S.C.O.F ISSUE NO.42 . WINTER 2022
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FREE
everfything that matters
southern culture
Going solo. After two straight months rowing for redsides in central Oregon, guide and wild fish activist Jake Dodd finally gets out from behind the oars and into casting position. ARIAN STEVENS © 2022 Patagonia, Inc.
Seize the Day Trip. When we set out to rethink the fly fishing vest, we didn’t want an update. We wanted a transformation. The Stealth Pack Vest incorporates Patagonia’s latest ultralight, durable, recycled materials with the load-lifting suspension technology of our trail running gear. The result is a comfortable, fully adjustable, internally stabilized vest with extraordinary carrying capacity. Finally, the humble fishing vest has some bragging rights.
SCOF Winter Fluffer
Photo: Florida Keys - Decmeber 2021, Steve Seinberg
Photo: Indian River Lagoon, Florida - January 2022, Steve Seinberg
Photo: Watauga River, TN - February 2022, Rand Harcz
Photo: Florida Keys - December 2021, Jay Johnson
Photo: - Iron Gate, VA, January 2022, Dave Fason
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scof winter fluffer
26 a 30
letter from dave
haiku
jay johsnon
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a guide to a fly fishing divorce by bo jasonstein, esq.
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wading: the futile art by david grossman photos: dave fason
62 drinking old
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responsibly with dave:
north premium lager
the light
photos: steve seinberg
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bench press bwo hotspot frenchie jacques canard
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snowbirds by david grossman
photos: dave grossman and steve seinberg
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the back page journal
by mike benson and paul puckett
Eat a Egg
no. 42
SENSE
NEW
Shown with Sage ESN Reel
Greater control of fine euro nymphing leaders, tippet and flies.
H a n d c ra ft e d i n t h e U S A
EURO NYMPHING / MEDIUM ACTION
sageflyfish.com
s.c.o.f winter 2022
issue no. 42 eat a egg editor co-publisher:
David Grossman creative director co-publisher:
Steve Seinberg
contributors: Dave Fason Paul Puckett Mike Benson Bo Jasenstein Rand Harcz Jacques Canard Jay Johnson copy editor emeritus: Lindsey Grossman ombudsman: Rand Harcz general inquiries and submissions: info@southerncultureonthefly.com advertising information: info@southerncultureonthefly.com cover image: Steve Seinberg
www.southerncultureonthefly.com 22 all content and images © 2022 Southern Culture on the Fly
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S.C.O.F MAGAZINE
Photo: Steve Seinberg
southern culture
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FAIL is not an AMPLITUDE smooth redfish with AST Plus “The SA Amplitude Smooth Redfish is perfect for short fast casts or bombing through unpredictable winds. It easily turns over big heavy flies, and the unique taper allows me to quickly pick up and recast to moving fish”
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A letter from Dave, the editor...
The holiday season of giving has long past on our road towards spring, but since we at SCOF only recognize the pagan calendar with all the equinoxes, solstices and one especially festive holiday where we bake a loaf of bread in the shape of the great Lefty Kreh, and eat it, thus signifying the sanctity of the Deceiver and all his teachings. So, I shall choose the middle of February to examine the concept of generosity as it pertains to our daily fishing. The generosity I speak of is not financial in nature, or even of service to those less fortunate than yourself. No, the magnanimity I’d like to wrap our group thought around is the generosity you give to the people you fish with—the ones in your life who really matter. Everyone I fish with will be the first to tell you that I’m a very generous fishing partner. I often defer first shots, take the first shift on the oars or the pole, and always, always show up with chicken and beer. This level of generosity extends to my open box policy with friends and fishing reports given when asked for (if I recognize the phone number). This position as a giver is one I've come to later in life. As a young man, I was a taker. I’ll be the first to admit. Long sideways glances into the depths of another man’s puck, mining internet fishing reports for little morsels to cram into my vest with no one noticing. No, I was a taker, no doubt about it. I was such a filthy, lowdown taker, that I’ve taken last smokes, beers, flies, leaders and puffs without a lick of remorse. I once took a man’s waders because I forgot mine. The taking, and taking left me warm and drunk, while my boxes and nets floweth over with my bounty.
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WINTER 2022 It wasn’t until I’d taken all the shots, and caught all the fish that I gave a little. And you know what? Giving a little felt good, so I gave a little more and offered to row for a spell. Giving someone else an opportunity at joy made me realize why everyone all those years had given me mine. It felt good. Giving felt really good. So I kept doing it. I learned to pole, so I could give a little something to my salty friends who have given it to me sooooo many times. I started arguments about who was going to row first, but I was arguing to row. I handed out patterns that worked to my clueless friends. I even took people out, who due to a lack of knowledge and/or weak will, couldn't give me anything at all. Since then I have given to everyone I fish with. Lucky for me, everyone I fish with are a bunch of givers, too. When everyone is giving, it doesn’t really matter who is fishing anymore. But when you do get to fish occasionally amongst all the giving, the karma you have built will please the fish and make them quickly compliant to your offerings. Don’t believe me? Check out the brown trout above. I caught him within my first five casts after a long morning of rowing a friend who needed the pointy end of the boat more than me. Give because you enjoy seeing your buddies catch fish. Give because you need a change of luck that only being generous can give. Or give because you’re bored with taking. Just give, give till it hurts, then smile remembering it doesn’t really hurt at all. Also, anyone convinced by this argument is more than welcome to row me, pole me, and ply me with fried chicken and PBR. I’ll help you out and take a little, you know, for your emotional and spiritual benefit.
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NO. 1 FALL 2011
NO. 2 WINTER 2012
NO. 3 SPRING 2012
NO. 4 SUMMER 2012
NO. 5 FALL 2012
NO. 12 SUMMER 2014
NO. 13 FALL 2014
NO. 14 WINTER 2015
NO. 15 SPRING 2015
NO. 22 WINTER 2017
NO. 23 SPRING 2017
NO. 24 SUMMER 2017
NO. 25 FALL 2017
NO. 32 SUMMER 2019
NO. 33 FALL 2019
NO. 34 WINTER 2020
NO. 35 SPRING 2020
ve A FUN Summer southernHaculture
S.C.O.F issue no. 12
summer 2014
we’re better than them
S.C.O.F
magazine
still free
NO. 11 SPRING 2014 S.C.O.F issue no. 21
Dance Poon...Dance Topwater Timing Totalitarianism Hardly, Strictly Musky Roadside Attractions Fishing the Proper Popper-Dropper
Disco Shrimp Gangsters of the Pond Von Beard Chronicles Linwood Blue Crab ...and more
fall 2016
olde time fudge shoppe
THE
ReJiggering
SCOF
MAG
STILL FREE
southern culture
NO. 21 FALL 2016
NO. 31 SPRING 2019 28
S.C.O.F MAGAZINE
Everything that Matters
NO. 6 WINTER 2013
NO. 7 SPRING 2013
NO. 8 SUMMER 2013
NO. 9 FALL 2013
NO. 10 WINTER 2014
NO. 16 SUMMER 2015
NO. 17 FALL 2015
NO. 18 WINTER 2016
NO. 19 SPRING 2016
NO. 20 SUMMER 2016
NO. 26 WINTER 2018
NO. 27 SPRING 2018
NO. 28 SUMMER 2018
NO. 29 FALL 2018
NO. 30 WINTER 2019
NO. 36 SUMMER 2020
NO. 37 FALL 2020
NO. 38 WINTER 2021
NO. 39 SPRING 2021
NO. 40 SUMMER 2021
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Haiku
with Jay Johnson
What truly matters Is to not simply do good But to pass it on
CRUSH VARIABLES. Conditions in saltwater environments can slide sideways in seconds. Walloping wind and cloud cover pack the potential to hinder the performance of even the most experienced tropical angler. When favor’s stacked in nature’s corner, level the playing field with fishing tools forged to conquer these, and other common variables. Rolled with our most advanced compound taper construction to date, NRX+ S provides the power, line speed, and loop stability expected from modern fast-action rods, without compromising “feel” and finesse for short shots when clouds turn the lights down. NRX+ empowers anglers with confidence-boosting control in less-than-ideal situations.
gloomisflyfishing.com
A Guide to a Fly Fishing Divorce By Bo Jasonstein, ESQ.
You don’t own a marriage, you rent it.
That goes double if you fly fish. Hi. I’m Bo Jasonstien, Attorney at Law. I practice the law with a laser-like focus on helping the intrepid fly fisherman navigate their way through what is always a messy and often selfinflicted divorce. So your significant other left you. There is no question mark on the previous sentence. It is a statement, and I know this statement to be true because you fly fish. You were lucky to get anyone to love you in the first place. All you do is fish, talk about fishing, and hang out without other people who fish. How could anyone possibly stay with you over the long haul? That’s really just too long a haul. (I don’t care how ruggedly handsome you think you look in Carharts, flip flops, and a faded hat.) But don’t fret, you are by no means alone. Well you are alone, but you know what I mean. We handle tens and tens of fly fishing divorces every month, because as we say in the business, “Every time a fly shop register dings, a fly fisherman removes his ring.” Don’t fool yourself, this pamphlet will not replace the both extensive and expensive legal representation that is staring you in your sad tear filled eyes. What this pamphlet will do for you, and all of my clients, is to provide a three-point plan to get you on the other side of this thing with very small bits of your dignity and sanity left, but most importantly all your fishing stuff intact. Just to be clear you won't have any money. None. Also, if I’m being completely honest, sanity and dignity are long shots. But let’s get to the fishing stuff.
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1. Protect Your Assets There is no fury like a fly fishing spouse scorned and ignored. The rage that burns inside the person sitting across the table glows orange like a forge and the hate that is tempered by that rage is as unbreakable as a samurai sword. In fact, you need to start thinking of your former love as a raging, hateful samurai, and like the samurai your former little spoon is single-minded in separating you from your tender bits. Being a fly fisherman, your tenderest bits are gear, and I bet you have a lot of it: Rods, reels, waders, flies, boats, and even your breathable underwear are under direct threat. What are you gonna do? Stand there like a nincompoop and lose all your shit? NO! You’re going to throw all of it, every last precious piece, down to the last spool of 6x, in your truck and then you're gonna drive out into the woods…way out into the woods. Once you have reached a place so remote that even DB Cooper would say, “Whoa, that’s pretty far out there,” you’re going to dig a hole. A deep hole. Then you’re going to throw all your gear in that hole. Bury your gear and disguise your freshly filled hole with various branches, and animal droppings available in the woods, all the while making sure no one has witnessed your breathless dirty deed. When your adversary demands that you put forth your tenders on the table, you tell them you gave it all to a homeless person in hopes of starting a homeless fishing program in your town. Unfortunately, it went poorly and you never saw the homeless person again. No one is going to argue with teaching a man to fish.
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2. Nasty Custody Battles Once you have your property properly protected, the next thing to worry about is custody. Now, they should get the kids. As a fly fishing divorce lawyer, I have never seen a case where a lifestyle such as yours can be construed as anything but unhealthy. You can barely take care of yourself, let alone other human life. So with your offspring relegated to weekend fishing trips, we now need to help out your best friend, your dog—that furry gal or guy that rides shotgun in the truck and on top of the cooler in the boat. Sure, the dog likes your spouse in a way good dogs like everyone friend and foe alike, but that dog loves you just like you love them. A love that no human could possibly give you as evidenced by your current situation. Knowing your love for the dog and your dog’s love for you, your spouse will obviously use the canine as a spiteful cudgel to beat you about the head and the shoulders. We’re gonna need to protect Fido’s best interests and your own. This is what someone might call “going beyond the norm,” but divorce is war, and they don’t hand out alimony or canine custody to losers. You’re gonna head on down to the store and get that dog a cat costume. Then when your other remarks, “What the hell is that dog doing dressed up as a cat?,” you’re gonna pull the old gas light, and look them in the face and tell them the dog in the cat costume they’re looking at is a cat, has always been a cat, and that they might need some rest. This plan will require a stray cat and the old switch-a-roo in front of a neutral third party to seal the deal. Once your adversary is convinced that your c-og is a cat, they will be more than happy to give you custody as everyone hates cats. 40
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3. Your Life During and After This one is simple and doesn’t involve weaving in and out of legal and moral societal codes. Just go fish. The benefits are many and significant: It keeps you out of trouble, distracts you from your overwhelming emptiness, and it’s way better than stalking your ex's Instagram. If you’re gripping a rod in one hand and a line in the other, you’ve got no hand left to scroll your phone. So before you get any crazy ideas about vandalism, hacking, or anything else stupid you just listen your ol’ buddy Jason Boenstein, Esq. and go fishing. It’s why they left you, you might as well prove ’em right. Following these simple steps will put you on the path to matrimonial freedom, taking what you deserve and not a thing else. Your gear and your dog was probably more than you could have hoped for anyway when you got yourself into this big mess in the first place.
GET OUT
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Wa d i n g : The Futile Art By David Grossman Photos: Dave Fason
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The annals of history are pockmarked by episodes of the “new” barreling into a wall of the “old.”
This clash is as cyclical as it is predictable: Industry replacing farms, cars replacing horses, and computers replacing all of us, show that the overwhelming tide of progress will eventually erode all old ways of doing things. We’ve seen this same macro-phenomenon in our very micro-world of fly fishing—graphite rods, GORE-TEX waders, and reels machined by computers. Yet even though we all eventually come to a place where we embrace the new, we still have an undeniable habit of romanticizing the old. Bamboo rods still exist and are fished by few, but revered by all. I still hear people wax poetically about their fishing vest when we all have moved (rightly so) to slings. Hell, the appeal of tenkara seems to be a direct response to the “burden” of a modern reel, whatever the fuck that means. It’s an odd thoughtspace to inhabit. Kind of like stuffing your favorite furry friend, and petting him every day, denying the fact that a new, living dog would be better.
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I feel this pedestal upon which we place the old ways has got to be looked at with a little more of a practical eye than we have in the past. The first ancient fly fishing practice we should turn this new scrutinous eye to is the futile art of wading; A truly antiquated mode of transportation that really is beneath us at this point, unless being done for novelty purposes only, like a Revolutionary War reenactment. I propose there are many better ways to move about a river or flat than having to use our own two feet. We use rods and lines, not spears and traps, so maybe we can all admit boats and golf carts are far better than walking around befuddled like our CroMagnon ancestors. The mere act of walking anywhere harkens back to the days of hunting and
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gathering, and we now order and open. I am not suggesting even that we embrace outlandish Jetsonlike technology in our fishing endeavors; boats, beasts, and small internal combustion engines are not new technology, they're all just better than walking to your destination. All of these reasons fail to take into account the social and emotional toll pedestrian fishing has taken on our tightknit community. Wading is discriminatory. Full stop. As we proportionally expand our physical beings, through a diet of delicious food, each passing generation grows happier and unhealthier and the physical requirements of wading to fish becomes the carrot we were unwilling to eat. There are less and less Jack Lalannes out there, and that void has been snugly filled with more and more Jackie Gleasons.
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With the husky now eliminated, let’s move on to the age-addled feeble bodies of anyone over the age of 40, like myself. Ageism is real, and wading reeks of it. While the ignorance of youth paired with my young Adonis-like physique allowed me to self-propel to the far reaches of the wilderness, I will now require a donkey for both my things and myself if I am expected to get much past the trail head. Some sort of overlanding vehicle would be even better though. But even paying another man to carry me piggy back would be more likely than me lacing up my boots and “hoofing” it, like I was the beast. Honestly I could go on and on covering wading topics such as chafing, bending over to put on your ill-fitting boots, relieving yourself without peeing on yourself, and don’t forget the general unevenness of the footing in nature, but these things are as self-evident as the tsunami of progress about to crash over all of us. So please, if you insist on wading, you and your weirdo friends can walk way up that creek to your heart's content. Just leave the rest of us out of it— we’ve got some sitting to do.
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Photo: Todd Field
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Drinking Responsibly With Dave:
Old North Premium Lager
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The whole microbrew thing is somewhat lost on me, much to
the chagrin of my chocolate stout-swilling friends. When out fishing I’m a volume drinker. Volume drinking traditional microbrew beers does not generally agree with either one’s household or personal plumbing the next day. So more often than not, you will find my cooler filled with some variation of mass-produce, cheaply patriotic American lager. This beer may go by many names: PBR, Busch, Coors, or even High Life in a pinch. But while the name on the label may change, the easy drinking enjoyability remains the same. The trend in brewing has come back to my way of thinking though as of late, with tasty yet expensive versions of cheap American beer showing up on every tap list in the land. While the volume drinker in me has rejoiced with this new lager-loving attitude, my wallet keeps on stepping in and reminding me that if imitation cheap beer is supposed to taste like cheap beer at twice the cost, why not just get the cheap beer? My wallet is a shrewd orator, and I don’t often win any arguments.
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Threading the needle in this case would be to make a good lager at a shitty beer price point. Needle and thread, meet Old North. Brewed in Asheville, N.C. by Hi-Wire Brewing, Old North is as drinkable as it is affordable. You’re still gonna pay a little more than you would for bottom of the barrel, but when you think about supporting local folks instead of faceless conglomerates, the extra buck or two goes down without any peeps from that mouthy wallet. Old North goes down as easy as the mountain water they make it with, and self-proclaiming to be “by NC, for NC” in a FUBU-like power move, gives this Tar Heel prideful goose bumps in all the best places. So next time you’re in the Old North state, grab some Old North, and how you drink them after that is up to you (but in your mind please picture me mouthing the word “chug” as we merrily roll down a river in the soft sun of the South).
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king street
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tall tales Good clean livin’ lowcountry art guitar pickin’ ol’ favorites latest and greatest store exclusives open e’ry day till 6:00PM
w w w.floodtide.com S.C.O.F MAGAZINE
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Photos: Steve Seinberg Intro by David Grossman
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Light and water constantly push and pull against each other,
one trying to expose and the other trying to remain hidden. We as anglers witness this back and forth every time we set foot in it. Some days the light wins and everything below the surface is there for all to behold, while at other times the water wins—its murky depths remain hidden along with the sun. There are also times where the battle swings wildly back and forth minute by minute, with the angler left to guess where it will finally settle. This adversarial relationship has a daily beginning and end, and in those finite points on either end of the fight, the two put away their differences and join each other in creating scenes before us that we feebly try to capture on film, all the while knowing that capturing what’s in front of us is as fleeting as perfect light.
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WORLD PREMIERE:
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Photo: Steve Seinberg
bench press Jacques Canard
BWO Hotspot
Frenchie
Jacques Canard
Oui, oui, you ugly Americans. You take our fly and you catch your pig American fish with it. It is so, how you say, deesgusting. Your sad little pheasant tail with its sad legs everywhere and its little humpback belongs with the cowboys in ze west. It is not a fly, it is a menage-a-mierde. The clean, slim beautiful French version with its happy little hot spot looks like eh supermodel in comparison to your big and tall frumpy fly. You drink our wine, eat our cheese, and now fish our nymphs. What is next you will wear the beret? Mon dieu! If you must fish the Frenchie, please remember the French change the color of the hot spot as much as we do our lovers. Do not be afraid of color, you square Americans. Try pink, purple, or red, you never know, you might like it, eh?
Material List: Hook: Tiemco 3761 Nymph Hook (sz. 18-22) Bead: 5/64 Tungsten Black Thread: Veevus 16/0 Olive Body: Olive Pheasant Tail Rib: Black Wire (Small or X-Small) Hotspot Thorax: UV Hot Orange Ice Dub
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Step 1: Place bead on hook and hook in vice. Step 2: Start thread behind the bead at the eye of the hook, and wrap towards the rear of the hook stopping at the bend. Step 3: Attach black wire rib at the bend of the hook and secure it with minimal wraps. Move wire out of the way for the next step. Step 4: Cut 3-4 olive-dyed pheasant tail fibers and attach them on top of the wire rib at the bend of the hook. Adjust the pheasant tail fibers back and forth until you are happy with the length of the fly’s tail. (I usually shoot for a hook gap for the length.) Once you have settled on the tail length, further secure the fibers with a couple of tight wraps. Step 5: Wrap thread in front of pheasant tail fibers oriented towards the eye of the hook (not the tail side), and advance your thread all the way to just behind the bead at the eye of the hook. Step 6: Wrap the pheasant tail in overlapping 45-degree wraps to just behind the bead at the eye of the hook. Cut off and excess pheasant tail fibers behind the eye of the hook.
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Step 7: Wrap black wire rib towards the bead in 45- degree wraps in the opposite direction you wrapped the pheasant tail. Evenly space these. Wrap and secure wire behind the bead with a couple of tight wraps of thread. Step 8: Wax your thread and apply a very small amount of orange ice dubbing, creating a thin dubbing rope. Step 9: Wrap dubbing with thread wraps mad on top of themselves until hot spot thorax that is slightly larger in diameter than the bead is created. Whip finish, and cut your thread.
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SNOWBIRDS By David Grossman Photos: Steve Seinberg and David Grossman
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I don’t come from a fishing family.
We never went to the Bahamas or had a boat at the beach, or even a creek in the neighborhood. I knew kids like that. Back then I thought they were assholes—now I’d call them lucky. I found fishing just wanting to hang out with those kids, and once I found it, it just kind of stuck. All these years later, I’m the last one of any of those kids who still really fishes like their dads did. Life happens to everyone, unless you resist a little. I now find myself in the position to be that dad for my kids. The dad who shows them the amazing places and things that I’ve seen the past 20 years chasing nonsense and finding rainbows.
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I have anticipated this time in their lives where they’re old enough to be cool to hang out with, and yet still think I’m cool. I have maybe two, three years tops. At that point the last grains of sand will fall and they will be teenagers, and it will be at least another 10 years before we want to be around each other again. Sad, but true. Doing all this math, while depressing, has led to me setting up my life to make the most out of this small window of mutual cooperation. I am in the first stages of acquiring the appropriate adventure van to facilitate a very full schedule of trying to impress upon my children that the world does not end at the edge of their screen, all the while ensuring I have someone to row and pole me well into my sitdown
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fishing years. I have toed the line of spousal bonds by acquiring a flats boat, that being a mountain person, I have very little use for other than fulfilling the vision in my head of me poling one of my children onto a rolling tarpon, at sunset among the mangroves. My argument of vision quests sadly fell on deaf ears. But when your kids are involved, you persist. You overcome. You don’t sell that boat. In another strategic move, when the chance arose to send the kids to year round school, thus making the whole month of December winter break, I calmly nodded and quietly supported this decision (all the while hatching my master plan of spending the entire month in the Keys with the boat docked in the backyard).
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This past December all my conniving, bargaining, and abandonment of professional responsibilities landed me exactly where I wanted to be as that jealous kid all those years ago. In the Keys for 30 days with kids, dogs, and my boat in tow. All of my previous saltwater experiences were on more of a mercenary’s schedule (with none of the merc precision execution), in and out with a singular goal in mind. Fishing just three days here or four days there is like trying to perform surgery blindfolded, with a spoon instead of a scalpel, and most importantly with a hard deadline no matter where you happen to be in the process. Not a recipe for success. So a whole month with the boat on the lift meant I could not only go out every day, but the pressure was off to spend every waking minute of every day on the water. Living somewhere even if it’s just a few weeks, settles you into a rhythm that mere days can never provide. It’s those rhythms of life, contrary to the everyday, that I’m trying to tune my kids into.
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December is not the tarpon migration, nor is it the month that permit begrudgingly play a little. It’s a month of north winds and cold fronts. December is the month we had. I really learned how to run my boat, my kids caught way more fish on shrimp than I did on the fly, and in the end both my kids said it was the best time they have ever had. Friends joined in as they inevitably do when you put the word out that you have a place in the Keys for the month, and I finally understand why the old and the Canadians flock to this penis-shaped peninsula. Shorts and flip-flops in December doesn’t suck. Neither does watching your firstborn, like a wild-eyed Ahab, fight a 75 lb. grouper from our dock. Or your daughter hook snapper after snapper while artfully talking shit to her despondent fishless brother. Doesn’t suck at all.
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Photo: Steve Seinberg
may2022|
no.43
Photo: David Grossman
The Back Page
with Paul Puckett and Mike Benson All roads lead south. As a born and bred Southerner, I’m obviously predisposed to believe that the South is by far and away the best region in this great country of ours. And now that I’ve gotten older, and have been lucky enough to travel across and fish in a large portion of the rest of the lower 48, I can confirm I’m right. That may not sit well with people in this “everybody gets a participation trophy” culture we find ourselves in, but it’s the truth and the truth only hands out trophies to winners. The sheer variety of fishing opportunities alone would take the cake, but add in the favorable climate, more days per year on the water, and well, it just gets to be silly to even compare anywhere else against us. I myself however, never seem to be far enough south. I grew up in western North Carolina… that’s pretty far south if you ask any yankee. But that wasn’t south enough. So after injecting enough Walkers Cay Chronicles and Spanish Fly through my ocular nerves into my cerebral cortex as a kid, I moved a little further south, and a lot more salty.
Finding myself sitting here in Charleston, S.C., I still don’t feel quite south enough. If I were a single man with fewer responsibilities, I would just pack myself into some form of mobile housing unit and drive until I sated my internal compass. But alas here we are, all comfortable, happily married, and settled into a nice life. Please send help. As it is, I have to satiate the ever present southerly pull with a few trips a year to chase one or more fish species that I can’t get here, in water you can actually see through. But I’ve found that the more time I spend in the southernmost places we can reach by car, and the deeper I get into the tangled, isolated maze of mangroves—the stronger the pull becomes. It calls to me, tugging at me from somewhere in my gut just above my navel. Just a gentle pull and whisper on the wind that says, “keep going south, we’re not there yet”...
S.C.O.F Magazine | issue no. 42 | winter 2022