Sunday, April 27, 2014


I should know by now that thinking too much about the potential greatness of an upcoming day on the water will probably lead to disappointment. Making fly fishing only about the fish is a mistake, but it's hard not to do that when you haven't had a shot in a very long time. I've lived here for 18 months and this was my first chance.

The feeds that had been turning the Indian Ocean into a boiling mass of tuna and mackerel for the past few days never materialized. The flies I stayed up late tying never got wet. The coin I dropped to fish in just the right conditions felt more like theft than anything else. But that's unfair. This is fishing and no one is owed anything, no matter how long it's been since you've had a shot. Coming from the land of public waters, paying for access is hard for me to stomach.

The setting sun turned the ocean to poured gold and the tankers we navigated, shrouded in anti-pirate razor wire, reminded me of a city skyline. The smell of the water and the wind and the birds and the colors are usually the cherry on top of a day spent fishing, but as the little boat skated over the surface on our way back to the harbor I became aware that I was thinking more about how I never even got to cast than I was about the beauty around me.

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