A Game of Numbers. 6/20/2020
We continue down the beach, Cush now in the prime position the for the first shot. I have caught my first fish in a month, despite weekly efforts. I my nagging spirit finally leaves me free to enjoy the day. We reach a stretch of sand where the followed trough dumps into a shallow point, extending out from the beach. Given the direction the snook have been swimming, they should have to cross some skinny sand to get back out to a comfortable depth. Cush occupies the ideal spot at the mouth of the trough. I walk down a little ways and set up deeper, hoping for big female cruisers who may bypass the trough altogether.
When Cush and I fish the beach together, we rarely communicate verbally more the 10 feet away. So if one of hears a yip, the other knows it is something worthy. I hear the aforementioned yip after only scanning for a few minutes, before I can even look back at him, I see it. A migratory tarpon cruising the edge of the makeshift flat, the black torpedo is certainly out of comfort range, but doable.
I strip out more line and wade into the water like a soldier in the mikong delta. Meanwhile the tarpon meanders along his predictable edge. After a few unruly false casts, I manage to lay the fly line in front of her. Short strips flutter raccoon fibers inches from her prehistoric face. She never looked at the fly, and I felt strongly that she had seen my entire torso down to my ankles. The whole experience feels like a dream, a dream where you end up naked in front of the class. This is the first tarpon I have been able to give a good presentation to from the sand.
Before I can gather my thoughts and fouled fly, another yip. I rush back to my original post as quickly as abdomen-deep water will allow. Cush signals: “large fish,” And then: “rollers.” Signs that neither of us had spoken of before. A large string of 20-30 migratory tarpon, using the same bank as a guide, zigzag from shelf to sea. They flirt with the line between casting range, and untouchable.
I wade out even deeper, more nervous than the first time. I feel my backpack floating. The thought of my waterlogged DSLR tries to enter the back of my brain, but is blotted out by an unknown evolutionary adrenal response to large fish. I start to false cast, loop and fly smack chest high water behind me, sapping line speed. The string make the predicted angle towards the beach and slide onto the shelf. I lay the fly line out 6 feet in front of the lead fish. She pays no mind. Pruned fingers and nervous hands strip in the fly. I make the same presentation to the 6th or 7th fish as well as the 20th or 21st. The same response down the line. Likely due to my inadequate fly slapping the water as I flailed like a toddler seized by the armpits.
In time the tarpon sightings subside inversely with small schools of healthy male snook. Cush feeds a healthy specimen. We admire tenacity and attitude, and get a few photos before a healthy release. I have never been a big numbers guy, but I can’t seem to enjoy the day to the fullest until the first fish is caught. The pressure is off of both of us. We fill the walk with bullshit and a few more shots a feisty fish. We finish the walk with a beer back at the tailgate.