The morning is different . The entire marsh has glassed off and I can see bottom everywhere I look. I paddle a few more twisting cove bends and creeks and within minutes I am into a dozen pounds of sweetheart red. He gives what he can until I let him roll off my fin-gers back to his world. From there, it is game on and I find myself sticking fish after memorable fish for hours on end until I get dizzy from the glut of hedonism. I even see a tailing sheepshead and drop a crab near him. I love how they show their emotions so openly when they get turned on to a fly and make a beeline to it—the fervent zig and zag tracking it, the flared gills. When you’ve got their interest, you briefly let it rest in the silt, twitch just a bit and there it is. I have always tried to find out what the highest quality of anything is—that which sets the bar—be it something tangible or a feeling you know in your gut. I once ate at a fancy steakhouse with waiters who stood there ready to fold your napkin and continually wiping RIGHT Bad light equals bad sight fishing. Bad light can also equal a dangerous storm spilling out of the gulf and onto the Louisiana shore. Since this marsh is close to New Orleans, it might be prudent to find some hot gumbo and cold Abita. Photo: Tim Romano crumbs off the table. I asked for ketchup just to see their smirks. That steak was the bar. And Louisiana, this marsh, with her hurricanes and corrupt politicians, the continual scythe of Big Oil raping and pillaging, her wetlands and marshes dying and in retreat like no tomorrow, they’ve got her on her heels, but she still clings tenaciously to life, is still here, still so damn beautiful and world class. This is the bar. I’ve gotten what I came for. These unconscious mo-ments where one is not even really aware of existing, so enthralled by all things outside of us, ahead of us and far from within. I could head for home, but nothing is for certain anymore. That empty house. What I wouldn’t give to see the slender nape of her neck leading to those perfect bare shoulders across the pillow from me. These matters of the heart, they cut to the bone. I have burned some bridges in my time. I want to tell her I’ve missed her and yet still be able to explain how much I need this rawness of water, of how it forever sets me straight. The morning is different. The entire marsh has glassed off and I can see bottom everywhere I look. I paddle a few more twisting cove bends and creeks and within minutes I am into a dozen pounds of sweetheart red. He gives what he can until I let him roll off my fingers back to his world. 080 LOUISIANA
The Flyfish Journal Volume Eight, Issue Two: Page 80
