"Yes, but have you ever flyfished?"
"No, but fishing is fishing! What's so special about fly fishing?"
I must have really liked her, because I took her anyway. I stopped the boat in deeper water away from real fishing water so I could give her some casting instruction. I rigged the 9 wt rod with a smallish popper for easier casting, and made two demonstration casts to give her the general idea.
"That looks easy. I can do that!"
I shrugged and handed her the rod, figuring it would take about ten minutes of flailing for the heavy fiberglass (before graphite) rod and saltwater taper to wear her arm down until she was ready to accept some instruction.
She stood up in the boat and started to cast. I ducked downa nd began rigging my 10 wt rod for myself. She swung the rod back in a great arc, the line falling on itself, the popper last. Just as
the popper hit the water, she swung the rod forward in another great arc, ripping the popper from the water with a loud "plop" and the process was repeated. She was happily casting exactly 9 feet, that being the length of the rod. Back and forth she swung, "plop", "plop", "plop".
"See," she said, "it's not that hard"
This might take more than ten minutes, I thought.
"plop...plop...plop...plop..."
I busied myself with the ten wt., the metronomic sound soothing in a hysterical sort of way.
"plop...plop...plop..plop..."
Somewhere with the line I was stringing at about the tenth guide I became vaguely aware a contrapuntal rhythm shift had occurred.
"plop...plop.splash...plop...plop.splash...plop...plop.splash..."
I didn't look up until violins joined in.
"plop...plop.splash.AIIEEEE!...plop...plop.splash.AIIEEEE.."
What I beheld in front was a large and thoroughly enraged smallmouth that had by now dedicated his life to nailing that popper that was touching down for about a tenth of a second.
"plop...plop.splash.AIIEEEE!..."
The "AIIEEEE" was coming from the caster/would-be girlfriend.
"SET IT DOWN!", I yelled.
She stopped casting....mesmerized...on the backcast.
"NO...IN FRONT!"
