At the end of the day, when I take my first step onto the dock, it’ll feel like I’m still on the boat. By then, my body will be tuned to the swell, my hips, knees and ankles rocking, bending and adjusting naturally to the rhythm of the waves. That first step is disorienting — the ground seems to be moving but I know it’s not — and it’s also satisfying to think that I’ve been on the water so long that it’s now my equilibrium, my baseline. Until then, I’m still finding my sea legs.
I’m on the casting platform and my toes, spread apart, are grabbing and gripping the SeaDek for all their worth — which, evidently, isn’t much. Thankfully, this isn’t my first time, and muscle memory is starting to take over, slowly making the act of balancing an unconscious one. Behind me, holding the skiff in place from the poling platform, is an old friend, one of my best. In front of us spreads an expansive flat, a golden-tan bottom clearly visible through the slight chop. Beyond that, a maze of mangrove islands, each absolutely unique and yet, to the tourist angler (me), startlingly similar and completely disorienting. The horizon line, mangrove green, splits the two blues — sky and sea. Here, silently, with eyes wide open, we wait for an intersection with swimmers, migrating adult tarpon, coming right at us.
When we arrived at this flat, the tide was slack and we couldn’t yet see through the glare. We waited for what seemed like a long time, but that was intentional; in most fishing situations, if you aren’t early, you’re late.
It’s now mid morning and the sun’s high enough that the glare is mostly
When we arrived at this flat, the tide was slack and we couldn’t yet see through the glare. We waited for what seemed like a long time, but that was intentional; in most fishing situations, if you aren’t early, you’re late.
It’s now mid morning and the sun’s high enough that the glare is mostly
