“Lots of bait on the finder, get ready,” were the words spoken by Captain Adrian just moments before the chaos broke out. Both trolled baits on the left side went down in whitewater explosions and a 60-pound torpedo vaulted into the air completely across the spread to take the long bait on the right side. As the boat went out of gear and everyone scrambled for rods, I cast my fly behind the boat and started stripping only to find that the short right rod was bending double and everyone else occupied.

Putting the fly rod between my knees, I grabbed the bait rod and set the hook hard. That’s when that sinking feeling set in. In my peripheral vision another projectile appeared from the skies and took the fly at the end of its arc and raced for parts unknown. Somehow I managed to grab the fly rod from between my knees before the fly line came tight and I watched as backing disappeared from the reel. As I yelled “I’m bit!,” a strong, calloused ebony hand appeared from behind and relieved me of the bait rod.