Issue link: http://www.e-digitaleditions.com/i/801177
North Andros when I saw fishermen on flats boats at the beginning of the day. They were all wearing blue jeans. Wearing denim to wade in saltwater on an 85-degree day didn't seem like fun to me. That scenario was complicated only by the man who walked up wearing jeans wound with plastic wrap. Yeah, he'd Saran-wrapped his legs! I scratched my head and looked at my bright white legs peering out from under my shorts. That's when I learned about Doctor Fly season and those horsefly-type of insects that remove a hunk of skin with every bite. I had insect repellant, but the water washed it off quick enough to make my leg look to a Doctor Fly like a venison backstrap does to a big game hunter. I didn't care; the fishing was off- the-hook . . . but I wore jeans wrapped in plastic the next day. Then there are the Rake and Scrape evenings full of spicy food, music, and tasty rum sundowners. Saws, raked or scraped, offer a variety of pitches, while spoons, Goombay drums, and whatever else might be available for use as an instrument filled the air with an eclectic sound. Locals tossed chicken bones to the friendly dogs roaming the streets, and from what they said, not a pooch ever died from the shards. Some of that would come later, but for now we walked, Tim and I. Sure, we were looking for more fish, but of special interest to me was what caused a clean break on a good fish. There, lying just under the surface right in front of us, was the culprit: the wing flap from a small plane. Bright paint adorned the flap, and the manufacturer's serial number was visible on a plaque held on by encrusted grommets. We looked at each other, said nothing, and hauled it over to the boat. Back at the dock, we couldn't resist calling the manufacturer to see what had happened. The plane, we learned, had landed abruptly, no worse for the wear and with no significant injuries. As with dogs eating chicken bones, I have no idea how a plane can land without a wing flap, but evidently it did. For now, I just wish the flap had landed in a place where it wouldn't have cut Tim's tippet. Boy, that was a nice fish. n with the murky water they're leaving. And look at that wake. Looks like a waterskier comin' through." "Those fish on the right string are pretty good. The second one from the front has some shoulders." "Let's hope a smaller fish doesn't race in and suck up my Gotcha." "Let's hope." Tim worked some line, then some more, and then rifled out a cast. He dropped the fly as delicately as a pin hits the floor. His presentation reminded me of a knight's chess move: a few steps ahead, a little bit to the side. One fish saw it, turned, and raced up. But before it got to the fly, its tail tipped out of the water and a puff of coral sand pushed out from its gills. Tim waited, waited, and waited some more, and when the tail tips disappeared, the fish began to move. He continued to strip in his fly until several fish shot forward. On his third strip he pulled longer, causing the fly to dart away. It was perfect, for in a moment there was so much movement that it was the bonefish equivalent of a rugby scrum. I couldn't tell if the targeted fish ate it or if another greedy one snuck in, but it didn't matter; Tim was hooked up to a huge bone. He strip-struck, then again, and when he did his line streamed through the guides. It quickly disappeared, and when it was gone the backing followed, and with it came the sweet singing of the drag from his reel. Out, out the big fish ran, and just as the fight was getting good there was a ping. Tim's line went slack, his bent rod went straight, and it was game over. "If that leader comes back with a pigtail, I'm throwing you in the channel with the sharks," I said. "My knot was fine." "There is nothing out here to break it off," I observed. "It's just water and sand. The fish didn't get to the mangroves. And there was no boil, no blood. No shark nailed it." Tim reeled in and his line was cut clean. The rest of the school was nowhere to be seen. No worries, mon, we'll find more fish somewhere else. I 've seen some whacky stuff in the Bahamas. There was the time on 62 • S P O R T I N G C L A S S I C S