Hung over, unwound, sun burnt, and stiff.
A deep good tired.
Strong coffee and a breakfast I wouldn’t normally eat, and strong coffee.
The water is hazy and flat, with no horizon.
We fly on turquoise and blue.
Balanced and ready, fly in hand, gritty with mud, my line loosely coiled.
Eyes straining, wanting to spot the fish.
Before the guide.
Disconnected and floating, in slow motion.
A silent push.
Anticipating my back cast, the bow moves slightly.
I shift my attention between one and two o’clock.
Nothing.
Something. Maybe.
“Hey, you see dem?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “At two-o’clock.”
“Yeah mon, sixty feet.”
He knows.
I find them.
“Moving left to right,” I say. “Almost at three-o’clock.”
“”Yeah mon.” I feel him smile. “Now you got dem!”
Ghosts.
Shimmering ghosts, betrayed by their shadows.
One false cast for direction, two more for distance, and another to settle my nerves.
A long pause.
A loaded rod.
The fly lands where I want it.
“Let it sink.” Turning.
“Strip now.” Convergence.
“Long and slow.” Closing.
“Stop” A pause.
“Strip!”
A tight line, hisses through the guides.
Fingers burn.
Long runs turned into shorter ones, and finally there’s fish. As difficult to photograph, as it is to see.
A mirror held in the sun, blinding and invisible.
