Heavenly Sardines
Sardines cartwheel through the air as a roosterfish’s comb buzz-saws the surface. The bait splashes in and the sea detonates. Frigatebirds slide between unfurling fly lines to snatch the disoriented leftovers.
Fifty dollars filled the live well, and our captain dips his net for a dozen and dumps them in a pail of seawater. After a quick baptism, he scoops three with a bottomless one-gallon jug and grenade-tosses them toward our flies. Captains from 19 other pangas do the same for their clients, all of us bobbing between a saguaro-studded coastline and the Sea of Cortez.
More sardines glitter the sky, spinning bodies reflecting the morning sun. They school beside our flies like suburban kids searching for friends in Detroit. A zigzagging rooster streaks forward, scattering the bait while my fly swims suicidally straight. Strip. Strip. White mouth ready to gape. STRIP! The fish veers.
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