Your fly lands in a frenzy of bills, dorsals, and tails, most longer than you are tall. Rod under the arm you strip as fast as you possibly can, both hands firing, all-the-while trying to keep your nerves in check and your feet on the deck. Your eyes glued to the sardine imitation spun up the night before, in an instant it disappears behind a flank of blue and black. You do everything you can to keep the line clear, but your eyes can’t decide whether to focus there or on the 8 foot billfish tapdancing at the end of your rod tip. Somehow, before you know it, that same fish is a couple football fields downwind in a display of acrobatics like you’ve never imagined.
