Whenever I fish at night and discover that I’ve been fishing without a fly on the end of the line (this happens more than I care to admit) I begin to question my reasons for engaging in such a stupid pastime as saltwater fly fishing in the dark. A feeling of total uselessness sweeps over me, thoughts of missed opportunities, a sense of impending doom. Why didn’t I refinance when rates were low? Why did I waste the spring term of my sophomore year playing backgammon and taking pass-fail classes in women’s studies (which I failed)? Why didn't I take Abnormal Psychology, aka "Nuts and Sluts?" Why am I not rich? Why am I an insignificant speck of dust in a sea of specks, chasing slimy things which I do not like to eat?
I think I have the wrong psychiatric composition to be a fly fisherman. There’s a tribe in Africa where the hunter-warriors learn how to stand on one leg for 12 hours at a time, sucking on roots that lower their heart rates to two beats per minute. I try to stand still for ten minutes on two legs in a pair of itchy waders and I start thinking dire thoughts about the hopelessness of my cause, the bleak, impenetrable emptiness of the sea, and the malicious minds of the fish that aren’t there. It has been said that a fisherman is the embodiment of hope, always believing on every cast, that this will be the big one, the payoff, the trophy on the wall. Not me. I am the eternal pessimist, doomed to fish because I feel compelled to be outside, on the water, and not in front of the television with the wife watching the Real World: Methuen.
There I cast not even knowing that I lost my fly an hour ago on a piece of driftwood behind me. Shooting blanks. Not playing with a deck at all, let alone a full one.
My psychiatric disorder comes into full force when I have to decide where exactly to fish. I am an illiterate when it comes to reading the water. If a fish hasn’t jumped out of the water right in front of me, waggling its tail and spitting nickels, I won’t cast. If birds aren’t flailing at the water, then I won’t. I waste lots and lots of gasoline flitting from one spot to the next, barely giving a spot more than a minute’s worth of attention before jetting off to the next waypoint. I’ll spend 30 minutes pounding over lumpy seas, dodging spray over the bow on a hunch; then get to the spot indicated by the hunch, throw a cast, throw another cast, and then weigh anchor and off I go for another 30 minutes, peering outwards for a sign of anything ... a splash, a bird, another boat --- anything that indicates the possibility of a fish.
Why can't I see through the water? Why don't I have the patience to wait for the fish to come to me?
If I do manage to get off a cast I start thinking about what is wrong with what I am doing? Did I make the fly smell like me and not like a minnow? Is there enough Flashabou on the fly (assuming there is a fly)? Is the fly long enough? (why do I never feel I have the right fly in the box and end up taking all flies?) Should I switch flies and tie on an entirely different pattern? And why is it that the line I am using at that particular moment always feels like the wrong line for those conditions? Should I switch to the spare reel? Did I put out the cat? Did I pay the electric bill?
If I catch a fish, I immediately want to catch a different kind of fish. Bluefish? I need a striper. Striper? I need a bonito. A thousand-pound blue marlin on 2 pound test? I want an oarfish. When will it stop? When will I be satisfied? Everybody’s heard the old line: "Never leave fish to find fish." Hah. I leave no fish to find no fish, wandering aimlessly, consulting tide tables, maps, Reel-Time, tackle shops, rumors, and my own bad hunches.
I need to check into a Zen retreat and learn how to meditate myself into a full fungal mushroom. The journey is the reward. Wherever you are, that’s where you’ll be. Be the fly. Think like a fish. Or maybe I need to go to an AA meeting and get some of those snappy bumperstickers that say: "One day at a time." "Easy Does it." "Let Go. Let God." "Keep honking, I'm reloading."
Or maybe it’s time to achieve better living through chemicals. Get myself diagnosed with attention deficit disorder or manic depression and start medicating myself with some serious serotonin uptake inhibitors.
I think I know my diagnosis. It’s just a case of the Albacore Blues. I see fish breaking and I restrain myself from charging over. I am the Grasshopper, at peace with my surroundings. I try to convince myself to wait, to be above the run and gunners, that all good things come to those who wait. Etc. Etc. Etc. Then I turn into one of those two buzzards that sit together in a tree on t-shirts, when one says to the other, "Enough waiting for carrion. Let’s kill something!" And so I floor it and go charging into the fray of Bayliners, kayakers, and other angry, red-faced men.
There. That’s off my chest. That’s what I get for writing the FishWire on the train to New York City. I always feel sorry for myself on the train to New York City. I rather discuss my toenails and the time they all fell off within a three-day time span after I walked through the muddy water buffalo market in Jaipur in a pair of flip-flops. So let’s talk about something positive. And that is Derby Time. That’s right Reel-Timers, it is the time of year when the island of Martha’s Vineyard hosts its annual Bluefish & Striped Bass Derby. The boundaries have been vastly expanded to cover all of Nantucket Sound and both sides of the Elizabeth Islands. So get yourself a ticket on the next ferry, buy a Derby pin, and find yourself a piece of beach to stand on, motionless, on one leg, until the madness takes grip and you start hating that song in your head that just won’t go away. This week’s broken-record-of-the-mind was "Eye of the Tiger," the week before was the loathsome Seals & Croft "Summerbreeze."
News of the week: weird week but there ARE albies around. Inedible fish that make adults wet their pants. Starting last weekend the wind decided to blow out of the east. Northeast. East. Southeast. Wind east. Fish bite least. Yet albies were being caught off of Craigville, and despite the bad direction and the reduced number of anglers, fish were caught all over our fine region. Offshore has been kind of creepy. The tragic sinking of a commercial clammer off of Chappaquidick, the disappearance of a solo Chatham tuna fisherman 65 miles off of Nantucket, the remnants of Hurricane Frances. I dunno. Be careful out there. But this is the time to heed your urges and get on the beaches and water of our fine shores. The fall run is on, it isn’t going to last forever, and it beats the heck out of watching bad television. So, send in a report, buy a t-shirt, and check the end of your line often, for a line without a fly catches no fish.