Iím having the BESTÖDAYÖEVER.
Itís the middle of the work week, and Iím on a boat; the sun beats down mercilessly as we search for the coveted permit, tarpon, and bonefish. I am laughing uproariously with my guide and friend Alexander Gomez, and new best friend, Captain Michael Peralta. Despite being the saltiest guest ever (I mean, could the fish avoid me any harder?!) Ė Iím having a blast fishing Ė something I never thought I would ever do willingly. Yet by dayís end, Iím in love, grateful that I had a chance to watch the masters at work fly fishing.
As the least experienced fisherwoman on earth, reef, deep-sea or flat, the entire day is a lesson. Iím amazed at the menís keen sight and instinct. There is no doubt about it, their grace as they make their way around the boat, Captain Mike easily balancing on the platform as he poles gently through the low waters in the Bacalar Chico area.
Clearly, years of being on the water, raised by a fisherman father and grandfather, a lifetime spent in the embrace of the silken Caribbean had taught these guides all the subtle nuances. Itís ingrained in them. I keep looking at where heís pointing, and suddenly black tails flash under the sun, their glint sudden and gone as quickly as it came.
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