The trite expression rings true: The weekend is here.

Summer time. Local surf is forecast to be one foot or below for the next week. Its Friday. I should be back east by 1:00 or so, to meet up with a buddy. We are planning the rendezvous at one of our local haunts just after low tide. I have a two hour drive from grove to beach. He beat me there by an hour. For 60 minutes my mind races and anxiousness bleeds into every thought. The inevitable task of changing into board shorts from jeans haunts me for the length of the drive. A text inquiring about the conditions, is met promptly with a caption-less picture of a small snook at the end of a line. Anxiousness increases.

I finally arrive, the dreaded wardrobe change takes all of 90 seconds. As always. We see some bait and a few small snook but the tide has dropped out too low. We reason that any sizable fish will be pushed out to the second bar, too far to sight fish. We hop back into our trucks and race south in search of a deeper trough. Once we reach the narrow strip of land that allows beach access to us lowly mainlanders, we snatch up rods and start down the white gravel of this magazine cover. Bobbing and weaving through sea oats we crest the dune to find an uncrowded beach with relatively calm, blue water. I can almost see them from here. The beginning of our trek is met with a few small snook, not willing to become fully involved with flies. Due, at least in part, to the amount of bait present.

As the tide floods back in, school after school is held hostage against the sand by large jacks. The action is so enthralling it takes a while to realize the snook have vacated. Bullied out by hyper-masculine crevalle. Flies are gobbled up in a powerful froth with no quarter. Stretching fly line, testing backing knots, and straitening leaders. God, I forgot how strong they are. Nine pounds of pissed off muscle with a 1/O in it’s face. Their giant Indo-Pacific brethren leave them little credit from the fly fishing community. Admittedly, they don't get enough from me either. I find it impossible to hide a smile as the full wells digs into my hip- even if I wanted to.

After a handful of extended fights, we were glad to spectate. Frantically interspersed with occasional sprints and back casts to try and stick one of the big ones. The Jurassic jacks. Every bit of 30 pounds. they ride waves, corralling bait against the shore using added momentum. The human eye cannot avoid the thick dark backs creating giant bald spots in bait schools. Unlike their proteges, they want nothing to do with the flies. No matter how much of a frenzy they are in, or how perfect the cast is. They circumnavigate a six foot proximity around the fly. I have been trying to lose fly line to one for four summers now.

A day with no snook to hand, but front row seats to rabid jetty tuna. Testing tackle and good clean fun. Sunday is the day. Light winds out of the west and flat surf are the forecast. One of our daily migrations toward south Florida is on the books.