Sight Fishing

"Want to try to get some fish in the morning?"

She got the text Saturday afternoon.

Earlier that week, she had expressed interest when he had sent her a beautiful photo of him kneeling on a pristine beach. He looked very handsome, sporting a bright, happy smile and holding an about 14" long silver and shiny Corbina. 

Looking back, it is no longer clear which handsome silver slippery fish she was interested in catching. They had been flirting back and forth, and officially they were friends —benefits lurking under the surface. 

Corbinas are large ocean fishes that come very close to the beach to feed on the sand crabs. They ride the whitewash in and out. You see them in the shallow water and artfully cast your fly before them. So It's called sight fishing. Steve loves fly fishing. And she loves how peaceful it is, being with him, in nature, as he fishes (A few weeks back, they had been fly fishing on the Fall River —Blissful hours spent together on the slow water, observing the fly hatch, the fish go after them).

Together once more, on this early Sunday morning. He picked her up at her house, and they walked to the wide beach of Santa Monica. The sky was white and opaque. The sun hidden — low tide pushing up. 

Steve and his rod! He is kind of endearing with his fly fishing rod in hand. The fly was cute. Half mini sculpture of a real-life sand crab, half muppet, it had two transparent vinyl little antennae and a little tuft of pink puff under its belly for color. He taught her about the fish's habits and where to throw. He showed her how to cast her line. 

Fly fishing is an art. It's movement in space — First back and up, higher than you think. It is also a bit of dance — Keep my elbow close and my wrist in line with my forearm. It's music— It is tempo.

Back and up-up—Wait—Slow-then-FAST.

He explained.

He showed.

But she needed to feel it.

She asked if she could place her hand on his and moved closer to him immediately, without waiting for his permission, bridging the distance between them. She was so close that her chest now grazed his tall back. She lifted her hand and landed it very softly on his. She wanted to feel the rhythm he was talking about. 

Her chest, her pelvis pressed onto his back —she felt petite — as her hand moved in unison over his. She had to expand her chest to meet his wider arm span, as his hand whipped backward, spanning the distance, holding -wait- and then thrusting forward. She paid attention to the rod near her hand and how it moved the thin line in space and made it dance. It can be jerky to allow another person's tempo to meet yours. They did alright. The ocean is so vast. It opens places in you. She let herself focus and absorb it. They fished, open, focused, still. The ocean growling and crashing around them. The air was soft. The water was soothing. Waves came in to lick her toes, carving some sand underneath her feet.

The lesson continued. He switched. Now, his front was on her back, and his presence and masculinity felt more direct. He placed his hand on hers to show the subtlety of the pause. It's up —there is the pause— cast slightly to the right so the line doesn't tangle. She felt more athletic now. Strong on her legs. She could sense his body pressed on her back and her weight on her heels. And her heels were sinking in the watery sand that was moving faster and faster underneath her. She had to step sometimes to keep her balance while keeping close contact. 

Time slows sometimes. Happy—She felt —Content in the closeness and the music of the water, with most of her focus on the task and the skill at hand —But the closeness—The closeness! If she let herself, she could lean in and let him — she hoped— hold her.

Steve has a pleasant face. He has a very soft voice, always. He has a bit of a belly, too, soft also. And she finds him very sweet in his core— He is not shy, not really, but quiet in a curiously strong way. She never thought, in a million years, that she would ever be turned on by a soft belly, but on his frame, suffused by the gentle music of the voice, the belly becomes strangely enticing. It's tender.

It was a beautiful day, but it was a grey-white day. An airy fog was cradling the beach —The ocean grey. They really couldn't see anything in the water. The waves licking the shore were opaque, foamy white, and ochre sandy. The sun didn't break through the clouds, and the eye did not break through the water's surface. They were sight-fishing blind.

So they kept on walking. Maybe more visibility ahead. Maybe the Corbina was just a few feet south. Perhaps it doesn't matter that much. They are walking. The waves are crashing. Sometimes they see a back— they think— and Steve casts for a minute. No visibility. And they keep on walking. Sometimes she feels compelled to say something — But there is nothing more relevant to do than just being together, doing this. It's peaceful.