The great white butterfly is the Pavlovian signal for my mind to wander from fired up gobblers to beach snook. Although thoughts about subtropical predators never really subside. I tend to start looking for them too early each spring. My mind wanders to humid mornings, tired skin, and Modelo. To summer.

The first few trips of the season are always filled with false optimism and uncertainty, but this year, I feel especially silly. I packed up the truck with a plan to fish after work the following day. An unexpected cold front and a steady onshore Breeze of 15 mph gives me serious doubts. Surely the final breathes of Floridian winter. White caps are steady and surf is turbid. My wife and boy are home self-isolating due to the dreaded COVID-19. I can either fish the beach for a while, or go home early and help my wife with the baby. I almost call it off, but the surf is supposed to pick up into next week. I can’t resist.

The beach is awfully crowded considering the “social distancing” coronavirus guidelines. I am tempted to cough until I can clear a nice spot for myself, rather than dodging floaters and sun bathers. Nerve endings dance with tingling numbness. It’s not too cold, about 72F. The sustained winds make for a cold 72F. Boardshorts and a tee shirt where packed into my bag out of habit, never considering I would be wishing for a sweater. It doesn't feel like summer, but the blue water, bright sand and clear skies look like summer.

I swear I see a small snook as soon as I get to the water. Long, white-tan and confident. I strip out line to cast into frothy waters at imaginary routes. Time passes. Foamy shadows come and go. Fish-shaped sand plumes dematerialize. Doubt creeps in.

“It’s too early, It’s too rough.” I reckon.

With seasons of practice I have developed one morbid superpower; staring alone into the waves for hours. Waves tumble in like a rolling slot machine. Every 12 or 14 spins brings momentarily clear surf. Occasionally, during momentarily clear surf, comes a snook. Odds are low and addicting.

I give myself two hours to stare, for better or worse. If I can just see one, a confirmed glimpse, the mind starts rolling and the beloved process begins. Tapering perfect leaders, improving fly designs, daily checks of surf and wind. I wander across the dune every spring, stumbling around until I see something that signifies summer. Not by the solstice, but by acceptable sight fishing conditions. I have willingly handed a chunk of my identity to the surf. I have self-proclaimed to live for this. In my view, the last dragon worth chasing. I have a nagging feeling that in 20 years I’ll be spewing; “I remember when you could see 100 fish in a day…”

A small male snook slips off of the trough bank as quickly as he slid on. His shadow only represented for a few seconds, before a plume of aquatic sand overtakes him. A confirmed sighting. Exactly what I came for. I shoot fly line out against the oceans breath in a pathetic effort- and then once more. It feels as fruitless as it looks. My eyes catch the yellow-eyed fly dangling in a moment of clarity. My rusty left arm strip sets as the fly disappears into the small males jowls, before my brain can tell it to. testosterone driven snook pulses into waves. Holy shit, I stuck one, on April 1st. The earliest ever for me. I wonder if I am the first guy to land a sight-fished beach snook in the state? I wonder how many people would give a fuck? I feel chalky leader and crooked overhand knots. It’s time to start the prep-work.