Fly Casting, Lesson 1

Fly casting: verb. Different from fly fishing, as one only does that when one actually catches something other than grass, trees, shrubbery or the skin of a nearby friend. The motion one achieves in the hopes of catching a fish and just plain enjoying oneself.

The day is hot and sultry, in expectation of the afternoon storm that never congealed. Tall marshmallow puffs of chalky white clouds form overhead as we stand on the banks of Percy Priest Lake, me with a fly rod in hand for the first time. Gnats, (aka jetskis) writing out a script on the water, are making waves just for us that lap lap on the rocks at our feet. I am here to learn, not so much to catch my dinner. In actuality, a fish does make a fair attempt to go home with me; the mysterious black-brown shape-shifter darting in and out of the smooth large rocks just a yard away from my feet. But no fish on the line means I am merely fly-casting and not fly-fishing. I'm alright with that. After all, it's early yet.

My instructor, or rather coach, kindly guides me through the motions...gentle subtle moves of the forearm and shoulder that belie the supposed complexity of fly fishing. It all started on the dance floor...or during discussion thereof, when he decided I'd be good at fly fishing because of my inherent sense of rhythm. When one dances well, one surely can fly cast. Much in the same way that one who has a musical ear is also proficient with foreign language learning. The music and rhythm are embedded first in the soul and can then be transcribed to many forms of physical activity and acuity.

My arm moves like a windshield wiper from 10:00 to 1:00. Positionally, that is, and not in terms of time. Imagine a clock face suspended over and perpendicular to my right shoulder in this blue late summer sky; I want to wave my fly rod back and forth between 10 and 1 when "false casting" to let out the excess yellow line and cast farther out beyond that rock. Delicious.... we talk of lemon meringue pie and I watch the lemon yellow line floating overhead back and forth...moving my arm carefully as I would spread the pillows of meringue over the tart lemon pie filling; there is pressure, but not too much; there is arm motion, but no wrist-flicking; there is power but not forcefulness. Subtletyis engaged.

My coach is enjoying this too much, reaching his arms around me to demonstrate, hands over mine, just the right tension and motion of my arms. Soon I'm standing alone, swimsuit-and-shorts-clad, waving my magic wand overhead with "tight loop" of line dancing overhead, flashing in the sunlight, teasing the fish out to play. And I can't wait for next time. Share