We launch the skiff from a little dirt mound off the shoulder of US1. She glides across emerald and turquoise stained glass sliced open by three blades and 50 horses. Winds are low, the sun is bright, hopes are high. We are on course to the ocean-side flat I have wanted to try the entire trip. The five or so miles of open Atlantic and high winds have made it impossible for my modest skiff the last two days. We split bridge pilings and are welcomed to the calm Atlantic expanse, showing no resemblance to the ocean of 48 hours prior.

We are the first boat to the flat. It’s more vast than anticipated. Lush sea grass mingles with sandy holes under a gin clear barrier. I hardy know where to start. I kill the motor and can’t wait to jump on the poling platform. My eyes already searching while my buddy mounts a rotomolded casting platform and strips out 11wt shooting head.

We debate and form theories about which direction to head and what the fish will be doing. It is not long before a powerful black back and an emotionless eye breach 20 yards off our starboard. We decide to find a sandy hole within the same vicinity and stake out. It is slightly too deep to pole effectively. We start getting shots at 20-30 minute intervals, the fish are swimming all from the same direction and into the tide, but at different trajectories and speeds. Some meander in and set us up for a perfect shot, others barrel towards the back of the skiff at bad angles.

The next fish comes in fast, straight at the back of the boat. It is clear that she is keen to us, as she gives the skiff a wide berth. I have called her location out regardless. We both figure the chance has passed as my buddy rolls out the obligatory black and purple offering. She shears off course by a few feet and bull rushes the fly, stopping a few inches shy of fluttering rabbit hide. Comrade and I instinctively get low as he ticks the fly in short pops. Water flows through fur and feather in a seductive dance. The fish follows the fly until the leader is in the first guide and peels away. Between shaky knees and gentle Atlantic rollers, we both can hardly stand.

As the tide drops our stake out loses depth, and fish become less frequent. Because we are only getting shots every 20-30 minutes, it takes a while to realize they are not swimming this shallow. We bump out further and deeper, desperate to stick a fish before the long drive home this afternoon and work tomorrow.

A few other skiffs come and go from the flat, along with more than a few jet propelled crotch rockets. We watch other skiffs to compare notes and methods to our own. The closest skiff, which is still more than a hundred yards away, and considerably deeper than us, is getting a lot of shots. Before long, we hear a faint “Woop” and we can see that they are on. We are both glad to see how the fighting etiquette is handled in person, and we take solace in the fact that tarpon eating a fly is not just reserved for TV shows, Instagram, and 60k dollar skiffs.

The other boat’s fish is making a B-line right for us, the guide is motoring to lessen the fight. We watch for a while as the stoked crew and resilient dinosaur get closer. we stare in awe at the amount of pressure the angler on the bow is putting on the fish. Through no fault of their own, the other skiff motors right through our line, we pull up anchor with no hard feelings. As they fight the fish, we idle out to even deeper than they where staked. Careful to keep a respectable distance from the carbon fiber place marker.

We are now in seven or more feet of water. Poling is next to impossible. We only have about an hour before we need to head to the ramp. We toss out the anchor and hope for the best, now I am on the bow. I have changed the toad from black and purple to chartreuse. No fish pass by, but 25 minutes do. Filled with jokes about sticking one in the final hour, and fighting them till dark.

“Got one coming from back here.” the seriousness of my comrade’s words slice through the otherwise jovial tone.

I lay out a good shot, but the tarpon is apparently appalled at my choice of fly. I receive the same reception from the next fish and promptly switch back to black and purple. A few more fish come through in the half hour. We are seeing a lot more than we have all day. I make some good shots and blow more than a few. We are both eyeing our watches as we push our wives collective deadline back further and further. The sun is getting lower and the glare increases.

“5 more minutes.” We pact.

At minute four the poon comes through and sees the boat before we can react. We decide to leave the rod and bucket to be stowed last. As we meekly ready the skiff for the final departure, Just as I hoist 65 quarters of slushy ice and empty beer cans-

“Here comes two.”

I lurch forward in my best effort to delicately set down the cooler and grab the rod, but as cooler hits liner the fish head for the Bahamas. Fuck. Everything else is ready to go. Only 11wt, stripping bucket, and anchor remain in use. My buddy stands on the poling platform watching, as I shimmy up the anchor, looking over my shoulder like a 7th grader on pornhub.

“Group of 3 coming right at the back of the boat.”

This time, I set the anchor down with a painstaking gentleness. I grab the rod and start false casting, I stare at the lead fish's shadow, in line with the stern. I lay fly line along side the skiff, in an effort to place the fly far enough so the fish wont see the boat, but not to line the fish.

To my horror, the fly catapults right on the lead fishes prehistoric nose. All three fish make a simultaneous and violent U-turn.

Neither of us say anything. I slide each guide into the rod tube with a painful clack. I blew it. My buddy knows I blew it. He knows he doesn't have to tell me. I should have left him on the bow. I find it hard to enjoy the beauty of blue bird skies and calm seas as we run through the perfect conditions we prayed for all weekend. back to the ramp. I have only my self to blame. I spent too much time pouring over google earth, rigging quick release anchors and greasing hubs. Not enough time casting the 11wt in the yard. I try to blame it on nerves, but no excuse will suffice. We did learn a lot, and we only had one good day of weather- But I blew the last shot.

The only thing I can offer my knotted stomach, as we sit in US1 traffic: We will be back.