My buddy Cush and I fall back into the same summer Sunday pattern effortlessly. Rush home from the early Methodist service to throw packs, water and rods into the truck without so much as a word. The drive south is full of 76mph banter about the latest fly creation, or staring through the top of the windshield commenting on cloud cover. Knowing full well that our predictions are futile, We pull into the park and order up two season passes. In a flurry of monofilament and sunscreen I am out of the truck and ready to fish. But waiting on Cush to rig up, impatiently. Summer is finally here. Miles of beach, untouched by by man’s groveling hand. Free to wander for a full day. No obligations. No time to be home.

The only downside- clouds. We walk for a few miles, strategically interspersing ourselves among the few other fisherman. The sun peeks out to taunt us for moments at a time, as if her sole purpose was to illuminate passing snook. During one of the sun filled jaunts I hear a whistle from the north. I pry my eyes from now-translucent water. Cush is alternating between pointing at the water in front of me and bear-hugging the air. A secret code that means; “big fish are coming to you.” I peel off some more fly line and back up onto the dune. I can tell by Cush watching me intently that it must be big. Then I see them. Two black barn doors drift 25 yards off the beach with purpose. Tarpon. Although hopeless I glide further south and put my back into the double haul. Not the prettiest shot, but its right in front of them. Stripping the fly soon becomes an afterthought. They show no interest. Excitement gives way to awe. My subconscious takes over as I strip the fly like a zombie, right across the lead tarpon’s face. I slurp back drool and stare at giant mirrored scales capped a powerful black back. To date, this is the best shot I have had at migratory tarpon.

Our patience pays off, clouds and fisherman dissipate. About three miles in, we are treated to sandy bottom and snook shadows. School after school of males meander near gray dunes and coconut palms. Cush and I split up only to report back the same story. Perfect presentations are almost always followed, then turned up noses. It goes on like this for hours. No fly change or stripping cadence could muster the required aquatic aggression. I did manage to land a small male, and we each fed a few more that came unbuttoned. But the same sequence plays out over and over:

The cast unfurls at a 45° angle across the fish’s path, long before the lead fish arrives. Slow strips until (maybe) one peels away from the group, then refusal. Followed promptly by an uncontrollable urge to try again. A second cast at a passing school is a useless, but inescapable ritual. The Gods allow Cush to catch one as we make our four mile walk back to the truck, Surely as reward for our efforts today. We arrive home a few hours later, after a quick stop to fill bellies with rice, plantains, and modelo.

No boat to wash. Summer is here.