So I torture myself all the same, like most people do, reading about the places others go in search of fish and grand views of the wild. And I lie to myself, telling myself that if I’d just buckle down and save some money, that I could be on a plane next year, fly rod tubes in the overhead compartments, fly boxes tucked in between neatly folded clothes in a small suitcase. I tell myself this lie as I hear the wind flapping shingles on the roof overhead, knowing we’ll need a new roof this year. Roofs, if you don’t know, take money. At least as much as what I could spend on several plane tickets. My wife and neighbors see tar and stone glued together in a green shade that matches the house siding laying on the lawn after the wind takes its toll. As I’m on the roof nailing down new shingles that don’t match, I don’t see nails piercing shingles. I see myself nailing a ticket to South America down.
JP added me to a string of e-mails recently between him and a customer who lives on a tropical island. You know, one of those islands surrounded by thousands of miles of ocean…and my ideas of what fishing was like on one of those islands was all but destroyed. It’s not like I talk to fly fishermen every day who live on an island in the middle of an ocean, so most of my notions are actually nothing more than assumptions. Come to think about it, if you asked me what kind of fish you’d catch in a small fresh water stream on a tropical island five thousand miles from home, I wouldn’t have the first clue. So the only assumption I really made was thinking I might have an idea in the first place.
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