a picket fence

     that's what the picture in the news journal looked like.  it was taken south of indian river inlet, looking north from 3rs road - the beach access dune break.  the "fence" was, of course, made up of surf rods stuck in the sand in front of myriad, ugly suv snouts.

back in the 50s, 60s, and 70s we used to trek to the beach each fall to surf fish for a couple of weeks.  at first we fished from a little subaru station wagon, then from an old land rover, and finally from a chevy suburban.  in every case we were the only ones on the beach during the week - and one of two or three others on weekends.

the fishing was sometimes great, usually good, but never bad.  we'd catch mostly blues - sometimes 75 or more in a day - kingfish, sand perch, sharks, skates, and now and then a small puppy drum or rockfish.  when the north easters piled the surf up on the rocks at indian river inlet we'd cackle with glee as the blues gathered in the south side lee and butchered our freshly caught mullet.  i can still hear the waves slithering across the rocks, hissing like a snake, as the tide rose higher and higher, finally forcing us off the beach.  once i was ordered - in the middle of a blue fish blitz - to leave by a harried game warden, he and i the only two souls on the ghostly wind driven shore.  "hurricane coming.  governor's orders," he said.  "fuck him.  he's not a fisherman," i said in reply, reeling in another victim. he fingered his handcuffs ominously and i relented.  "...and i won't vote for him next time."

god knows what it's like down there these days, what with mothers sunning, urchins screeching, and papa tangled with his next door neighbor.  i'll bet  the blues - at least the self respecting ones - steer way clear of what used to be a fine fishing spot.

things ain't what they used to be.

fly casting

     i was reminded the other day of the difference between fresh and salt water fly casting.

we were sitting on john's porch having a late afternoon drink when a boat pulled up and anchored above one of the myriad springholes in john's lake, not thirty yards from us.  the sharply dressed nimrod stripped 30 or 40 feet of line from his reel and began to false cast...again and again and again.  at last, just before i was going to yell, "drop the fly, you dumbass," he did.  no strike, so he began the routine all over again.  i can understand a couple of false casts if one is fishing a dry fly, but four or five, no - he stretched it to seven or eight a couple of times.  and no extension of line...the same length each time.  maybe he thought his casting was particularly elegant or something.  [it wasn't and, no, he didn't catch a fish.]

     now let's go to the salt.

simply and briefly:  everything moves in the salt - the boat, the current, the tide, the wind, and, usually the fish.  false cast more than twice after picking up your fly and chances are your chances at a particular fish are markedly reduced.

stuff that in your creel trout fishermen.  [just the observations of a cranky old man.]

i am outraged

at nakedness.

what is it with these stupid royals - or windsors, whatever?

first we have prince harry dropping his drawers at a billiard game and having his picture sent 'round the world, [much to the delight of the ladies i'm sure] then we have wills hopping mad [and supposedly suing] because someone took a picture of his bare breasted wife.  what the hell did they expect...good looking youngster, pretty girl...hmmm, let's see...what do we do now?  if you're in the public eye keep your clothes on, you idiots.

more important, what makes me seethe with outrage is the treatment our government handed our ambassadorial staff in libya.  talk about nakedness!  plea after plea for assistance went unanswered, resulting in the deaths of four heroic americans.  that, ladies and gentlemen, is a true outrage and for it, heads should roll.  to leave diplomatic staff "naked" in the face of vile muslim terrorists is forever damning.

i hope the american public gets it on election day.