I’m fishing. A girl goes by in a red canoe, paddling carefully. When she has cleared me, I take my line out of the water and recast, powerfully. The fly streams through sunlight and shade. The girl’s head jerks back, her arms fling out and the paddle goes flying and she tumbles into the water.
Immediately I know I’ve got a fight on my hands. She thrashes ferociously, taking line with her. Then she dives under some boulders and hides. A handful at a time I start taking back the line, creeping along the bank stealthily, keeping the tip of the rod as far out over the stream as I can to avoid snagging. But then I step loudly on a twig and that does it: she comes roaring back out into midstream, towards the canoe, and I have all I can do to keep the line going out and my hand clear so it doesn’t get torn off. When she breeches for air just before the canoe, I set myself and slam her. We go at it tooth and nail with my rod tip bent into the water and her mighty eruptions into sunlight — flashing yellow tank top, emerald hiking shorts — and spectacular, spraying crashings.
At last I feel her tiring. The momentum swings in my direction. I work her in closer and closer to the bank, staggering to keep my balance on trembling legs against a final desperation run. Then I find the harness with one hand and I splash down into the rocks, and with what’s left of my strength, I land her.
She lies sprawled on the bank, drenched and gasping. When I’ve got some breath back myself, I look her over. She’s long-legged and young, the good-looking outdoorsy type. The fly is caught in her lower lip. I grip her by the arm and warn her, “Get ready,” and then I twist out the hook. She yelps. I push her hand away and dab the little red wound with peroxide. As I’m putting the bottle away, she sits up. “That was quite a fight,” I tell her admiringly. “You from around here?” She glances up at me from probing and tasting her injured lip. “None of your damn business,” she mutters. I purse my lips at this. I close up the tackle box with a deliberate gesture. “Hey look,” I tell her. “It’s a sport, see? Fair is fair: I caught you. But I happen to be a nice guy and so I’m going to return you to the water.” “You are?” she says, and her eyes get big, making me realize how young she is, all the more reason to put her back. “Yes,” I tell her. “But first you do have to give me one of these.” I lean over and take a kiss. She gives a modest little laugh. Then we wade into the water and find her paddle for her and get her back into her red canoe, and she even comes up with a wave as she goes off somewhat shakily on her way again.