Its just about Albie time!!!

Ok so the first essay on here has nothing to do with reds.. but it is fly-fishing, and it is saltwater.  This is a short little essay I put together about last years albie run... hope you enjoy it..

Fishing
By: Mad Mike Benson

  She’s sitting out there. Daring me to step outside, howling her warnings about what she’s gonna do to me. “Just hold on bitch, I’m comin’” I mutter as I slip into my foul weather bibs. It’s day three of a four day fishing trip to the outer banks to chase False Albacore, and other than one on the first day caught by a buddy I haven’t even seen a fish in the boat. Another gust of wind rips past the windows; I just take a sip of my coffee and head towards the door. Chad is already halfway to the dock, carrying a pair of 10wts and the pissed off attitude of a man who’s been beaten, battered, and drenched for three days with nothing to show for it.
  We all know that fishing isn’t always about the fish, and that the adventure and comradery amongst you and your fishing buddies are the true gifts of a trip. But let Mother Nature beat the piss out of you for a few days straight and all that crap goes right out the window. You’re left with two choices, go home, or go fishing… Staring down the barrel of 20kt winds and driving rain the only thing making me walk towards the dock is an overwhelming if not irrational desire to catch a fish.
  We push off from the dock, put the boat into gear, and motor towards the mouth of the inlet. The swell has subsided to a manageable 2-3ft. As we get up on plane and get a feel for what the ocean has in store for us, I think for an all too brief second that maybe I’ll stay dry today. That thought is washed out of my brain by the next wave that sends a hard salty spray directly into my face. With conditions like these Chad and I opted to take turns on the bow and driving the boat. But after 3 hours of charging at small groups of busting fish only to fail at getting a fly where it needed to be I decided to pull double duty and I brought a second 10wt into action. For those who have never played this game this would be a sight to behold. Two soaking wet guys running a boat as hard as possible through white-capping slop while the man on the bow crouches holding the bowline like the reigns of a bronco in one hand, and a fly-rod in the other allowing his fly and line to dangle behind the boat flapping in the wind. Being driven around by an apparently insane masochist with one hand on the wheel, the other gripping a rod as well with his line hanging off the opposite side as his partner. Through all the wind, spray, and hell both men hold a look of steely concentration. Where as the onlooker sees only gray skies, wind blown waves, and stinging spray. All they can see is that group of gulls hovering close to the water dead ahead of them.
 
  Finally after too many fishless, cold, and wet days, we charge into a group of fish, throttle down, flip a cast into the mayhem and my line comes tight, FISH ON! The look from Chad is half, “thank god”, and half, “Fuck you!” The fight is short, and the fish small, but the feeling is that only attained by trial. Beer always tastes better after a long hot day at work, women look hotter after a week of camping with the guys, and catching a false albie feels better after having the living shit beat out of you for days on end.

 
  Many people more suited to the task of probing men’s souls have commented on why we do what we do. Why we charge headlong into harms way for the chance to catch a fish. And I won’t waste by breath trying to one-up them. I can only speak for myself, and as for me I do what I do because it speaks to me in those deep dark places. It whispers to me in the night. I do it because every day I wake up and I’m presented with a choice. Go home…. Or go fishing….