I sent some flies with Mike for him to go catch some Bahamian bonefish with. It was his first trip in search of bones.
You reach a point, staring across these endless shimmering flats, when your brain refuses to go on, refuses to sustain the intense focus, refuses to continue to filter the overwhelming visual input pouring in as you try to divine the shadowy shapes of bonefish – tropical snow blindness, I suppose, brought on by sun and wind and want – and you begin to wonder whether the problem is that there’s no fish to be seen or that you are simply incapable of seeing them. Doubt creeps in. Doubt, and the deep suspicion that your angling inadequacies are being exposed in the whole.