Why do we fly fish?
Is it for the “grip and grin” to show our friends, the “likes,” the witty one-liners we caption our posts with, or is it to disconnect from the hustle and bustle of our modern day society and reconnect with the natural world?
Today I found myself daydreaming about what the new moon flood tide would bring me after this long day at work. Here in Southeast Georgia, summer means grueling, hot, sticky days intermingled with pop up thunderstorms and cycles of flood tides all season long. Today felt different for me, though. As I hurried home to hook the boat up and rush to the ramp, I found myself longing for a different experience this trip. I didn’t want to worry about having my phone always at the ready, like a cowboy trembling to grasp his six-shooter while stepping off for a duel. I wanted to leave all distractions behind, and enter into another world.
As I made the 10-minute run to a labyrinthine stretch of oyster-bar-covered banks and feeder creeks that flood a vast area of spartina grass, I felt a sense of calm, as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I wasn’t worried about the lighting. I wasn’t concerned about making sure noticeable land features didn’t make the backdrop of my pictures, or whether I was going to do the drip pose or get the release shot. Hell, I wasn’t even worried about tricking a tailing redfish to eat a shrimp pattern I had whipped up on the vise the night before. This evening I was simply a spectator.
With my rods stowed away on the rod racks, I poled along through the grass, absorbing the smell of salt marsh and pluff mud. I tuned in to the periwinkles gently grazing the hull of my skiff as they clung for dear life to the thin blades. I observed mullet jumping out of the predator-infested waters, like frogs trying to make it to the next lily pad. A stealthy egret stood patiently awaiting its next ambush as bait began to flood into the spartina. It was just another evening in the life of this ecosystem they call home.
As I continued to pole, the spartina swayed to and fro in the light salty breeze, like “the wave” making its way around a stadium. At last, the setting sun illuminated the slapping tails of redfish as they worked vigorously to make every minute count, knowing the tide would soon retreat out of this virgin ground, forcing them to return to their normal feeding habits.
Watching a tailing fish of any species is a spectacle, and on this particular evening I was
filled with the same heart-pounding excitement as I sat on the poling platform watching and observing without a rod or phone in my hand. It also brought a new sense of calm that I wasn’t accustomed to.
Next time you go out, I challenge you to disconnect. Sit in the stillness of the natural world, whether it be on the bank of your favorite trout stream, anchored up in the middle of a Wyoming river in a drift boat, or on the deck of a skiff in the marsh. Soak it in and appreciate it. You can worry about pictures and posts the next time.
