Inevitably the first glimpse of crashing Albies tickled me into a frenzy. But I had studied for this. The answer, do what I had practiced. I practiced casting. Dream big they said. But the itch of going full send, well, that’s how heroes are made. (It’s also how poison ivy spreads). Bewildered, I’d eventually co-sign the idea that, yeah, I was jumpy.
“… he backhanded the Mushy, off the bow…clean…” That was the narrated sequence in the Albie feature film I created in my head. Right before the bass line drops.
So, Rubber, meet road. Fish at 40 ft. left to right. Left. To. Right. And, let it g…uh…
Shit…that was just one huge tailing loop… Affirmative. Tailing loop. How’s the leade… the leader has a nice Windsor knot. I would’ve had ‘em though.
At 22 ft, I didn’t say 40 ft. and if they were doing meandering somersaults, it’s likely… I would’ve slayed… ‘Core.
We’re getting older and Albie season is still fleeting. It feels good now to know the first glimpse of crashing albies, it’s less of a frenzy now, and more of a joyful pandemonium. And between me and you, yeah pandemonium, it leads to the botched shots. That happens when you get too excited, but then again you should be excited because we’re on the water for albies.
And between me and you, that joyful part, oddly, that’s what happens when you take a look around, don’t see any fish, but that’s okay.
Our Fishing Lives 