OK, it' still a week before there are real reports and we're all REALLY antsy and stuff, so here's a thread to maybe let off some steam. It's "the one that got away", and we each have one.
Mine goes back to my first week as a saltwater fly guy. It's July some years back, I've just bought a 10wt outfit with an intermediate line and been given enough clues by the guys at Goose Hummock that I've managed to catch some schoolies on a fly. Mostly I'm still learning how to double-haul and manage line and all that stuff, but it's my vacation and I'm in Chatham so I'm crawling all over the seashore looking for fish.
We come to the last night of vacation. I've hit three or four places with mixed-to-indifferent results and wasted a lot of time trying to tempt what were probably pogies making big splashing noises. I come to South Beach where it turns out I've been missing a blitz of epic proportions. Guys are dragging big bass off the beach, people are talking about landing 10 keepers each. I try to take up a position on the beach and am shouted at by a spin fisher with a keeper on, so I move uptide of him.
And I begin flailing the water as only a novice flyfisher can. At one point I create an intricate bird's nest in my stripping basket with a cast, and the cast line just sits and sinks while I fuss with the tangle. Line clear, strip, strip, THUNK!
A bass larger than I have ever since landed [max on fly = 32"] starts moving out toward the mouth of Pleasant Bay, aided by the current and its own big shoulders and broad tail. Line melts from the reel, {please insert all the other cliche explanations for big fish overpowering tackle}, and I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO.
Ack! Well, I'm palming the Pflueger Medalist and it's not slowing down. I've watched the spin guys horse in a couple of keepers. I don't know the limits of this new tackle, but I figure it's time to not be scared of the fish and try to turn it with force. So I clamp down on the reel and....
poof
No fish. Line slack. Aaaargh. Reel it in to find the leader totally abraded, probably scraped clean on the rough shoulder scales of the fish. Went up to the car to tie a new leader (no flashlight, duh!), and let my heart rate come below 300 bpm. Needless to say I flailed at the water until the sun came up, only then noticing that the blitz was long over and I was the last man on the beach. Haven't felt a thing that big since.
There's a line from a poem, substitute "the gods of fishing" for "history":
'History gives too soon to weak hands
What's thought can be dispensed with'