Flyosophy

There is an old adage in education. One can only teach those willing to learn.  Like most sayings, it is true to a point.  Back when I was a teacher you would hear this primarily as an excuse for poor test scores.  The inverse of this is also true, to a point.  That if a student has a profound desire to learn, no teacher is necessary.  History has no end of great scholars, artists, and scientists who were all self-taught.

I personally believe that the primary role of a teacher for younger students is to show the value of learning…not so much the knowledge.  So as a history teacher, focusing on dates and factual events could lead a student to the cliché question “When are we ever going to need to know this?”  Honestly the answer is never, and with today’s modern wireless devices the entire world’s knowledge is literally at one’s fingertips – memorizing dates is really just for quiz shows.  However, if the same lesson focused on skills, for example critical thinking…the “why” of the historical events, the same tired question becomes one easily answered.  I am teaching you this, so that you will be able to learn whatever you desire to know.

“The only purpose of education is to teach a student how to live his life – by developing his mind and equipping him to deal with reality.  The training he needs is theoretical, i.e., conceptual.  He has to be taught to think, to understand, to integrate, to prove.  He has to be taught the essentials of the knowledge discovered in the past – and he has to be equipped to acquire further knowledge by his own effort.”

Ayn Rand

In short the ultimate goal of learning is to learn how to learn.  May sound foolish, but in many ways this is far more important in this day and age than it has ever been.  For instance knowledge facts like: when was the Battle of Hastings – are only a few key clicks away on a cell phone.  Knowledge is a freely traded commodity and its value is fairly low.  Wisdom, understanding, and the ability to process information into original thought that is true power. Consider fly patterns…a simple Google search will yield you all the patterns you could want – provided you know basic tying techniques, and most important if you know how to use them: where and when – you get the idea.

Fly fishing has a number of skills that I feel many of us have learned more or less by rote.  Leaders, knots, basic water reading, and fly casting are all skills that one simply doesn’t learn and cross off a list.  In fact, given the nature of fly fishing a change or adaptation in one component causes a change in another.  For instance, a fly cast is differently with a long leader compared to  shorter one or a heavy fly.  Naturally, there are a near infinite range of possibilities and most fly fishermen make adjustments without really having to think about it.

When it comes to fly casting, however, there is something of a downside to learning.  Much of the “knowledge” of fly casting is tied to muscle memory which (like riding a bike) is somewhat involuntary.  The good news is that a good caster can do everything he needs to almost instinctively.  The bad news is if an experienced caster wants to learn a new style of casting, technique or more importantly, to correct a bad habit he may have had and lived with for years – it is exceedingly difficult to do so.  As Yoda said, “You must unlearn what you have learned.”  But how do you unlearn something that is not known to your conscious mind?

In my region, the rivers are small, the ocean is big.  It’s not uncommon for an angler with years and years of river experience to want to transition to fishing the ocean.  However, poor casting technique can be a killer when one needs to increase distance or deal with a powerful headwind.  In New England, to be an incredibly successful trout angler one may never need to cast more than…actually one doesn’t really have to cast at call, a simple roll cast is more than adequate much of the time.  An inefficient, but perfectly useful, river cast will not serve the needs of a saltwater angler.

Even if this caster knows exactly what his faults are, is willing to practice, and even if he has the most skilled instructor to assist him, overcoming his own knowledge may prove extremely difficult.  If only there was some magical way to travel back in time and teach himself the right way to cast first.

Oh but there is, and you don’t even need Dr. Who.

More often than not – it’s that thing attached to your other shoulder – your left arm – or if you are a more sinister member of our fellowship the right.

When I took my fall the future usefulness of my right arm was cast in doubt, so two days after the accident I was practicing with my left.  What surprised me was not how quickly I learned – it actually was a slow process to build the muscle memory, but how after a few weeks my casting with my left arm was technically superior to casting with my right.

My right arm has nearly 30 years of experience, however, it learned to cast under less than ideal conditions.  Like nearly everyone, I learned as I went.  I read books, took a lesson or two, and just screw up a lot until I got it to work.  My left arm, on the other hand – get it? Oh man I apologize this topic is dry but I needed a segue way to some casting articles – was trained by an experienced caster.  A blank slate free of any bad habits, I learned a much better form.  Even though my left arm will never be as coordinated as my right, it doesn’t punch casts, shock rods, over overpower loops.  When you tech your off-arm, it listens.

Even better, when my right arm healed and I started using it again the lessons from the left transferred over.  Sometimes I think the best way to learn something you already know is to learn something completely different – in much the same way by learning to cast two-handed rods I improved my technique and ability with one handed rods.

So if you are ever trying to learn some casting technique, or if you are trying to perfect your casting skills, I highly recommend trying the new material with your off-arm.  Its lack of muscle memory will be a godsend.

In the next few articles I am planning to detail an efficient casting course.  There are many theories about how a person should learn to cast and how a person learns really anything.  If this helps you, great, if it doesn’t then leave it be.  My only advice to the more experienced guys is to try this lesson plan with your off-arm first.

Last thing:  this process is not my idea – I have tweaked it a bit.  My father used many of these techniques to teach me, I also know the LL Bean Outdoor Discovery school uses a similar method, and probably the best aid would be “Saltwater Casting: 10 Steps to Distance and Power” a DVD by George Roberts in my opinion the single best casting DVD on the market – and I watch a lot of them.  The method is all about drilling…in fact you don’t make a single cast for the first few WEEKS.

Ya that’s right WEEKS – the Flyosopher doesn’t make BS promises if you truly want to improve your cast it takes TIME and PRACTICE.  But hey its winter, what the hell else you going to do go ice fishing…ice fishing is like kissing your sister (For those of you in the South I mean to say it is not much fun…I’m sure your sister is lovely.)

2009 has not been my best year, and I doubt I’ll be sad to see it go. 

I rang in 2009 on a snow covered highway with a flat tire.  I had been working and there are a few things about my job which you should know to fully appreciate what happened next.  I essentially work inside a computer, the rooms I perform my tasks in are very warm, so I’ve never gotten in the habit of wearing a warm jacket, a hat gloves, that sort of thing.  Secondly, my shift ends at midnight, great for striper season, not so great during a snowstorm on New Year’s Eve.  So when I started changing the tire in the sub-zero temperatures, I was dressed in a Justice League Tee-shirt and a pair of jeans.  Before I could screw together the crank to free the spare, I had lost all feeling in my hands.

If you have ever changed a tire on a pick-up truck, you will understand that there is an additional step after you get the lug nuts loosened; you have to get the flat tire free which is almost always rusted in place.  Not the hardest thing to do, but when you have the truck up on a crappy jack with nothing but ice beneath it you tend not to be as aggressive as you may need to be…at least I wasn’t I was concerned about knocking the jack out and dropping the truck so what should have taken a minute or two, took a lot longer.  The fact that I’m pretty sure my brain was starting to show signs of hypothermia probably didn’t help much.  Keep in mind I had to kneel, and at one point lay down, in the snow to get the jack in position…both my tee-shirt and jeans were wet.

Still I managed; I got the spare on, secured the flat and was in the process of stowing the jack when a cruiser pulled up behind me.  Forgot to mention, the two-lane highway wasn’t exactly plowed well and the flat tire was on the driver’s side.  The first few times a car passed me I thought I’d get killed, then I started kind of hoping for a graze and a warm ride in an ambulance.  The flashing blues seemed like a Godsend until the officer started asking questions like: “So how much New Year Cheer did you have?” and word to the wise, walking in a straight line is slightly difficult when you can’t feel your frozen feet.  Eventually I convinced him that I wasn’t drunk, just nearly frozen to death, took a while, and I started to get concerned when I wasn’t feeling all that cold anymore.

Finally I was back on my way home.  My house had been sold and so all of the furniture and most of the belongings had been placed in storage. All that remained was a Coleman inflatable mattress, a milk crate, a TV (cable was off) and my beloved Xbox 360 and my even more beloved Daisy – a Golden Retriever.  I figured I could live like this for a few weeks (it would end up being eight months – more on that later.)  I had never been so happy to get home and couldn’t wait for a warm shower, a hot cup of chamomile tea, and to get tucked into my mat and play some Grand Theft Auto – hopefully to have beautiful dreams about running over pedestrians and keeping my pimp hand strong.

Little concerned when I walked to the front door and the sensor light didn’t snap on.  Then really concerned when Daisy burst through the door and her fur was as chilled as my skin.  The power was out, no heat, no hot-water, no shower, no tea chamomile or otherwise.  I had a fireplace but no matches, lighters, or ambition.  So I collected my dog, allowed her to finally sleep under the covers, and lied to her as I drifted off into what may have been a shallow hypothermic coma, “Well Daisy, if this is the way 2009 starts, it can only get better.” 

It didn’t.

Within a week the deal on the house fell through, my ex-wife stole my dog, and I started to doubt that eating naught but celery and peanut butter was a sound, healthy life strategy.  I felt the isolation of a Cape Cod winter start to mess with my already addled mind. So I tried dating, which is usually a bad idea.  I met a nice girl who left a message to cancel our third date because she was in the hospital.  I was shocked and worried.  I visited her and the elevator to her floor opened to reveal two choices:  Maternity and “Ring Bell.”  I thought the plain “Ring Bell” door was the lesser and more likely of the two evils.  I rang and after having the flowers I brought along with my person thoroughly searched, I found that I was now in the land of lost.  Before the end of the day, I was seated in a cafeteria my left hand playing Trivial Pursuits (and kicking ass) against the substance abusers, while my right played Candyland (I lost despite cheating) with the bewildered and the blank. 

This was one of my better days.

The house lingered in a stagnant market, yet I was too stubborn to move my furniture back (I did dig out my tying supplies however.)  I think I have permanent marks on my ass from sitting on that milk crate.  When the house finally sold I bought another but had a five week stretch with nowhere to live.  Luckily it was the summer so I just slept on the beach…of course had it been anytime but the summer I could have found a cheap rental.  I’ll never forget the look on the kid’s face who discovered me in the bath house at West Dennis Beach brushing my teeth, or when I over-heard his father explain how some people aren’t as fortunate as others.

Then there were the sad number of events that don’t make for amusing stories.  My little family became littler, tight finances became tighter, and the people I want to see most I tend to see less.  Some of this is my own damn fault, and lot of it is due to the simple tides of fortune, none of it makes much sense to me. 

Also, for whatever reason, in 2009 every time I had a decision to make I made the wrong one for the wrong reasons.  I lost a lot this year simply because I wasn’t acting like myself.  I can deal with making mistakes, heck I rather enjoy it in certain situations, and there is no better way to learn.  This was different.  This year I learned just how much of myself I’ve lost – how much insecurity, fear, and weakness has managed to overcome joy, intelligence, and confidence.  I thought the fall had cost me a mere three inches of height, seems I lost a bit more of the stuff that can’t easily be measured.  A lot can happen when you aren’t paying attention, or rather paying attention to the wrong things. 

Suffice to say if the ball drops and lands on my head, I really won’t be that surprised.

Still, there was fishing.

Not the best year perhaps, but despite economic, social, and personal turmoil the tides came in and out.  Fish went about their business whether or not I was there to bother them.  Whenever I came across a group of guys with long rods, even if they were in my spot, more often than not the only sore feelings were in our cheeks from laughing so hard.  As much as things change, it is nice to know some things really don’t.  It seems strange to consider a hobby like a friend, but fishing has always been there for me.  To cheer me when I’m blue, to fill days that would otherwise be spent doing something productive.  It is love.  I think of the sea when I ought to be working and I am distracted by her beauty.  I hold memories of her that may be years and years old as though they were just yesterday, and as pathetic and dramatic as it sounds, I feel it would break my heart if I couldn’t be near her. 

The waters can be quiet when you need quiet, murmur a sweet song when your soul is too loud, or they can come down with a fury when you need a reminder of just how small you are, and thus how small your problems are.  Men don’t cry, but if hypothetically, an eighth of a ton ex-linebacker thinks of a small white box while drifting at sea in a kayak, the ocean will hide that for him and keep it secret.  Like a good friend.

I don’t know what is in store come 2010.  I hope for happier times, when fun and cheer outweigh the struggles and tears.  I don’t put a lot of faith in hopes.  Rather that which is known or can be learned.  I know that the mistakes I make in 2010, will not be repeats of the ones I made in 2009 – that is a comfort.  I know that I will appreciate more that which is temporary, which is largely everything, most especially the happy times enjoyed with friends and with family.  I will honor that which is more lasting, writings and knowledge, the love of a family, the loyalty of a pet, and the section of my soul which thirsts for saltwater. 

Life is worth the trouble it takes to live it and the respect it is due to be lived well.  We are owed nothing, yet we have a new year, a chance to change our direction, or trim the sails.  To stand humbly but boldly on the crossroads of chance and opportunity, and do the best we can.  It is all a free person will ever need.

See you next year.

Seriously, let’s look at the Holiday Season in a little more depth, specifically the five major holidays which of which the season is comprised: Christmas, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Festivus, and New Years Day.   

Christmas is the big daddy of the season, in fact it is likely Kwanzaa or Festivus would not even exist without it, and Hanukkah would most likely be reduced to what it historically was a fairly minor Jewish holiday.  (I mean come on Olive Oil for lamps lasting eight days instead of one may be Al Gore’s wet dream, but have you read the Bible?  Pillars of Fire, plagues, hot chicks, walls falling down at the sound of a trumpet…this, by comparison, is a pretty lame miracle – unless it was the Olive Oil served with bread at an Italian restaurant lasting…that would be a miracle)  Christmas dominates the last few weeks of November and the entire month of December, no other Holiday even comes close.  Now some may look at this as a good thing.  After all Christmas is on the surface the celebration for the birth of Jesus, the person who according to approximately 80% of Americans, is the Savior of mankind (Mr. Socko, on more than one occasion, saved Mankind the Wrestler don’t confuse the two.)  Important as this may be, I don’t mean to imply that it isn’t, religion simply is not the primary motivator for Christmas’s dominance.  On a religiousness scale, Easter is a bazillion times more important than Christmas – yet holds none of cultural dominance, heck even the oft neglected Pentecost is of greater purely religious importance.  So the expression – Christ is the reason for the season, falls a little flat.  I’ll even go so far as to say it isn’t true.

Santa and his secular minions aren’t the true meaning of Christmas either.  As a child I was afraid of Santa, then as a slightly older child I vehemently hated him.  Who was Santa to judge me?  Sure I fought with my brother and maybe I did dye the dog’s fur, but what gives Santa the right?  Yes, I got coal – a few times, what I never got was the point…or justice.

So let’s get away from Christmas and look at two new comers.  Kwanzaa and Festivus are essentially the same – well Festivus is at least fun and inclusive.  They exist solely as alternatives to Christmas.  Kwanzaa was created in 1966 and is essentially an African-American cultural celebration.  Which seems fine, as a person who values history, I enjoy most cultural celebrations – especially the Greek ones involving goat cheese – that stuff is great.  One’s religion, however, is a big part of his culture, and given that a strong majority of African-American’s are Christian and thus celebrate Christmas – Kwanzaa always felt a bit stand-offish, as though Karenga wanted to celebrate the African-American culture he desired but did not truly exist.   My biggest complaint with Kwanzaa is that it is purely an American Holiday, yet exspouses non-American values – like Socialism and doing things for the “community” and more importantly the “leader” of said “community.”  American values are rugged individualism, self-expression, and telling the English to suck it.  Kwanzaa has its roots in Black Nationalism which advocates separation, including separation from Christianity often described as a White religion that should be shunned, and thus so should Christmas.     

“To give Blacks an alternative to the existing holiday and give Blacks an opportunity to celebrate themselves and history, rather than simply imitate the practice of the dominant society.”

Maulana Karenga – Inventor of Kwanzaa

Maulana Karenga (this name he gave himself means “Our Master the Nationalist” here’s a tip NEVER follow a guy who calls himself The Master – it never ends well)  also did time for felony assault.  No, he didn’t beat up some white guys, but rather bound and tortured a couple of women – whipped them with electrical cords, beat them with batons, and used soldering irons on them.  Seems Socialists who make up holidays always tend to be ungentlemanly – wait till Earth day.  So true, I don’t have a lot of use or respect for Kwanzaa – especially the name – comes from Swahili – an East African language.  If you really wanted to trace the cultural effects of slavery on African-Americans why wouldn’t you at least use a West African language…oh yeah that’s right Karenga learned his language skills from the Nation of Islam where Swahili makes far more sense yet still it only became a major language because of German and British colonial efforts.  Couldn’t even do an hour’s worth of research.

Offended? – not that I care just curious.  But now let’s be fair, if Kwanzaa is getting bashed because its founder wasn’t a saint, had his own poorly concealed agenda which ran counter to the mainstream of the land in which he lived, and hitched his wagon to a beloved popular holiday of the very culture he was trying to under-mine?  Isn’t that pretty much a parallel for the history of Christmas?  It pretty much is…coal again this year.   

Keep in mind there was a time, long before the first Christmas, when Sol Invictus “The Unconquered Sun” was celebrated by nearly everyone.  What self-respecting pagan wouldn’t want to worship the sun?  It may be just a big ball of gas but we would be so screwed without it.  Modern physics claims that the molecules in our bodies were forged in the core of the sun.  Makes you wonder about the Pagan dimwits who worshiped a stupid tree.  Ya there was that too, and yes Christmas does have more than a few tree-related themes and customs.  Probably the most time-honored tradition of any time-honored tradition is that when you start up a new one, make sure you pig-a-back it to an old one.

So Christmas falls nearly on what was traditionally a Roman holiday, later or earlier depending on your point of view it would do much the same to the druids and whoever else noticed the true meaning of Christmas.  Wait the Romans were great a lot of things, but they pretty much took their culture from the places they conquered.  So it is a fair bet that long before the Dies Natalis Solis Invicti  “the birthday of the unconquered Sun” there was probably a Eutruscan or Latin or Celtic festival of a similar theme…or at least similar placement on the calendar.   

 So what is the true meaning of Christmas then?  Gather close my children and I will teach you, for it is this.

Winter sucks.

Since the dawn of human history, in the Northern Hemisphere, people have gotten drunk, danced, and feasted at or around the winter Soltice, because everyone knows that winter sucks ass.  Fishing is all but impossible…ya I’ve heard about Steelheading, I’ve also heard about not freezing my nads off…guess which one seems more enjoyable.  The reason for all these winter festivals is simple: what the hell else are you going to do?  I’m sure some people enjoy being around their families, some folk may even have friends, but for me Christmas time means I work, go home, and play Xbox in my underwear – possibly while gulping egg nog to get even fatter so I have more weight to lose come New Year’s resolution time.  Bah Humbug! 

I have no idea if three thousand years from know people will still celebrate Christmas or Kwanzaa or perhaps Festivus…but I am sure that there will be someone trying to “modernize” the world’s oldest tradition, just as I’m sure there will be people bitching about it on both sides of the argument.  This isn’t a cyncial snipe, rather I take a measure of comfort from this.  Whatever you celebrate I hope it is a good one and that you never lose sight of why you are doing that which you are doing…to be happy during the most miserable season.

Seriously I need a Sugar-Momma to fly (and spank) my ass to Florida for four months…I’ll do anything…ANYTHING…yes that too.

I can remember the very first fly I ever tied. 

Not physically tied of course.  My father had me sitting in front of a vise literally before I can remember.  When other kids were watching Big Bird with joy and love, I was pondering how best to murder him and use his feathers to hackle Seaducers.  It was a strange childhood.  Like that time in art class, I drew an Easter Basket with a bear trap hidden beneath the eggs, chocolate and plastic grass. I needed some Zonker strips.  I suppose in some ways this could have been taken as a sign of mental illness, at least the teacher thought so.  Then there was the Christmas I spent the evening in front of the TV playing with two spools of tippet material, practicing my blood knots, not sure how old I was but I know that I believed Santa brought them…and it was easy enough for my father to convince me that I’d get naught but coal if a trout managed to defeat one of my knots. 

I suppose by a certain set of standards my father could be considered the worst parent ever.  He encouraged me to play with knives; he would sift the marshmallows from the Lucky Charms then eat them citing that he was an adult and could do as he wanted, I was stuck with the oats or whatever and felt dejected and unlucky.  He taught me to never ever tell anyone the truth about a fishing spot.  If it was good say you got skunked, if it was horrible say it was great.  This was best used one evening.  After we had fished and caught a limit of trout at some lake, on the ride home my father stopped at the local park which had a small fishless pond/puddle.  There were no trees so this was one of the places where I first learned to fly cast.  My dad placed the stringer in the pond, rigged up his fiberglass rod and handed it to me.  He offered sage encouragements like “What are you retarded?” and the one I have regretted since my first report card, “A-student huh?”  Hard to feel smart with an Elk-hair Caddis in your ass…but kind of hard to feel stupid when you are fishing.

So I was there flailing away, when some kindly know-it-all stopped by to tell me there where no fish and I was wasting my time.  Now my mother had beaten traditional morals into me with a wooden spoon (in later years the wooden spoon would break and Kid liberation reigned supreme for the 2.9 seconds it took her to fetch the metal slotted spoon – that hurt.)  Respect your elders, don’t talk back, no matter what grandma says just accept it as gospel and nod politely.  So I shrugged, and tried to indicate I was practicing.

“No need to be humble, son.”

The guy looked over to my dad who was holding the stringer of rainbow trout in the classic hero stance with a douche-grin a mile wide. 

“No one catches trout here.” The man blathered.

“Ever see anyone fly fishing here?”  My father asked with a hint of shock, a teaspoon of shame, and the perfect garnish of fear that he may have just revealed his secret spot. 

The conversation ended and we left quickly.  The next night when we were down at the park to play Frisbee with my mother and siblings, there were three guys fishing the puddle.  My father was never one to talk to another guy while fishing, but that night he asked each guy if they had any luck.  Surprisingly enough, they hadn’t.

Luckily for all of us, my mother was everything my father wasn’t.  So though it is arguable he wasn’t much of a parent in his own right, I have no doubt that I had the best set of parents a kid could want.

What I didn’t have was a lot of friends, or more honestly any.  I had just started at a new school, and I was awkward, dorky, and more or less incapable of communicating due to a fairly severe speech impediment.  So naturally I got picked on a lot.  I’d be standing in the lunch line and this rotten kid Matty would punch me and cut in line.  Now it didn’t hurt, at least not nearly as badly as the 30-50 beating a day I suffered at the hands of my older sister, but it did confuse me and I never knew how to respond.

Some teacher called my mom to tell her what was happening…this was before schools adopted “No Place for Hate” policies…hate was part of the curriculum, some of the best parts really.  My father inquired if I had tried violence.  I hadn’t, in all honestly the kid’s punches were so feeble it barely registered with me that he was trying to hurt me.  Still cooler heads prevailed (for a time) and my mom though it would be better if I joined a group to make friends, and that’s how I became a Cub Scout. 

I should mention that I had no interest in the Scout Law or helping old ladies, my mother had sold me on one key point.  The Cub Scouts had a Father Son Fishing Derby.  Even as a kid I knew what that meant – Revenge!!! 

That’s right my fellow Scouts – sell your stale candy, make your pathetic arts and crafts, bow to your Den Mother…but come Columbus Day I shall destroy you all.  Akela can’t save you from my wrath.     

Though there was a prize for the biggest fish, the grand prize went to the team who caught the most fish.  At the pond we would be fishing that meant bluegill and perch.  I had learned from my older sister that the best way to catch a sunfish was to take a tiny ball of beard and place it on the very tip of the hook.  Worms worked but more often than not the fish would pick the slimy things apart and avoid the hook.  Luckily I have always been a mean little punk, and I knew that if you sat on the dock and flicked the big black ants into the water the fish would eat them.  So a small hook made to look like an ant would be best, that way I could catch more and more fish without having to re-bait the hook.

So I sat at my father’s desk and on a size-14 hook wrapped a black hackle between two over-sized balls of black dubbing.  The proportions were wrong, the fly lacked grace and balance, and I know that this pattern has been tied for eons, yet I consider this my first fly.  I knew the situation I would be fishing, I knew the behavior of the fish I would be targeting, and most importantly, I knew how I wanted to catch them.

I have come to believe that the single biggest moment in a fly fisherman’s life is when he knows that a fly is not only as effective as conventional gear, but in certain situations more effective.  In this moment the fisherman stops doing what he has heard or read or been taught – stops fishing on borrowed faith and creates a little of his own.  This is when the artist, no matter how crude, is born. 

My father was very proud.  He probably had several dozen-dozen ant patterns in his various boxes, but I wanted to make my own fly for my own needs.  I knew he was proud because he asked me what he should do to catch the biggest fish.  He trusted me and my fly to catch the most fish, and as the second part of the team he made it his task to catch the biggest.  

This was yet another huge moment.  My dad was an expert fly fisherman.  He never knew his own father and had learned everything he knew from books, trial and error, and dumb luck.  When his adult friends would fish with us, they would always be the ones asking questions, never the reverse.  Perhaps this trait developed because there simply never was anyone he could ask for advice, or maybe it was a pig-headed trait of his.  That’s one of the hardships of being a child and losing your father; you only get to know him from that perspective.  For instance, I remember my father being much taller and bigger than I, though his last fishing license clearly states the opposite; it still surprises me that his medium sized vest is too small for my extra-large frame.  The belief is ingrained, even for something so concrete and easy to understand.  I mean height is one of the only aspects of a person which comes down to mere numbers. Was he pompous or was he the opposite shy and intimidated by “experts?”  I can’t honestly say.  The memories I have are distorted, as though seeing his reflection in the ripples of a pond.  Sometimes the waters are flat and things are easy to understand, at other times it’s like I skipped a rock over my own memories.  Nothing you see is a lie, but not all of it would prove true.

Suffice to say I never saw my father ask anyone a fishing question, until the day he asked me.   

He didn’t like the answer.

The lake had bass, had pickerel, and was rumored to hold tiger muskies.  However, to win the biggest fish portion of the contest I advised my father to take some Wheaties, get them wet, mush them into a ball around the hook, put the whole mess into his mouth to suck on it so the bait would stay on the hook better, and as a final indignity cast the loathsome bait into the darkest waters of the lake and pray for carp.

“Can’t I use this frog I tied?”  He wiggled a deer-hair frog with rubber front legs and rear legs of bucktail tied to hook shanks.  Yes, I definitely remember him complaining about the Wheaties.

As for the Derby itself, the ant fly destroyed the competition…which isn’t saying much, since it was a rainy day and most of the kids and nearly all of the parents had no interest in fishing.  My father never managed to catch a crap that day, but he did hook and land a rather cranky bullhead which was slightly larger than the largest fish I caught.  There was only two other guys fishing.  The father in the duo was using a Kastmaster spoon suspended six inches under a bobber; his kid was using a night-crawler with the bobber sitting directly on the hook.  My father ended up fishing with that kid and helping him hook and land a few bluegill (at the time I was miffed but now I understand and am proud to say I’d do the same thing in his shoes – provided we had established a comfortable lead.)  As I always did, I followed my dad’s example and let the man use my fly rod and he caught a few bluegill as well (dipping the fly in the water was all the cast he needed.) 

Did the kids finally accept me at school?  Did they carry me on their shoulders like Rudy, Lucas, or some other feeb in the stereotypical “Zero to Hero” movie moment? Of course not! See turns out that Cub Scouts are dorks, who knew?  Matty the mean kid still punched me, and I still stood there like a moron. 

Eventually, word of my cafeteria ordeal reached the ear of my father, who again asked a profound question of his own.

“Why don’t you just turn that Matty into a bloody mess and then ask everyone else if they want the same?” 

My mother and the principle didn’t like the answer.  Yet, the topic never again crossed the dining room table.

Senior Class Superlatives – as if the high school years weren’t hard enough on an adolescent’s sense of security.  I posted this dusty pic of the Flyosopher wearing his patented (D447,556) ”Douche-Face” not to brag, but to pose a question.

Who truly was the “Most Likely to Succeed?”  The picture shows two students, which is grammatically impossible only one could be the MOST likely to do anything, the other slightly less so.  That is the point of superlatives to qualify or quantify things in relation to similar things.  For those of you who have become obsessive fans of the Flyosopher the answer to the question is simple: Stephanie.  She possessed an intellect and drive that I have rarely seen equalled and never bested;  she is also down-playing her natural smile in the photo.  I’m a smart guy, but, after figuring out how to earn enough to allow me to fish as much as I wanted, I kind of lost all other ambitions, thank God.

Words have meanings.  Webster – the dictionary guy not the Gary Coleman rip-off – defined most of them.  What is more important, however, is what the words you use say about you.  Consider this exchange I had recently with Caroline – a beautiful bartender working terribly hard to turn a loveable loner into a loveable slightly less of a loner.

“Just wait till you meet my friend Matt, he’s the greatest guy, I love him.”  Caroline’s voice was sparkly with charisma – it may have just been her eyes.

“Who was that last person, we were just talking with?”  The Flyosopher struggled to hold up his end of the conversation, a loud crowded room filled with merriment, warmth and cheer was a far cry from the cold wind-swept flats and beaches he normally found himself in the single digit hours of a new day.

Caroline’s mental Rolodex effortlessly recalled the couple. Names, faces, birthdays, pets, favorite drinks and dishes remembered instantly and perfectly.  “Christine and Frank you mean?”

“Ya, wasn’t he the greatest guy ever.”  He could recall little more than what Caroline had said, when she spoke he focused on nothing else. 

“He is.” 

“Well they can’t both be.  One is the greatest and one is slightly less great.”

“Yes they can.  Oh wait, are you afraid that I don’t think you are the greatest guy?”

“No and yes…wait…I am the greatest guy?”

Frank was still in ear-shot and challenged, “No I am.”

Christine, his long-suffering girlfriend, challenged his challenge, “Not when you’ve been drinking tequila.  Then you are an asshole.”

The Flyosopher should have let it go. “All I’m saying is that whenever you “-est” something it means one. ”

Caroline wasn’t swayed.  “You don’t need to be so competitive.”

“Ya you prick.”  Frank, apparently, had been drinking tequila.

“We always manage to have some very unique conversations.”  The Flyosopher blanched.  “I just said ‘very unique.’”

The assembled shrugged.

“Nothing can be very unique…unique is one of a kind there is no “very” one of a kind or uniquest or degree.”

Caroline then shut me off.  I had been drinking Diet Pepsi.  Also, I’m no longer in the running for “Greatest Guy,” but I have a sizable lead for “Most Annoying” and “Most Likely to Get Maced.”

“Some so speak in exaggerations and superlatives that we need to make a large discount from their statements before we can come at their real meaning.”

Tyron Edwards 

Tyron Edwards lived and wrote in the 1840’s.  So what?  Well think about it, back in his day words meant an awful lot more than they do today.  Consider the Bill of Rights, how often has someone said something (offensive, insulting, or simply moronic) and then qualified it with “Freedom of Speech.”  When the 1st Amendment was quilled, dueling was an accepted part of society.  So you had the right to say what you wanted, but you were expected to defend what you said with your honor or life as the situation warranted.  Back then calling someone a “coward” meant one of you had to go.  Today you can call someone every C-word in the lexicon and the worst thing that will happen is you go on to great wealth and fame as a Hard-core rapper.  Ironically you may end up getting shot, which will cement your image.

I often laugh (actually I never laugh I giggle it’s kind of my thing) when people speak (generally against) the 2nd amendment, citing what gun ownership meant back in the 1700’s.  Yet, you never hear someone bring up about the cultural context of the 1st.  Personally, I think dueling would improve society to no end.  Think about it, smashing Perez Hilton’s skull in with a sledgehammer alone would be an improvement.  If nothing else people would be more polite.   

Now that everyone knows that I dream of going on a sledgehammer rampage, might as well finish the article.  I did have a point you know, not a particularly good one – they can’t all be gems. 

Fly fishing literature is littered with exaggeration.  At best this is for harmless dramatic emphasis, at worst it is a lie.  I feel that – like most things – it is a part of the culture.  My only real complaint is that we who are in the sport kind of know when a guy is over-inflating himself, the challenge, the location what have you.  I’m not sure that guys and gals getting into the sport have quite the same understanding.  Many people who would like to try fly fishing are somewhat intimidated by the way we describe the sport.  So let me say something that would likely spark a duel had I said it to Theodore Gordon.

Fly fishing isn’t hard.

Ya Ya needs more drama

“Fly Fishing isn’t hard. But I am.”     

The Flyosopher

Nothing like a little TMI to hammer home a point.  Working at a job you hate to pay the bills is hard.  Raising a kid to the point where she is old enough and competent enough to not need you is hard.  Staying in a relationship when the going gets tough and you remember fondly the nights where you’re greatest concern was finding the Tri-force is hard.  Fly fishing isn’t.  It is fun.

The ugliest piece of crap fly, sloppily cast a far distance from the nearest fish will work out fine a good part of the time.  It’s not the most challenging human endeavor. 

I think our sport could use a little less self-promotion.  Especially if you consider that the “professors” in our college are the guys who give demonstrations, produce videos, or even teach classes.  Self-promotion distances the learned from the learner, and where an experienced angler may take something with a grain of salt or better still be able to fully appreciate the demonstrated level of skill, a rank beginner may merely feel intimidated.  I feel a greater sense of welcoming even if it means slightly less superlatives would be a welcome change, and a great benefit to our sport.

That would be the very bestest thing ever in fly fishing history.

 Ok Flyosophy Fans…next update will be slightly different.  I’m just going to write a short story.  Ever since I was a little kid I always wanted to be a writer and since I have a captive audience I’m going to use it.  I have no idea what it takes to be a writer in terms of skill or knowledge of the business but I figure that writing is probably a good first step.  So we’ll see….

There are a lot of things people take for granted.  Family, health, the freedom to act like a moron are just a few of these things.  I have come to believe that this is a good thing in many ways.  Consider your health, people who take their health for granted are generally out and about doing things they enjoy, whereas people who “appreciate” it tend to wash their hands a lot and worry about Mad Cow disease.  Relationships are another thing that can, are, and should be taken for granted 99% of the time.  For instance my mother loves me, and I love her.  If I honestly thought about the sacrifices she made to ensure the life I had as a child, or the worry she must have felt at different points in my life, to the degree that these things deserved, I would have almost no time to live the life she gave me. 

In case you are wondering, the next time your wife, girlfriend, or significant other complains that you don’t appreciate them, or take them for granted say this:

“I know and it kills me inside that I simply have no ability to describe the infinite.  I am humbled into silence by my love for you.”  If you can pretend to get choked up that will really put you over the top.   Then follow up with this. 

“When you chose to share your life with me, I had no idea how wonderful it would be, and that words could never describe how happy I have become.  I am so sorry to hear that you don’t feel the same, that living everyday for the other isn’t testament enough of our love.  I’m so sorry.”

By this point she is probably in the kitchen baking you a Bacon Cheeseburger Meatloaf…you are welcome.  The key is you make sure that the “I’m so sorry” is ambiguous – not exactly an apology not exactly an accusation.  Odds are the woman is terribly insecure and that’s why she’s nagging, now she has something to feel insecure about.  If you are unlucky enough to have a mean woman, well her brain was just looking for those words and like the Terminator was completely  single-minded in her mission to achieve them – Mission Accomplished.  If neither of those two option occured,  you have a woman who is most likely sweet, smart, and normal – most likely too damn good for your sorry ass - in which case shame on you for not appreciating her.

(It was brought to my attention that a percentage of the Flyosophy readership may in fact be female…as unlikely as this is I have been shamed into offering some advice on how to handle the delicate situation of when a man complains that he isn’t being appreciated enough.  There are two steps you must follow.  1st Point.  2nd Laugh.  Under no circumstances should you fornicate with this man…the resulting offspring would most likely annoy me if I was ever unfortunate enough to encounter them at a Taco Bell drive up window, and that would be a tragedy.) 

How did we get on this subject? Oh thats right I was building up to an observation about the human condition that irks me…it’s kind of my thing.

Since moving to Cape Cod (a popular tourist and destination fly fishing locale) I have been amazed to witness just how many people get stressed out by fishing.  I had always taken it for granted that fishing was a means of relieving stress, that, however, is simply not true. 

I can see how if a person planned for a trip – especially if they came from a great distance – and the weather, fish, or bait did not co-operate could make one extremely disappointed, even depressed.  Stressed?  Happens, happens a lot in fact.  I’m talking about negative stress, not excitement, or the sudden disappointment that may come when you lose a huge fish.  I’m talking about the lactic acid of the soul, the root cause of most ailments, a force that can drive people to destroy themselves from the inside out. 

I am not entirely sure how fishing could be the root cause of this, but I have a few theories.

The first is the simplest, unrealistic expectations.  The reality of a trip, even a very good trip, often can not match the dream of the trip.  Some take this a dangerous step forward and conciously or not believe that this is somehow their fault.  That if they had a different fly or more skills or had gotten up earlier the trip of a life-time would have been better.  Some even believe, again maybe not with the fore of their mind, that bad weather or some other whim of nature was meant to thwart them.  The old joke of the winning player thanking God for the victory seems rather nice, until you consider its foil, a sulking playing in the opposing uniform saying, “Jesus made me fumble.”

There is also the grim reality that a lot of people are under a great deal of stress most of the year, and simply can’t relax.  So in January a week on July’s calendar gets circled.  Each day when the boss is an ass, the kids are well kids, and he get yelled at for working too much on the same day he has to decide who hates him less the cable company or the phone company, one looks at that week and the red circle around it and thinks: I’ll be happy then.  That week comes and one hasn’t hooked a fish by Tuesday and starts to wonder if he will ever be happy.  The work is mounting up back in the office and this is supposed to be relaxing, but isn’t.  What is wrong???  This was supposed to be the best week of the year and it sucks, everything sucks.  Oooo scary, this is a dismal reality for far too many people. 

Then you have a group that I have very little sympathy for.  Those being the competitive anglers.  I have literally fished with guys who felt a good day was when their buddy caught one fish and they caught two, yet a bad day was when they caught 10 fish and their partner caught 11.  This is pathetic, immature and all too common.  People like this ought to be mocked and avoided.  Or better still try and snag their line and make them think they caught something…classic! 

Finally there is a segment of the population who simply have no idea what is worth getting stressed over.

“Hey Kid, want to know the first rule of driving an ambulance.  ‘Its not your emergency.’”

Surly Ambulance Guy

I was always very nervous when I was a kid, and really no better as a young adult.  I used to worry that awful things would happen to my family – and they did.  I used to worry that awful things would happen in my relationships – and they did.  I used to worry that my dog would die – and it did.  Not exactly the most uplifting story, but the punchline can be.  Worrying about stuff changed nothing…it only robbed me of the opportunity to enjoy things more fully.

I don’t care how tough you are, or how intelligent – the number of things you have direct control over is minor at best.  Granted if you are blessed to be a parent the ability you have to shape the lives of your children is unknowable – provided you aren’t over-stressed by concerns at work or whatnot.  Even in fly fishing, all you can do is present the perfect fly the perfect way…it is up to the fish to take it…or not.  Honestly would you be happier catching a big fish on mere luck, or making a perfect cast and presentation?  I know my answer, but I’ve always put more value on the process than the result.

I don’t put much faith in stress-reduction techniques, nor do I think fishing should be used as a means of reducing stress.  Stress comes not from the world, but from ourselves.  We can either grant it power over us, or we can trust that the world is in more able hands than ours.  At the end of the day, the problems facing us will be little different, but we will be different and far better able to handle them. 

That is a comforting thought. 

The false albacore is a special fish. 

In some ways the false albacore is the polar opposite of the striped bass.  The striper is a fish which can hunt and thrive in virtually any conditions.  The false albacore is a fish that does one thing to perfection.   That thing is speed.  A false albacore feels like polished glass, the only “imperfections” are the two “dents” into which it can tuck its pectoral fins.  In fact a false albacore lacks a swim bladder and due to the high oxygen requirements of its muscles it can never stop swimming.  This is something to be mindful of when targeting them with light gear, unlike stripers an exhausted albie has almost no chance for survival.

Albie fishing is special as well.  In many ways they are perfect for fly rodders.  They generally feed on small bait which is easily imitated with flies, they are not boat shy so long casts are not required,  they feed near the surface and can be targeted with intermediate or even floating lines, and though they are an incredibly fast fish they aren’t particularly strong so they can be brought to hand in a prompt manner. 

This will be a brief overview of what the angler needs to know and be able to do to catch false albacore, yet before we devle into that too deeply I feel I need to get this off my chest.

Successful albie fishing has far more to do with the captain’s skill than the anglers. 

Take a good look at the photo.  Notice how the boats are holding in a relatively flat section of the sea.  This is called the “head” of a rip.  The rip itself is very choppy and can be dangerous if the weather is foul, and naturally the worse the weather the better the fishing. 

The frantic feeding behavior of the albies will draw birds and then boats from all over.  As is the case with an endeavor involving two or more humans, this can often be unpleasant.  Stories of guys anchoring in a rip, trolling through a rip, as well as pilots who simply don’t pay attention or lack the necessary skill to deal with the conflicting forces of wind and current are common.  Add to this that albie fishing is a highly competitive commercial endeavor.   The false albacore has almost no table value – it tastes like crap there are tales of cats refusing it – but there are many guides that specialize on this fishery.  Add money, ego, and a sense of urgency and competition and you can easily imagine how unpleasant this can be.

As a guy who has never driven a power boat, all of this is really not my problem, but I recognize that the lions share of the challenge of albie fishing takes place behind the wheel not nearly so much the angler. 

Albies can be taken from shore…but it is a crap shoot.  If your goal is to catch a false albacore hire a good captain, or better yet make some good friends who own boats.  Every albie I have ever caught was on a boat captained by my friend Mark Dysinger.  I firmly believe that every albacore I will ever catch will be with the same captain.  I trust him to find the fish, get the boat into the right position, deal with the nonsense, and most importantly to know when enough is enough and seek out less stressful fishing opportunities.

All I really had to do is pick a fly, cast it, and work a retrieve.

False Albacore have incredible vision due to their enormous eyes.  I find that imitative flies work best, however, when the bait is especially thick a very flashy or all-white fly is generally a better choice.  Surf candies, Mushmouth patterns, Clousers, and Deceivers will all work.  My favorite pattern is a woefully simple zonker sized to the bait.  I wrap the shank with Krystal Flash and use a thin zonker – ginger is my favorite color (I perfer Maryanne on Giligan’s Island though.) 

The most difficult part of fishing for false albacore is line management.  Due to the fast pace of the fishing, the captain may feel it best to reposition the boat, if some other boaters are acting in an unsafe manner this many need to happen quickly.  Boats with a shallow casting deck – ideal in calmer waters – will present a challenge to the angler…especially angler who is fond of stripping off a great deal of line and making long casts.  Coils will bounce around, become tangled, or worse blow out of the boat and be damaged by the prop.  I feel it is the responsibility of the angler to be ready to move promptly.  The easiest way to do this is to limit your casting distances to what is manageable based on the situation.

The second aspect of casting is knowing where you can place a cast.  The common sense of knowing that you can’t backcast where the rod holders, captain, or fellow anglers are tends to get a bit confused when a huge pod of albies starts busting on the surface.  To maximize your opportunities, learn to fish your backcasts, cast regardless of wind direction, and make change of direction casts.  Know what you can and can not do, and make sure your captain knows.  Also know what room other anglers will need and stay out of their casting lanes.  Few things are worse than having the false albacore blow up around the boat and you are untangling your line because your partner caught your backcast. 

As is the case with most fishing, the retrieve often makes all the difference between success and failure.  I find the key lies in understanding a few things about false albacore feeding behavior.  I have observed two types of surface activity.  Since I have a masterful command of the English language I have come up with terms which are beyond reproach…streaking and beaking.  Reproach away.

Streaking – the albies are swimming at the surface at a more or less constant depth.  The give away at a distance is you will see the rounded surface of their backs occassionally break the surface.  When displaying this behavior the albies are generally moving fairly quickly.  The best place to cast is well away from the splashes to a point where you believe they may be headed (the location of the splash is most likely the place they are least likely to be by the time your fly is cast.)  The best lines are floaters – for the ease of pick up and repositioning the fly – and intermediates which get to fly a foot or two below the surface.  The most useful retrieves are generally as fast as possible.  Unless you are the Flash, there is no way you can strip a fly too quickly for an albie to grab it.  Dead drifts and twitching retrieves also work, sometimes better so resist the temptation to get caught up in the excitement.  If the fast retrieve isn’t working, try another.  The good news is setting the hook is almost a non-issue, most of the time the albies will hook themselves.

Beaking – The second type of surface activity I’ve observed is when the albies seem to come straight up to the surface and their mouths (sometimes their whole bodies) break the surface.  With no swim bladder,  false albacore can change depth rapidly.  I find that this type of activity lends itself to a deeper presentation, and even though the activity is at the surface I catch far more fish when my fly is deep.  It takes a lot of discipline to count off a 30 second sink when birds are screaming and fish are busting, but if you have made a few casts with no takes this may be your best bet.

False Albacore fishing is a great experience, not my personal favorite but many Northeast anglers have caught chronic cases of Albie fever.  Just remember to pack your sense of humor when you target the biggest little fish in the ocean.

Common Imitator Patterns

If posed the question:  Do you tie flies to catch fish, or do you fish to test out your flies, I would be hard-pressed to answer – honestly it is a stupid question – but I feel that the most truthful answer is I fish to test flies.  I love watching a fly in the water, the way it gently sways with a subtle current or pulses against a strong flow, the chaotic dart when stripped, or the gentle glide atop the surface film.  Watching a fly you tied perform the way you imagined it would gives you the Hannibal feeling.  No, not the feeling of riding an elephant across the Alps, but the satisfaction of knowing a plan has come together. 

This naturally ties into my favorite aspect of sight fishing.  Consider the following if you will:

You are on a sandy flat; the sky is perfectly blue the warm sun is directly above you.  The tide has just begun to rise and you have positioned yourself near a slight point on the flat, your knees get wet only because of a slight gentle chop to the water, there is a distinct but slight drop that follows the contour of this bar. About 40’ directly in front of you, there is a swarm of stripers.  They are following the contour of the sand in a roughly oval shape about half the size of a football field.  One part of this circuit brings the fish in easy casting range to you. 

Sounds pretty nice…and it is pretty nice.  In many ways this is the best situation you can reasonably hope for, there are fish, there are conditions that allow you to spot them, and you don’t have to move to get to them.  This is key.  No matter how many “American Ninja” movies you watched, not matter how many times you crossed the rice paper and left no trace, if you are moving the fish will more than likely detect you.  They may not spook, they may even rush up to you.  (It is a common occurrence on the beaches of New England for a child to get scared because a large fish is following him.  Stripers routinely come to beaches where people are swimming because the activity will stir up the bottom and present a feeding opportunity.) Keep in mind that just because you didn’t see a fish spook, doesn’t mean they didn’t.

Hmmm…so what about the fish I see on the flats that rush up and then refuse my fly at the last second.  This is common source of frustration for sight-fishermen, but doubtful that it is unique to them.  How many flies fished in waters where the angler can’t always see the fish get the exact same treatment?  This idea more than anything has been my fascination the bulk of this season.  Are the failures and frustrations of sight fishing quite possibly the best teachers for all fishing?  Or are the behaviors of fish in one environment completely different from the behaviors of the same fish in another? Or – as is so often the case – is the reality somewhere in the creamy middle of these extremes?

Before we get into that, however, we should consider a few basic principles of flats fishing.

First – the fish are on the flats to feed.  This may seem simple enough but it is often an over looked point.  The flats are generally warmer, the water is shallow, and the sun is out – when you figure that stripers are a nocturnal fish that generally prefers cold, deeper waters this becomes a highly significant point.  A fish on the flats is there to do business; this is a good thing for an angler.

Second – Stripers are (or at least seem to be) spooked far more by what is above them than by what is below them.  I personally believe that this is a response to the fact that birds are likely the primary predators of young fish.  It could also be a simple observation due to nothing more than the fact that most of the stupid things we fishermen do to spook a fish occur above them.  Still it is worth considering that dragging an anchor seems to spook less fish than a single false cast over them.

Third – In order to catch a fish you must either present a fly in a manner that corresponds with how the fish is behaving, or you must present a fly that changes the manner in which the striper is behaving. 

Say what?   

On a few more frustrating days on the flats this year I did something smart – nothing.  I anchored my yak, and just observed the fish.  Most of the fish would never veer from the course they were swimming (though the course was rarely straight,) if a baitfish, crab, shrimp or whatever happened to be in their path they ate it.  They almost never slowed down to do this; their speed was constant, with the occasional quick dart or flash to finish something off.  When fishing with an imitator fly (generally something fairly small, sparse, and colored similar to the bottom) the presentation will slow the striper, move the fish to the fly, and more often than not the fish will stop or even follow the fly before either taking it or refusing it.  The only exception to this is when conditions allowed for the angler to present the fly to a fish cruising directly at him…only then would the fish take (or not take) the fly the same way the observed fish behaved, with a quick take rather than slowing down.

What did this mean?  Nothing more than the fish were breaking behavior; the presentation caused the fish to stop doing what it was doing and respond with a different behavior.  May seem minor but what it meant was the imitator patterns weren’t doing what they were supposed to – or better stated the presentation had to be so exact that the majority of the opportunities would be missed.

Not-so Common Attractor Flats Flies

So for a few days I fished nothing but attractor patterns.  This is considered a big no-no, but so is frying mashed potatoes in lard.

 “A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.”

 George Bernard Shaw

 I would only add this to Mr. Shaw’s observation.  Doing the same thing as everyone else will only get you as far as everyone has gotten.  Thats right the Flyosopher doesn’t play that…and guess what I make S’mores with Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups – I’m a dangerous rebel who plays by his own rules, and occassionally I break my own rules.  I stick it to DA MAN, even when I am said MAN…Good thing Shaw is dead, that would have killed him. ( Never liked him anyway I’m glad your dead. )

You never learn if you don’t try.  Attractors are something of a faux pas on the flat, but they were somewhat effective.  Only somewhat though, I caught far less fish than the imitators did, however, I also managed to learn something.  

 The interesting point was when the attractor fly was being retrieved and a striper would break off to inspect the fly it became apparent to me that I could read the fish’s body language and know almost instantly if they would take or not.  Fish that rushed to the fly quickly generally turned off or followed it until my ugly mug spooked them.  Fish that hugged the bottom and moved with haste but not speed would take the fly (speeding the retrieve encouraged this, but stopping spooked the fish – stripers are not like largemouths.) 

Then I decided to try something slightly different. 

Attractor not Attractive

The flounder fly is a keeled tube fly, so it will sit on the bottom.  Given its cumbersome size I could cast it well enough, but timing was an issue.  I decided to fish it like an ambush predator, in that I would cast it out, let it settle to the bottom and then wait for a fish to swim within range.  Once the fish was within a few feet of the fly, I would twitch it hard to upset as much sand as possible and then strip it with a two-handed retrieve.  The results were encouraging if not great, with a very high percentage of the fish taking the fly.  What interested me was that the fly seemed to take the fish out of its behavior, which moved the fish to the fly, and then promptly put the fish back into its feeding routine – with a quick strike (or if the fly was to be ignored it was quick as well.) 

 When the fly was fished “normally” with a cast and retrieve the fish responded to it similar to any other attractor…in that most would follow it with very few striking and a few spooking.  It was clearly the combination of the presentation and the fly that produced what I now consider the ideal fishing response.

To define this response: when a fly can move fish towards it like an attractor, but fish take it like an imitator.  An attractor on the flat gets the fish’s attention.  An imitator – when fished with an exacting presentation gets taken by a fish effortlessly.  A fly/presentation that has the ability to capture the attention of the fish, and then elicits a natural feeding response is the best of both worlds.  Now the fly is only one part of this the presentation is at least as important perhaps more so.  I tried the flounder ambush presentation with both sand eel and crab imitations and found they worked very well. The rustling sand served as the attention getter, and then the fish would take the fly without the often deal-breaking vigorous inspection.

Now a question to close…can this principle (if it is true) be applied to other fly fishing venues.  Imagine a spinner fly that could stand out from a thousand naturals, yet be taken as a natural, or an anchovy that gets singled out from a school of a million yet doesn’t raise an unnatural red flag to the fish.  Would that not be a better fly than even an exact imitation?  Is there any need for attractors at all?  Could all the attraction come from a presentation technique?  Or is this observation just something that I noticed this season on a few flats on a small area of a single species’ environment, a pattern which may never repeat again?  I can’t answer these questions.

 Yet…

“The measure of a man is not in how he deals with success, but in how he handles failure.”

Paul Stanton – The Flyosopher’s High School principal

Don’t worry I’m actually planning on writing a bit about sight fishing, but first let’s consider failure.  I think that if society has made one glaring mistake it is in how it regards failure.  Many of us believe failure is something to be ashamed of, to protect children from, or to avoid at all costs.  I look at failure a bit differently; I see it as the only way to measure progress.

Sight fishing is really nothing more than the most obvious way to fail at fly fishing.  So naturally it is a great way to learn.

A lot has been written about the challenges inherent to sight fishing.  Like every good fly fishing genre, some of it is true, some of it is exaggeration, and a lot of it is total crap.  For example, the Flyosopher found himself chuckling while reading “The Definitive Guide to Striper fishing” when the author encouraged his readers to learn the technique of slowing – preferably stopping – one’s heart before casting to a fish on the flat.  Seriously?  Who the hell am I supposed to be The Master from that ill fated 80’s show were the premises each week was this old bastard ninja would get hurt or have to go through a motion sensor or some crap and would save himself by stopping his heart.  Last time I checked stopping your heart was a bad thing, I mean to avoid bleeding to death maybe it would come in handy, but to catch a fish I prefer methods that encourage the angler to avoid clinical death.  It wasn’t sarcasm, the author went to great lengths to describe exactly why you should do this – thankfully he didn’t describe the how of it we probably would have lost a few of the less “gifted” members of our fellowship. Yes, I did read the entire book after that just to pick up other pearls of wisdom – there were many it was awesome, not so much with the fishing know-how, but hey reading is primarily for entertainment.    

Many anglers seek out the pure white flats of the tropics, the slightly less white flats of my home Cape Cod, or even the still darker bottomed waters carp inhabit.  Sight fishing is often considered the single greatest challenge a fly angler can face.  The fisherman needs to:

Find the fish

Cast accurately

Cast the required distance

Understand the environment

Know the structure of the flat

Know the currents

Know the dominant forage

Present the fly in a natural way at the correct depth

Use stealth to avoid spooking the fish

Set the hook at the right moment   

With that much going on it is a wonder anyone ever catches a fish.

But let’s think about this.  Re-read that list…now read it again.

Quick tell me two fly fishing situations where you don’t have to do all that…give up?  Okay one…

 In my humble opinion, the challenges of flats fishing are no different than the challenges of bluegill fishing, or trout fishing.  They may be slightly harder given wind and the wariness of the species of fish and the scope of the environment – if the axiom is true that 90% of the fish are in 10% of the water then a guy blindly casting in a small pond has a better chance of catching a fish than a guy standing on the shore of the Pacific Ocean – but the challenges aren’t different.  I personally believe that the mystique of the flats stems from something rather simple…very few people have them as their “home waters.” 

 If your home water is a trout stream, you can fish virtually any trout stream on any Continent – local knowledge will help of course but you know the drill.  Roll over rocks, check spider-webs, fish the edges and in all likelihood you’ll do fine.  The flats are no different – well except there are no rocks to roll over.  Also I find with very few exceptions, many people who fish a new area do so with the intention of catching fish, not of learning.  So the mystery of the flats persists. 

 There is however one key difference.  When a fish you can’t see refuses your fly at the last minute, you have no idea it happened, when a 40” striper rushes up to your fly and then turns away, you will never forget it.  Most anglers see this and think…fish on the flats are smarter than fish in channels, rips, or creeks.  I merely wonder how often have I fished an area and caught nothing, chalking it up to the fish not being there when it fact there were hundreds of them…ignoring my fly.

 So first off, what exactly is a sight-fishing flat?  For fly fishing purposes, a flat is an area where the depth is fairly shallow and generally constant.  That is not to say there are no drop offs or channels because there are but they are subtle, a depth change of 4” could be considered major.  The other quality of a flat is that the bottom color is generally consistent.  I was going to write bottom material, but the material really doesn’t matter so long as it allows for the spotting of fish.  In my section of the world, lightly colored sand is best.  Finally, in order to spot fish you need either a fairly sunny day or an overcast day with no wind since even a slight chop will make spotting fish extremely difficult.  Finally do yourself a favor and get the best pair of sunglasses you can.  If you try on a pair of 10 dollar polarized glasses and then a pair of 50 and finally a pair of 200 and honestly you can’t see the difference…get your eyes checked.  The best pair I have found (that fit my enormous face) is Smith Optic’s “Chamber” with the green lenses.  I find the green lenses are superior to both amber and copper on a bright day (which is when you should be flats fishing.)  After LASIK surgery, the most expensive fly fishing gear I have is my eyes.

 So now that you are on the flat what should you do?  There are two schools of thought.  The first is to find a “good” area – generally one where there is a school of bait, or a structural change that the fish will relate to.  Position yourself in relation to the sun for maximum spotting ability.  Ready your line in the stripping basket and be ready to cast at a moments notice. 

 OR

 Paddle around like a moron and spook fish every so often and say things like, “Wow that was a big one.” 

Your buddy will ask, “Where?”

And you can respond, “Heading way out there into the ocean, damn he was a monster sure wish I wasn’t paddling around like an idiot spooking fish like that, but hey I have to be me.”

Now reading this you may think that I advocate the former…I do not.  Unlike most sight-fishing guru’s (I friggin’ hate that word makes me want to become a violence guru) who approach this like a religion, I do not believe there is a right or a wrong way to fish, but merely choices every angler will make.  If you stay in one spot – no matter how great it is – there will be days when you see no fish, this could be due to conditions, that the bait is slightly denser elsewhere, or occasionally because the fish simply didn’t come up on the flat.  If you travel about looking for fish, you will spook them – though I do recommend a kayak, for whatever reason the fish spook less when you are in a yak rather than when you are wading.  This difference is often enough to mean that you will see the fish you spook from the yak, and you may not see the fish you spook while wading…the shorter you are the truer this is.

For myself, patience is not my best quality so I roam, and when I see fish I either get out of my yak or cast to them from it.  Fishing with your feet in the sand is easier to achieve the best presentation, while fishing from the kayak allows you to get closer and see more fish. 

I would never fish flats without a kayak.  People do it everyday but people also get married, become vegans, and watch Bill Maher everyday…it is just not for me.  The kayak allows you to access any point on a flat, gives you better stealth, allows you to easily transport multiple rigged rods and as much or as little gear as your little heart desires. 

A few times a year some moron gets stranded and begs me to save his pathetic life and paddle him to a sand bar. 

DON’T DO THIS!!!

No seriously think about it, unless you have some solid rescue training more likely than not you will just get yourself in trouble.  The simple fact of the matter is most kayak-fishermen are horrible kayakers, trying a rescue is a recipe for disaster.  Before you approach a person in distress evaluate the situation, most of these dramatic situations can be solved with a little common sense by a person who isn’t in a panic.  Look for paths back to shallow water, advise the person to lose the waders and swim a narrow channel, or if they are in a fog allow them to follow you out (kayakers are naturally smarter than idiots without kayaks so you will have a compass and possibly a GPS right? Of course you will.) If you see a solution the odds are the person you have come upon is in a panic no matter how calm they may seem.  This mean you are dealing with a profoundly dangerous person.

Think about your best friend.  Would he/she ever push you off a cliff?  The answer ought to be no.  If they were clinging to the side of a cliff and could fall to their death at any minute, would they grab your leg?  Exactly…panicing people are dangerous.  Often the best thing to do is to yell at them and tell them what to do – from a safe distance.  If that is impossible the next best thing is to contact the professionals.  This Christmas Eve the Flyosopher made the mistake of aiding an elderly woman who decided that she didn’t get what she wanted for Christmas and jumped off the wharf into the harbor.  She was tiny and frail…I am well-muscled, young, and juggernautish…the crazy bitch damn near drown me.  

Naturally this advice is extremely hard to follow, so I’ll boil it down to this…don’t be an idiot.

Up next week, flies and presentations for the flats…