F
Field Ethos
Guest
By Vincent Bini
I’ve always had a wild sense of adventure and a wicked memory. I can remember things from as early as 3 years old—maybe even earlier. Sometimes, my adventures upset people—mostly my parents.
My first memory of an epic adventure was on a snowy weekend morning. I woke up before the rest of the house and decided I wanted to go play in the fresh snow in my neighbor’s yard. So, I did what any sane child would do—I threw on my rubber Winnie the Pooh boots and a jacket. That’s it. No pants. Then I let myself out and went off to have some fun.
After a while, I got tired of playing alone and moseyed back to the house. As I walked up the steps, I noticed something odd—our front door was wide open. I thought that was strange because I knew I had closed it. The moment I stepped inside, I saw my mom on the phone, looking more than a little stressed.
“Forget it, he’s back,” she said. “But you may have to come back for a murder.”
Things didn’t improve much as I got older.
We moved to Florida when I was 7, back when the state was still growing and the area we settled in had plenty of wild places to explore. After being introduced to bass fishing, my obsession with finding better spots took me all over the place—and sometimes kept me from making it to where I was supposed to be, like school.
Adulthood didn’t change much either. I may or may not have missed work a few times to get out on the water.
No matter where I went or what I got myself into, nine out of 10 times it was in the name of fishing. In a story I wrote called “Burn Permit,” I talk about the time my friend Rowley and I took my girlfriend permit fishing—only to leave her alone on the boat for hours while we chased a school of fish. When we finally returned, we found her glowing purple.
If you’ve read any of my stories, you’ll notice a common theme—Rowley. He’s the guy who introduced me to flats and backcountry fishing, and if there was a questionable decision being made in the name of fishing, he was probably involved.
This story is no exception.
It happened in Key West, where Rowley, his cousin Bill, and I had been chasing tarpon for a few days. After a long day on the water, we wrapped up with dinner at a great restaurant overlooking the harbor. On the walk back to our hotel, we noticed tarpon rolling and crashing bait along the seawall of a much fancier restaurant.
We all exchanged a look.
No words were needed.
We were going to catch those tarpon.
Back at the room, we grabbed a couple of fly rods and hopped in the boat. We launched out of Garrison Bight and made our way toward Key West Harbor. The restaurant sat in a quiet cove with waterside seating—a classy spot, no doubt. We eased in and started poling along the shoreline.
At first, the fish weren’t cooperating. Somehow, I got stuck poling, but honestly, I didn’t mind. I’ve always enjoyed it. As we worked the shoreline, we drifted right up to where people were eating.
Everything was going smoothly—until Bill got a little too aggressive with his cast.
His Tarpon Bunny fly sailed through the air in a perfect arc … and landed dead center on a diner’s plate.
We all froze.
At that exact moment, a security guard on the far side of the dock started yelling at us that fishing wasn’t allowed.
Bill, moving like he’d done this a hundred times, casually stripped the fly off the lady’s plate as she stood up, completely stunned.
Meanwhile, Rowley—ever the quick thinker—was draping a towel over the boat’s FL numbers as the security guard stormed toward us.
I jumped down from the poling platform, fired up the boat, and Bill reeled in his line in record time.
We never landed a fish that night, but we laughed our asses off all the way back to the room.
I don’t know what part was funnier—the lady’s face when a tarpon fly landed on her dinner, the look on Bill’s face as he retrieved it, or Rowley trying to hide our boat registration like we were pulling off some high-stakes heist.
Actually?
I’m going with all of the above.
The post I’ll Have the Tarpon Bunny appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...
I’ve always had a wild sense of adventure and a wicked memory. I can remember things from as early as 3 years old—maybe even earlier. Sometimes, my adventures upset people—mostly my parents.
My first memory of an epic adventure was on a snowy weekend morning. I woke up before the rest of the house and decided I wanted to go play in the fresh snow in my neighbor’s yard. So, I did what any sane child would do—I threw on my rubber Winnie the Pooh boots and a jacket. That’s it. No pants. Then I let myself out and went off to have some fun.
After a while, I got tired of playing alone and moseyed back to the house. As I walked up the steps, I noticed something odd—our front door was wide open. I thought that was strange because I knew I had closed it. The moment I stepped inside, I saw my mom on the phone, looking more than a little stressed.
“Forget it, he’s back,” she said. “But you may have to come back for a murder.”
Things didn’t improve much as I got older.
We moved to Florida when I was 7, back when the state was still growing and the area we settled in had plenty of wild places to explore. After being introduced to bass fishing, my obsession with finding better spots took me all over the place—and sometimes kept me from making it to where I was supposed to be, like school.
Adulthood didn’t change much either. I may or may not have missed work a few times to get out on the water.
No matter where I went or what I got myself into, nine out of 10 times it was in the name of fishing. In a story I wrote called “Burn Permit,” I talk about the time my friend Rowley and I took my girlfriend permit fishing—only to leave her alone on the boat for hours while we chased a school of fish. When we finally returned, we found her glowing purple.
If you’ve read any of my stories, you’ll notice a common theme—Rowley. He’s the guy who introduced me to flats and backcountry fishing, and if there was a questionable decision being made in the name of fishing, he was probably involved.
This story is no exception.
Going Rogue in the Conch Republic
It happened in Key West, where Rowley, his cousin Bill, and I had been chasing tarpon for a few days. After a long day on the water, we wrapped up with dinner at a great restaurant overlooking the harbor. On the walk back to our hotel, we noticed tarpon rolling and crashing bait along the seawall of a much fancier restaurant.
We all exchanged a look.
No words were needed.
We were going to catch those tarpon.
Back at the room, we grabbed a couple of fly rods and hopped in the boat. We launched out of Garrison Bight and made our way toward Key West Harbor. The restaurant sat in a quiet cove with waterside seating—a classy spot, no doubt. We eased in and started poling along the shoreline.
At first, the fish weren’t cooperating. Somehow, I got stuck poling, but honestly, I didn’t mind. I’ve always enjoyed it. As we worked the shoreline, we drifted right up to where people were eating.
Everything was going smoothly—until Bill got a little too aggressive with his cast.
Main Course — Tarpon Bunny
His Tarpon Bunny fly sailed through the air in a perfect arc … and landed dead center on a diner’s plate.
We all froze.
At that exact moment, a security guard on the far side of the dock started yelling at us that fishing wasn’t allowed.
Bill, moving like he’d done this a hundred times, casually stripped the fly off the lady’s plate as she stood up, completely stunned.
Meanwhile, Rowley—ever the quick thinker—was draping a towel over the boat’s FL numbers as the security guard stormed toward us.
I jumped down from the poling platform, fired up the boat, and Bill reeled in his line in record time.
We never landed a fish that night, but we laughed our asses off all the way back to the room.
I don’t know what part was funnier—the lady’s face when a tarpon fly landed on her dinner, the look on Bill’s face as he retrieved it, or Rowley trying to hide our boat registration like we were pulling off some high-stakes heist.
Actually?
I’m going with all of the above.
The post I’ll Have the Tarpon Bunny appeared first on Field Ethos.
Continue reading...