I could make out the radio faintly from the wheelhouse; Reba Mclntyre, Roseanne Cash, Tammy Wynette, the big girls were out on world airways. I was supremely happy.
I had a good night’s sleep. By the time we arose and went hunting fish, I had a healthier view of loose fly line, the messages from the moon, and my place in the universe. It was as if the bonefish were in one room and I was in another: it was just a matter of opening the door in between. And indeed, one nice, round fish, swimming along where a snapper-filled creek poured onto the flat, came to my fly at the end of the long cast. And I landed him.