Words: Rob Kaufman 2021-11-16 07:59:42
Somewhere between Abaco Island and Grand Bahama. “Taking advantage of a window in the weather to get to the out islands and cays, we set out on a calm morning and made a run for unnamed oceanic flats after two days of heavy winds.” Photo: David Kopij We’re skating on glass. The Yamaha 70 purrs, vaguely reminding me of my dad’s old snow blower. It’s the only sound, muffled by the wind. Our minds are on what’s to come. Cruising past Mallory, a wall of cold air reminds us that winter’s reach sometimes makes it all the way to the Lower Florida Keys. Not yet warmed by the morning tide, the gulf-side flat emanates the night’s chill. Heading east, the backcountry awakens as the sun untethers from the horizon. I’ve seen it a hundred times but feel the instinctual need to capture the spectacle. I grab my phone and snap a dozen photos, but technology can’t translate this morning magic, and the small yellow orb, washed-out sky and still-dark water can never communicate “what it’s like” to anyone who hasn’t seen it for themselves. I’d be better off sitting silently, a witness without distraction. So I sit up front, on the cooler. All responsibilities in the hands of others. Fidgeting, but trying to wait patiently. Simple joy and overindulgence at dawn. David rides shotgun, a caricature of enthusiasm. He breaks rods, on fish and underfoot. This happens so often rod companies don’t honor their return policies with customer Weeks. He falls out of boats spectacularly, loses hats and shoes, and has so many pre-fishing rituals it’s amazing we ever have time for the fish. Yet he is the diehard among us. Without him, I’d be at home trimming overgrown buttonwoods in the backyard. Captain O navigates his sleigh through the maze of the narrows. His presence assuages all doubts, even in the pursuit of the ridiculous—tarpon on two-pound. Backed by a history of wishes fulfilled, an aura of confidence permeates his skiff. We may not be worthy, but we believe and so we are. We bank gently right, turning south toward the Blimp. A slick-calm bay opens ahead of us. Here first. Miracle number one. Counting on more. The half-hour run seems shorter as we come off plane. The engine hushes to a whisper as the boat settles to idle. Our spot, hiding in plain sight. At 200 yards, the first school rolls.
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MIRACLE NUMBER ONE
https://digital.theflyfishjournal.com/articles/miracle-number-one