The monkeys flew at dawn, that was 3 hours after I was already awake and more than 2 hours after I was standing waist deep in a dark, cold, salty liquid otherwise known as the Atlantic ocean. Sent here as some form of punishment for sins I have commited or will soon commit, sent here by Special K – he, the commander of the flying monkeys.
How I got here I do not know. All I know is that the damn monkeys slept in and I was jealous.
The cold briny morass of darkness is all around me. I can’t tell where the damn water ends and the sky begins. I feel like a democrat torn between the Obama and Clinton camp. I know I need to make a decision soon or the evil doers led by the kid most likely to lose at hide-and-seek is going to be leading us all into a haliburton sponsored hell.
Morass – I love that word for all the wrong reasons…
I stand waist deep, the damp coldness creeping up from my toes to my nuts. A coldness I can only compare to diving into an icy lake on a February night in central Vermont after a long night in a sauna and a handful of synaptic provocateurs. Even then the coldness took hold of my nutz and squeezed them for all they were worth.
In my right hand is the key to escape, its an LL Bean fly rod – and not a very good one according to Special K. I know, deep in my heart that I will be forced to stand in this cold, large crab-eating aquatic beast infested pool until I am able to coerce one of the those crab-eating beasties onto a fly and onto the land for all to see or until the sun comes up and we know the breakfast place is open.
The best thing about being cloaked in darkness is that fact no one can see the true level of my ineptitude with the fly rod. About every three casts I manage to tie the fly line into a huge jumble of string in the line basket around my waist. The jumble looks a lot like a Robin’s nest, only bigger. That only happens when I am not busy catching the fly on my back or causing it to spin around my rod like a plane in a death spiral.
Coming Next Morning 2: The art of stepping into cold, wet, sand encrusted waders at 3:15am
Final – Night 2: The Art of casting a fly line with a 26 knot tail wind – otherwise known as – pissing in the wind.