The Beach

     Had some time, the sun was out, the wind down, time to drag out Darrell's old Daiwa and do my best to return with both ears intact.
     Last time was out on the dock and I was confused.  Not all that unusual these days.  This time I strolled a quarter mile down to a little stretch of white quartz sand beach.  I'm told the quartz washed down from the Appalachians eons ago.  Don't know if that's true but I don't care so long as it squeaks when I walk on it.  And it does.
     The beach sits alongside a channel narrow enough to make it feel more like the intimacy of the ponds I'm drawn to.  Gotta say it beat the pants off of standing on a dock.  Maybe it's the feel of actual planet under my feet or getting my toes wet that made the difference.  Probably neither.  How about, the outdoors feels more outdoorsy when I've got brush at my back, water on my feet and million dollar houses on the island to my front over yonder?
     Today I took a little more time with the rod.  It was a gift and deserves as much.  Even paid attention now and then.  Tied on a red and white popper with black spots and sparklies on the tail.  A popper?  What the hell does this guy think he's fishing for?  There ain't no bass out there boy.  Might not have been anything else either.  But that's not the reason I was doin' what I was doin'.
     Line goes out.  Line's stripped in.  Goes out again, this time a little farther.  And a little farther.  Holy moly, I was into the running line.  Rod, line and leader laid out straight, something over twenty yards out.  Any more and the six foot, brown brush to my rear grabbed my homemade popper.  Seems the longer the line I'm working the more my faults stand out.  Doesn't matter, there's hope.
     No wind knots, no impalements, it was a good day.