The schools of bones are so vast that the tip of tails waving in the wind look like a thousand broken glasses shimmering and waving in the sun. For a non-salt life kinda guy, this is too much to process and execute upon. Sensory overload and obvious inexperience takes over as bad things start to happen. Repetitively. It does not seems as though tugging on a large diameter piece of plastic when a fish eats your fly would be that difficult but somehow, time after time school boy giddiness invokes stupidity and repetition, resulting in failure and frustration.
“NOOO! NOT AGAIN! STRIP SET, NO TROUT SET!”
At this point we both get it. I am not a tremendous saltwater fly angler. Writing about, reading, about, even photographing various saltwater fly expeditions in my previous years has brought me zero advantage while trying to wrangle my first pint size ball of explosive, invisible, unicorn energy.