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.