DIY Everglades Fly Fishing

The starter shit the bed in the middle of our keys trip a month ago. Forcing us to chase poons armed with a wooden handle and a short piece of rope. I replaced the starter, and water pump, and have been talking real sweet to her in the weeks leading up to this trip. The plan is to push further into Florida bay than I have personally ever been before. I know that some people do it all the time, but that doesn’t quell the nervous excitement I get from no cell service, wild places, and (hopefully) unpressured fish.

The 20+ year old motor fires right up in a cloud of smoke and biting insects. She hums a perfect 4700rpm, slicing through stained glass for 13 miles to the first spot. My comrade fished here a few months ago, and did will. So I have deferred to his intel to start the trip. We pole the leeward side of the bank for a mile or so, as the sun gets higher, the wind picks up. We start to doubt. An hour with nothing but mullet and sharks, not the report from a few months ago. Everything is always changing here.

We run deeper still into Florida bay. More poling, more sharks, more mullet, and more wind.

The same story with the next few spots. The sun is forcing us to begin thinking of the long run home. We have only seen a couple redfish today. We pact to try one last spot closer to the ramp. Refusing to accept defeat. This is the last spot in the bay that either of us are familiar with.

The sun and water are low by the time we reach the final bank. We do manage to see a few wakes and tails, but our best efforts to pole and punch flies into the wind are not rewarded. We load up the boat and head for Mexican food, and to hatch plans for tomorrow.

Day 2

The last day of our quick trip, which means we have a four hour drive home after today’s fishing. Rather than go back to the same spots as yesterday, we decide to cover some new ground. Each spot is punctuated with disappointment, and mapping. We finally decide to change it up completely. We stow gear and prepare for the long run to the other side of Florida bay. Another spot neither of us have fished before.

When we arrive, hopes are low. The water is muddy and we can barley make out the grass a few inches under the surface. We only have a few more hours before we need to point the skiff back towards the ramp.

Within 10 minutes, my comrade feeds the first orange orb we spot glowing on top of the seagrass. Relief sets in. My turn on the bow. Its not long before we start switching off every two fish. Its one of those days that keeps you coming back. Fleeting and rare. Fish doing what they are supposed to be doing. The redfish were eating each and every well placed fly, and rejecting poor shots.

After we boat about a half dozen reds, the sharks come in. We work out a pretty good system. With 20lb class tippet, the angler strips in the fish as quickly as possible by hand, never letting the line clear to the reel. The guy on the platform watches for the tax man. If he shows up while the fish is being fought, he stomps on the deck and jabs with the push pole as needed, until the fish is landed and revived, never leaving the water. This system worked well for a while, but eventually one of the fish got sharked. At this point we decided to move to another spot further down the flat.

At the new spot my comrade was greeted with a small tarpon, and a decent snook. Both laying in separate sandy potholes. We found another redfish, and then the sharks found us. Our deadline for departure was approaching, so we decided to call it early before feeding any more sharks.

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.

Black and Tan. 6/20/2020

The beach has been unseasonably blown out this spring, with exception of a few sporadic days. As someone who has tied too much of my identity to fly fishing for beach snook, The result is frustration with the universe. In my opinion, the beach is the best local sight fishing opportunity I have. The spawn just so happens to not require the use of a skiff and coincides with my seasonal work’s slow season. I view beach snook as my bread and butter. As I am able to fit in multiple sessions per week. Beach season pulls me through harvesting season when days are long and daylight is short.

I still check the surf for myself weekly, despite the forecast of revolving swells. rapping the coast like brushes in a car wash. I went twice last week, armed with my 9wt and little hope. It seemed like it was getting slightly better, as clear blue water fights off chalky opacity and rotting sargassum. I even saw a few fish, after staring longer than any reasonable angler would. Saturday's forecast looks favorable, so my buddy Cush and I plan to drive south to a stretch of sand near the St Lucie inlet. Praying that the barrier of the Bahamas will increase our chances.

I am giddy as we rig up in the parking lot. Winds are light and I can hear the Atlantic gently lapping against the coast. Surely a good sign, an hour north looked almost doable a few days ago, maybe we will have a chance.

Dreams are promptly squashed by the army core of engineers, or maybe population explosion, or maybe the sugar industry, or maybe God. We both stare at the insidious line in the ocean. Gooey discharge from the inlet rides the tide down the coast, pushing God’s blue water down the beach and away from the ant pile made in his image. Despite disappointed on lookers, we make our way down to the part of the beach yet to be infected. Visibility proves to be hopeless all the same, maybe from recent swells, or maybe from man’s tampering with natural order. I reason we should go back north, further away from the invasive waters of lake Okeechobee.

Although behind schedule, we break through the sea grapes to cleaner water kissing the coast and blue bird skies. I can’t even find it in myself to blame the endless beach goers, especially knowing the chaos that lurks to the south.

The tide is low and tourists are thick, we spread out and walk onto the modest sandbar to wait for cruisers. We give it a few minutes before deciding to make tracks, the snook will sometimes lay up in a slack tide. I study the beach to try and determine the most likely areas to find fish according to my ever-changing theories.

As we walk, the sandbar we once stood on gradually falls away from the beach, the waves dissipate and trickle over and the growing trough. I stare at two dark cylindrical shapes on the bottom. My brain tries to convince my arms that the shapes are not fish, as I begin to false cast. My favorite fly plops down in between the two shapes, bisecting Them by 2.5ft. Cush watches from sandy bleachers opposite my casting arm. The shape to the right springs to life in the form of a healthy snook and inhales the yellow eyed offering with a graceful swipe. I come tight, letting fly line out and dopamine in. I cant hold back the grin in the midst of validation. My brain switched from the universe is out to get me, to thankful I ever have the opportunity to pursue fish in this way, 30 minutes from my home.

Prep-work. 4/1/2020

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.

Case of the Mondays. 6/3/2019

During summer months I typically start the week being as productive as possible for the sake of family or career. The goal being to have the middle and end of the week free to roam beaches. In this case, I decide to let responsibilities spill over into mid week due to the surf report. I hurry through work meetings, and finish up phone calls as I make the long drive back to the beach. I should get there by 2:30 or so, dead low tide. I surprise myself with a struggle to push obligations out of my mind and focus on the upcoming task at hand. This is what you planned, Do all of the big projects during the winter months when fishing is slower and work is heavier, leaving only unavoidable tasks to do while the surf is low, mowing can wait until tomorrow.

I complete the public bathroom one footed dance into boardshorts. It’s windy, but it’s clear and there is not a cloud in the sky. I wade into mid-shin surf and stand on the edge of a shallow bar, almost immediately I am met by a pair of males, two dark shadows flirting with the edge of vastness. I present my latest concoction of glue and animal parts, intensely followed but refused with equal passion. I hear a voice behind me, muffled by hydrology. After a few minutes it becomes painfully apparent that the voice is directed at me. I turn around to see a young man wearing large white sunglasses capped by an obnoxiously flat billed hat.

“Have you seen any snook!?” he shouts through cupped hands.

“Yes.” I shrug.

“Sick man!” his voice trails off in the surf, “I caught a lot of fish this morning!”

“Good deal man.” I screech nicely, but not so nicely that he decides to hang around to talk from sand to sandbar.

I don't think much of it once his hat disappears over the dune and into the parking lot. Most fish have been coming from the north, within a few minutes a big female saunters into range and has my full attention. Until the corner of my eye glimpses a figure, flailing about. I pry my eyes from the snook’s thick presence. Its flat-bill, with a fly rod. About 50 yards north of me. Intercepting every southbound fish with reckless abandon. What the fuck is he doing? I am sandwiched by families playing in waist deep water directly to the south. Damn it. I stick it out a while longer, a few shots at skittish snook are interspersed with cussing others, work calls and texts, and changing flies. I finally decide to make tracks and get away from flat-bill and any other people for that matter. On the move my wife calls me to let me know the mower is broken. I still have to follow up on a few work calls, maybe I should just leave now and catch up on adult scutwork.

Responsibilities are staved off once again as I reach a gentle point surrounded by gin clear, wind whipped water. Ill give it a few minutes. I have been trying various stripping techniques and cadence. I have cycled through my fly box completely, now back to my confidence beach fly. The next fish, I will go with my instincts. Read the fish. The boss calls. I don't answer. I’ll call him back, I won’t be much longer. Still, looming responsibility weighs heavy on me, until a healthy male emerges from clouds of sand and foam at a steady pace. The primal brain is engaged and the existence of free market careers is momentarily forgotten.

The casts unfurls about 20 feet ahead and six feet past him. I slowly strip until I am confident he will not detect unions between line or fluorocarbon. When his under slung snout is about four feet away, I activate the fly. He darts over only to follow. Another quick short strip is met with a vigorous flick of the tail. A wave crashes and obscures fish and fly. I give two more sharp strips blindly, met with a black lateral line breaking the surface and a favorite fly in angry jowls. The biggest so far this season.

As I continue the shallow water tug of war I notice a couple watching me from the sand. I walk the fish up into a few inches to land him. The gentlemen seems just as excited as I am. I ask if he wouldn't mind taking a picture. He obliges. His wife gives away her place of origin with just a few questions as I take back my fly and revive a healthy specimen.

The post fish high sets in on my slog back to the truck. I follow up on my work calls and take a quick dip in the ocean. Now off to fix the mower. Damn good Monday. Except I don't drink beer on Mondays.

Long Walks on the Beach. 6/2/2019

My buddy Cush and I fall back into the same summer Sunday pattern effortlessly. Rush home from the early Methodist service to throw packs, water and rods into the truck without so much as a word. The drive south is full of 76mph banter about the latest fly creation, or staring through the top of the windshield commenting on cloud cover. Knowing full well that our predictions are futile, We pull into the park and order up two season passes. In a flurry of monofilament and sunscreen I am out of the truck and ready to fish. But waiting on Cush to rig up, impatiently. Summer is finally here. Miles of beach, untouched by by man’s groveling hand. Free to wander for a full day. No obligations. No time to be home.

The only downside- clouds. We walk for a few miles, strategically interspersing ourselves among the few other fisherman. The sun peeks out to taunt us for moments at a time, as if her sole purpose was to illuminate passing snook. During one of the sun filled jaunts I hear a whistle from the north. I pry my eyes from now-translucent water. Cush is alternating between pointing at the water in front of me and bear-hugging the air. A secret code that means; “big fish are coming to you.” I peel off some more fly line and back up onto the dune. I can tell by Cush watching me intently that it must be big. Then I see them. Two black barn doors drift 25 yards off the beach with purpose. Tarpon. Although hopeless I glide further south and put my back into the double haul. Not the prettiest shot, but its right in front of them. Stripping the fly soon becomes an afterthought. They show no interest. Excitement gives way to awe. My subconscious takes over as I strip the fly like a zombie, right across the lead tarpon’s face. I slurp back drool and stare at giant mirrored scales capped a powerful black back. To date, this is the best shot I have had at migratory tarpon.

Our patience pays off, clouds and fisherman dissipate. About three miles in, we are treated to sandy bottom and snook shadows. School after school of males meander near gray dunes and coconut palms. Cush and I split up only to report back the same story. Perfect presentations are almost always followed, then turned up noses. It goes on like this for hours. No fly change or stripping cadence could muster the required aquatic aggression. I did manage to land a small male, and we each fed a few more that came unbuttoned. But the same sequence plays out over and over:

The cast unfurls at a 45° angle across the fish’s path, long before the lead fish arrives. Slow strips until (maybe) one peels away from the group, then refusal. Followed promptly by an uncontrollable urge to try again. A second cast at a passing school is a useless, but inescapable ritual. The Gods allow Cush to catch one as we make our four mile walk back to the truck, Surely as reward for our efforts today. We arrive home a few hours later, after a quick stop to fill bellies with rice, plantains, and modelo.

No boat to wash. Summer is here.

A Showing of Crevalle. 5/31/2019

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.

Beach 5/22/2019

I stared into the chalky surf all last week. the waves were a moderate 1-2 foot, but strong east winds had the Atlantic churned and frothy. It was the same story yesterday. I prodded a few different spots with hope that a low tide would flatten out the break making for better visibility. But still, nothing of worth spotted.

As I head back east on State Road 60 I triple check the surf report and wind stations. I got off work a little early today. If I haul ass I can get to the sand and fish an hour or two of a slightly higher tide stage. If I haul ass I will most likely run into the same conditions I did yesterday. Against my better judgment I keep east toward the Atlantic. holding out hope that the fish where pushed out off of the second bar yesterday.

My newly single father is renting a sort of bungalow/garage apartment on the beach now. I have never fished there before, the private parking should save time and cut down on people. I whip into the gravel driveway. I rush inside to throw on my boardies and reassemble my latest warranty claim. My dad asks to come with me for five minutes. Of course I oblige.

“So you can’t eat them?”

He is picking my brain about surf fishing. The latest hobby that he has yet to start. We begin the tight walk down the winding trail through the sea grapes and over the dune.

“What else do you catch out here?”

He points out the last known location of the nomadic homeless camp. As we approach the surf, it is just as I feared. Hopeless. Too bad, I would have loved to show him a snook.

“So you Don’t cast at all until you see one?”

I never fail to feel slightly silly answering innocent questions from someone who doesn't fish much. I gave up trying to explain sight fishing for beach snook to the laments. A purely natural evolution of a fisherman not out solely for meat.

I want him to get a real hobby. To become obsessed and driven by something. His newly purchased kayaks will likely see little sunlight. Just like my wife’s paddle board. In my view, there needs to be a drive behind such tools. I am either blessed or cursed by such all-encompassing pursuits.

A few minutes later he leaves me to it. I walk south slowly. Evaluating the make up of the ever changing ocean floor. Already plotting the best future conditions for this new stretch of sand. I get the occasional window of clarity with visible bottom. The water is chaotic. Relentless waves and foam spill atop the swirling sand. Shrouding the ocean floor. Wind loud in my ears. Water pulses from ankle to thigh in no apparent pattern. Hopeless.

As with every disappointing trip to the beach, the reptilian part of my brain continues veering my eyes from wave to wave, searching for any aberration in the chaotic pattern. The mind slowly wanders.

Maybe I should jump in and cool off. At least that wouldn't make this a complete waste of time.

What time would I get home if I left now?

I wonder how the beers in my over-priced-abominable ice box are doing in the truck bed?

Finally hope was lost on the hopeful. Bits of sargassum and swirling sand has been playing tricks on my eyes for hours.

Suddenly it was all voided. What I saw stuck out like soar thumb. Swimming right at me. He is hungry. I started hauling and released just as the male snook came into range. Right on the button. Way too close on any day lacking a 15mph onshore wind. He keys in immediately. As I strip he trails the fly intently. I lose sight of him as he is consumed by foam. As I meagerly hoped, he uses the veil of oxygenated water to inhale the fly and I come tight. As I watch him thrash among waves and sargassum my heart rate returns. it sinks in. the first fish of the season. Fuck yes. I gently coerce him into an inch of water. The validation rushes over me. Glad I came today. I don't think I can bare another weekend of 2-4 foot surf without having caught one.

I watch him swim off like a proud mother in the preschool parking lot. Clouds roll in and the surf turns gray. I could care less. The first fish of the season has been to hand and swam off healthy. Pressure is lifted. Pressure invented and faced only by me. I stare into the black waves even though everything underlying is currently invisible. The kind of staring you do when you are preoccupied. Staring at nothing. Staring at the air in between you and something. When you are someplace else.

I stare a few minutes more and the sun reveals itself once again. Illuminating blue and green. The chaotic surf now seems peaceful. I blissfully scan for a while, content that I will see no more today. I got a lucky shot. A merciful blessing before surfs rise, damning me to another week of fantasizing.

I wander back toward the access. In my mind I am done fishing. But man nor God can resist staring into the surf with polarized glasses on. A shadow catches my eye. A glimpse of a slightly larger male, sauntering impossibly under the treacherous surface. I start my false casts as he fades out of existence. I drop the fly about 6 feet in front of his last known location. My eyes start searching for my fly as I blindly strip. Fur and tinsel are highlighted by a powerful black lateral line. The belly of my rod comes alive. Once inanimate, now at the mercy of a breeding age snook.

Weeks and miles on the beach validated. Two fish on the first catching day of summer. I commemorate the evening with a quick dip in the Atlantic. A long talk and a beer with my dad. I sip Busch lite with my marred thumb. At peace. For now.

Beach 5/15/2019

I check all manner of human knowledge on my pocket sized human-knowledge-apparatus. It looks like beach season is officially here. The powers that be are calling for 1-2 foot surf all week. slightly cloudy but the Atlantic should be glass with this light west wind. Driving straight from work I pull into the park and can hardly wait to unlace my boots and initiate the frantic ritual I do as often as possible on week days during summer months. Although it takes 5 minutes tops, it seems like an eternity as I shimmy off my jeans in the drivers seat and lace up my boardies. I step out to assemble my 9 weight and feel a few rain drops on my back. Doubt creeps in. Afraid to look up and risk losing hope, I conclude the ritual by filling up my water bottle. In typical Florida fashion I feel the sun wash over my shoulders as I lock up my trusty steed.

I look up to the sky thankful to see what might be a decent day. I briskly walk down the trail and through the sea grapes. My heart warmed by the glassy blue-green water for the first time since last season. I reach the foot of the surf and look south, slightly disappointed by the by the smattering of condo dwellers uniformly dispersed down the beautiful shoreline. I don't like to fish near people, but I will certainly dodge a few yankees on inner tubes if there are fish around.

Before I can even get past the first couple walking towards me, a male snook shows up inches from the dry sand, swimming parallel to me. I act casual, as an out-of-towner walking with no fly rod. Unable to resist, I lay the fly in front of the fish, a little too close for comfort for the approaching couple. Half-expecting a comment or protest, it never comes. But the snook does come. Flashing his jowls on the second strip, I feel him momentarily before the line goes limp.

I move past the couple. Moments later another male appears as a tern sails over my head. the snook and I are both alerted by the bird’s shadow and trajectory. Fish and fowl both crash a single sardine in a foot of water. The tern arises with the bait fish as the snook swims back towards the break empty handed. I strategically place my fly on the other side of the break, where I anticipate the male to appear. As the foam clears my eyes pick out my fly, brushing the snooks back. He reacts by tying himself in knot and snapping at the intruder.

I figure the fish are feeding up shallow and mostly swimming north. I plan to stay high on the dune and cover ground. I get a few more shots but no feeds before I lose sun. I turn around to discover a large storm cell moving offshore between me and the parking lot. The squatters have all ran for cover and abandoned their rainbow colored shanties. I decide to wait it out. The cell is all but offshore already.

As I wait for the sun to re-emerge, I cant help but miss it. It flirts with the cloud cover, momentarily converting the Atlantic from grey to emerald. As the condos engorge with people, I have the beach to myself.

Surely God made the sun to illuminate big, broad shouldered predators, cruising in search of morsels in clean shallow water. And surely he made this handful of parks sprawling publicly along the Atlantic just for me.

God’s great sun came out again and I was met promptly by a cruising school of three males. They seemed to all see the fly at once. They fought each other until the victor had my fly in his jowls. I come tight, again momentarily. The snook headed for Cuba and my line went limp. Reminding me to keep fly line taught in the rolling surf.

My heart is pounding in my throat. I thought myself to be above getting riled up by small male snook, but he would have been the first of the season. I look down at my trembling knees slightly embarrassed. I have never given much thought to the phrase “the tug is the drug.” especially when adorned by bumper stickers or t shirts. But damn it, that's a true statement.

How else do you explain staring into the surf for hours, hoping to only glimpse a fish? Let alone feed one. Further still to land one. Just to let it go? All is right with the world after fish have been caught. Big or small. Although the euphoria is less fleeting if the fish are big.

The clouds are back. And I haven't seen a fish in a while. I keep scanning until the wind switches from the west to the north. Howling cold in my face and peeling foam from the cresting waves. Drifting across a landscape of white caps. As if to agree with my watch, that the fishing is done for today. As I find shelter back in the sea grapes, I am already giddy about tomorrow. Summer is here.

Beach 5/4/2019

The love bugs are worse this year than any other in recent memory. The wiper fluid has been empty for a few thousand miles now. The rain brings some visual relief, as the wipers fight through the mangled thoraxes and wings. Relief interrupted by the dreadful thought that I wont be able to see anything at the beach.

I pull into the park. Plenty of spaces today. glancing up at the hopeless clouds I strap on my backpack and cobble together my 4 piece. The rational part of my brain begins to bicker with the part that drives me to fish and to be free. Hopeless, yet somehow still excited I walk north.

I make my way through the pastel shanty town of umbrellas and tents that the pasty families have erected. I see a man in the distance fighting something, hard. As I walk past he casually mentions that its “probably a tiger.”

We wish each other well as I press further north. I settle in on a modest point and stare into the gray water. Not much to see. A little further north I spot some turbidity in the water, multiple fish breaking the surface, feeding.

In a fever more common among gear anglers, I frantically rush over to lay out fly line in the middle of the chaos. The fever subsides rather quickly. Cured by a few acrobatic ladyfish and a chalky tippet. I clip off the manged section and re-tie. I glance over to check on the shark fishing man in the distance. He is wrestling with what indeed seems to be, a large tiger shark.

I resist the urge to throw once more into the frothing frenzy. My stoicness is rewarded in short time as my eyes start to make out thick green shoulders underlined by the iconic black lateral. My rusty instincts kick in as I fumble with excess line and begin double-hauling. All the while my eyes locked on her- gliding through this dimly lit aquarium. I clear all the line and land the leader knot right on her under slung face. Fuck. My heart regains rhythm and my breath deepens. I strip the fly in to check for fouling. In with it comes my ego. Creeping in. Embarrassed to be thinking of the hero shot that could have been. I quickly remind myself that it doesn't matter, its not about that. Just as I do on almost every other trip.

Especially the unsuccessful ones.

90 minutes go by with no confirmed sightings, thus no casts. My patience proves worthy as the high gray clouds slightly give way. The sun unknowingly displays hints of the Atlantic's emerald beauty. My eyes feel the relief as they can start to make out the ocean floor. Spirits start to rise.

Then I am yanked out of my weather-induced daydream by my electronic leash. Buzzing and moaning its awful tone mercilessly in my backpack, as it does so often. I remind myself that I would not be able to do this many days without the leash. I set the boss man’s mind at ease as I cup the microphone facing away from the surf.

As soon as my feet and soul re-enter the calendar like scene I see her. Almost as if a reward for tending to my professional duties. The rusty instincts are a little more fluid now. A good shot, but her reaction is lost in the breaking waves as she fades out of existence. A few more fish come and go. As I stare into exactly what I have been hoping for all winter, I turn away and head for the truck. To my obligations. As I often do. But its ok.

Beach season is here.