“Want to go fly fishing?” “Sure,” I said, even though I ¬had no idea what fly fishing really was! I had seen photos, heard people talk of their big catches, as well as their no catches. But where to go, what to wear, what to bring—I had absolutely no idea. It would be another adventure, and I love adventures. An hour later, Charlie was back upstairs with all the gear I needed: waders (huge waterproof overalls with feet), boots, rods, flies (hooks camouflaged with a variety of feathers, hair, fur, and the like—most made by Charlie in his nifty little fly-fishing workshop).
The next day, as we ate breakfast, Charlie looked across the Sheepscot and said, “Let’s go! The weather is perfect!” Within an hour, we were off. I could feel my excitement building! “I was going fly fishing!”
“Here we are!” said Charlie, as we parked the car in a little turn-off along the St. George River. I had no trouble donning my “new clothes.” The same, however, cannot be said of my casting tries. My first catch was a tree limb, then some wild flowers and a prickly bush, but nary a fish. No matter! I loved standing knee-deep in the river, listening to the gurgling of the water around me, the whir of the line as it arced through the air, and the chirping of birds (it was actually so quiet that I could distinguish the various tweets). Charlie waded out a bit, as you can see here (the photo is like a “Where’s Waldo?”—only here, it’s “Where’s Charlie?”).
Needless to say, I did not venture far. A wedge-shaped patch of land jutting out into the river was perfect for me. Later, as we made our way along the river to a more remote spot, my mind drifted back to 1970 and a whimsical fishing scene in Sicily...…
