Dry flies, streamers, and bead head nymphs.
Check.
Tapered leaders and spools of tippet.
Check.
Fly box.
Check.
Nippers and forceps.
Check.
Flotant.
Check.
Strike indicators.
Check.
Split shot.
Check.
Boots, wading staff, jacket, St. Croix fly rod and reel.
Check.
Beautiful day on the picturesque Doe River below the nearly 150-year-old covered bridge to try out his newly purchased fly fishing equipment.
Check.
Heck, he was so excited about this newfound sport he’d even had a fish tattooed on both forearms, that ran elbow to wrist, including the dorsal side.
He smiled. ‘Dorsal side.’ He admitted he was nothing if not one super enthusiastic fisherman of all things with dorsal fins.
‘Dorie. Funny. My wife’s name is Dorie. She probably thinks I’m married to fly fishing and not her.’
He was newly married. She was patient. “Patience is required for fishing too,” he’d said, thinking he’d segway his way from his appreciation of her into why she should continue to be patient with him.
He had been trying to explain why it was that he’d transitioned from deep sea fishing to lake fishing to now fly fishing.
He remembered how she had smiled at that. She had a couple ways of smiling. This time her smile was accompanied by a tilt of the head, a lifting of the eyebrows, a different kind of glint to her eyes.
“Yes, I’m patient,” she said, raising one index finger and waggling it in the air.
“And don’t you ever forget it,” she continued.
“Yes dear.”
“Now go fishing, and bring home something for dinner.”
Then she kissed him and lovingly pushed him toward the door.
What a sweetheart!
What a catch!
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