“Eighty feet. Two o’clock. Go!” The cadence of my heart increased until I thought it was about to beat through my chest. With a tarpon visible against the cream-coloured bottom, I was told to make a backhand cast into a stiff crosswind and drop my fly on a target the size of a dinner plate. Right.
But they say even a blind horse finds water once in a while and my white Tarpon Toad whistled through the air and landed precisely where I had intended, with slightly more authority than I would have liked. The tarpon now had a tantalizingly presented fly resting less than three feet from the tip of its beak. Strip, strip, pause. Both my hands were shaking uncontrollably. The fish swam slowly towards the fly but decided this was not to be my lucky day, then it exited the wind-blown flat. Game over.
