I keep reading I should be hooking myself in the ear when practicing different fly casting methods. Throw in the ever present wind down here and it's a certainty. Of course I pooh-poohed that notion for the first three times out with the rod. Then I recalled the first day and hooking myself in the lower back a couple of times. That's why I've now got a chunk of green yarn on the end of my line. Not 'cause I've taken up knitting.
Of course there's much to be said for knitting. Seems Madame DeFarge(?) spent her days in the French Revolution (Dickens) knitting head bags alongside the guillotine. Actually I don't know if they were actually head bags but that makes more sense than afghans or garish mittens. Don't know what the dead would do with them.
Again the casting went mostly well. But mostly well is something I can't sit back and enjoy. Inevitably I keep trying to work out more line. If I can do twenty yards, why not twenty-five? Actually there is a reason to not do twenty-five and it has to do with the inevitable resulting clump of line at my feet or the yarn wrapped around a chunk of brush to my rear. Kinda like turnin' over rocks in the desert 'til something under one bites me.
Being outside, down the narrow beach is always a chance to see neat stuff. There's a lot of herons to spook, cormorants, a jelly fish or two and the paw prints of a big cat that likes to wander the sand at night. Apologizing to the great blue herons for disturbing their nap does no good. They always give me that 'why don't you go the hell away' look then, flap off with a "crawk, crawk, crawk!" Ain't they sweet?