We probably don’t deserve the flood tides, the glittering oyster beds, the spartina grass shivering with the current’s pull. We definitely don’t deserve a fish that seems—at times—overjoyed at being bumped on the head with a fly. But it’s not about deserving anything. Redfish don’t follow those tides, root around in those oyster beds, and creep through that spartina grass for our benefit. They do that because they’re redfish, and that’s what redfish do. That we can stand on the deck of a boat with a popper that will make a 30-pound redfish go googly-eyed with excitement—preferably with a cold Shiner Bock in the cupholder—is just icing on the cake. We definitely don’t deserve redfish, but we'll take every one we get.

Snook. You know they’d feel right at home in the tannin-stained tributaries of the Midwest, marauding poppers and Clousers long into dusk. And yet here they are, waiting on the edge of the mangroves for the next unfortunate baitfish to swim by. They’re day-savers. A second-thought. Plan B or C when the tarpon or permit are playing more hard-to-get than normal. Snook don't get their due, so often overshadowed by their flashier compatriots, and that’s unfortunate. But it’s also fine, because they could care less about what fish you set out to catch that day. They know you’ll come crawling back at some point, asking for forgiveness, begging for a second chance. Snook know the score, and they’re not looking for anyone’s approval.

Each breaking wave is like a window into the Rooster’s world—like a cheat code in an otherwise impossible game. Between surface foam and glare, and the inevitable chaos that comes with standing on the doorstep of the Pacific Ocean, it’s pretty much your only shot to catch a glimpse. Yet there they are, like security guards, travelling solo or in small packs; they surf the waves right into the beach, hunting schools of mullet that’ve been swimming between your legs all day even as you hunt them in turn. The desert is a place of mirages, and no doubt a few of those fish we see are just that—a phantom born of air and heat, humidity and sand. But when that window finally opens; when you see the silhouette of a roosterfish riding a breaking wave as if it’s actually a piece of the wave—one of its component parts—rather than a creature separate and independent of it, you’ll never get the image out of your head. That’s no imaginary oasis, and you better get there as quick as you can.