Bone fishing is tougher than you might expect. The fish are fast and skittish – and it turns out that my miserable ability to cast a fly across a twenty foot Idaho creek does not account for anything when the body of water is the ocean.
"Can you cast it 30 yards?"
Having relied upon the kindness of our guide and a yellow/pink and red "fly" (in the ocean this term has very limited similarity to our mountain experience) I finally had a Bonefish on the line and headed to the boat the other morning just off the coast of Ambergis Caye. My fishing pal had the camera and the fish was fighting and occasionally coming to he surface, though mostly it was just running away from us.
"Now bring him into the boat…"
And then he was gone – sort of. The silver flash that is the bone had been replaced momentarily by a bigger, more ominous black sight. And then it too was gone and so was half (the back half) of the bone. Cut in two like a Ginsu commercial.
Barracuda. I would have expected a little professional courtesy.
Didn’t cut my line, didn’t give me any warning just enjoyed a little breakfast at our expense. We got a great photo of the remaining head, attached to my line (not the one above).
Even the guide was speechless.
"What the hell…"
And that is the struggle for life in the tropics. Big fish eats little fish just when some guy in a flat boat looks like he is going to land the bone. Gone.
So today I will get back to work. Trial practice is a little bone fishing – one day you are headed along toward that boat seemingly hooked and on your way to a certain end. And then you are not. The case you thought would surely settle does not, and some guy snaps you in half and reminds you that you are not in control.
Then again we are never really in control. Ever. About the only thing we can control is our attempt to prepare for trial – so there we go.
Police reports to read again and digest. Clients to call and the law to consider.
Great to be back at it. I am ill-suited for time off – unless it is that daily run time.