is meticulously waxed, all sections carefully aligned, every rod paired with a stealth-black Mirage or glittering NV-G; the reels, like the rods, all appearing out of the bottomless Carry-It-All. Piece upon piece materialize from the case like some impossible number of clowns unfolding from a P.T. Barnum punch buggy.

For bonefish. For permit. For tarpon. Even barracuda. At stick number six we start laughing, bringing a sheepish grin to Bob's face.

Okay, maybe I have a rod problem. But I get a handwritten Christmas card every year from Perkins.

Holding his right index and middle finger together, just so...

Me and Perk. We're like this.

We laugh even harder, not completely convinced that he's kidding, and wonder where we might get one of these magic bags for our own.