by Randy Kadish
Chapter 21
My curiosity ate at me. Did Billy perfect his technique of fluting the inside of bamboo? And because some fly-casting tournaments now restricted casters to use rods 91⁄2 feet or less, could I use Billy’s rod and compete and win?
I found my old notes on long-distance casting and studied them. Wanting to keep my practices secret, I drove to a little-used baseball field near Livingston Manor. A few minutes later, I got into my casting stance and felt I got back into my past. Keeping my elbow in place, I cast back, then forward. The rod loaded and unloaded like a spring. I shot line.
Let’s see what this rod can do, I thought.
I cast back, lowered the rod tip and cast forward. Hammering a nail, I stopped the rod and let go of the line. The front loop tightened into a wedge and jetted across the field.
The fly didn’t turn over. The leader and the end of the fly line landed in a circle.
I reeled in all the slack line, marked the line close to the reel, and I reeled in six more inches. Again I cast. This time, as my presentation cast unrolled, the line pulled against the reel. The fly turned over. I put the rod down and measured the cast.
96 feet!
How far will I cast, I wondered, if I can shoot line after my back cast and then slide my line hand up without adding slack to the unrolling line?
I tried to, again and again, but I either lowered the rod tip too quickly and added slack, or I lowered the tip too slowly and not far enough.
But I wasn’t giving up!
The next afternoon I went back to the baseball field. It was a mild, sunny day. In right field a boy, a girl and a blond-haired woman played soccer.
The woman kicked the ball over the boy’s head.
I walked to left field and set up Billy’s rod. A woman wearing a straw hat walked her big, black poodle behind home plate. I got into my stance. Again and again I back cast and shot line, but always I lowered the rod too quickly or too slowly.
Catching my breath, I stared into space, looked into my past, and saw myself trying to discover casting defects, like rocking my shoulders during the cast, and therefore inadvertently lowering the rod from the target line.
Were the defects, I wondered, a sign for me to continue experimenting until I discovered a cure?
“Goal!” The woman yelled out.
“No, it was outside,” the boy argued. “Mom, you can’t tell from where you were.”
I smiled. The poodle, I saw, looked at me.
What goes through the dog’s mind, I wondered, when it watches me cast? Can it have any idea what I’m doing? And what am I doing—trying to discover the ideal, long-distance casting form? If so, is this baseball field my laboratory?
Again I false cast. I shot line after my back cast and lowered the rod to 2 o’clock. The line didn’t sag! I cast forward.
A wedge! The fly turned over! The leader landed in a straight line. I measured my cast.
98 feet! Could I do it again?
My next cast was 97 feet! Billy had built a great fly rod.
Exhausted but thankful for another casting defect, I reeled in line, lay down on the lawn and closed my eyes. The warm sun comforted me. I told myself that, to help other anglers, I should write a long-distance, fly-casting article.
But why is casting 10 feet farther so important to me? Are my casting experiments about more than distance?
Yes. They’re also about coming to believe in an ideal—a perfect fly-casting form—as absolute as the universal law of physics—gravity, relativity—as absolute as what’s good and right—fighting against Hitler—as absolute as the beauty of nature—the Beaverkill.
But do these ideals have a soul?
Whether they do or not, why is coming to believe in them so important? Is it because even though the world is riddled by random turns of history and bloodied by wars, the world is also unified by ideals: universal laws that form a working order, a kind of higher power? If so, why are ideals invisible and so hard to discover? And what gives them meaning? Just existing? No. My will, my choice to discover and to emulate them?
To discover, to emulate. But I’ve instead always tried to will things into my way. And what was the usual result? Fear. Failure. Lack of faith and self-worth. Yet now, just as I’ve learned that if I come in-line with the ideal casting form that I’ll cast close to a 100 feet, I’ve also learned that if I come in-line with other ideals, I’ll rise above helplessness, above my defects, and above the world’s random events, even though I don’t know where these ideals came from. Isn’t that what self-love is all about? Do my defects and random events therefore exist for a reason? To challenge me to become connected to love, beauty, goodness—to spirituality?
Yes, I think so. And perhaps Izzy never came back because he knew I had to find my spirituality in my own way. And if I, therefore, believe in the fly-casting techniques I’ve discovered, if I believe in Billy’s rod, I should fight for them. I should overcome my fear, the way I had to overcome my casting defects.
I opened my eyes. The sun shined low in the sky. Its orange rays burned my eyes. I looked straight up, into heaven, and smiled. Slowly, the sky’s blue darkened. The hiding stars peeked down and soon became pinheads of light. I started counting them. Somewhere I lost track; then I lost caring about how many stars were in the sky. I sat up. The blond-haired woman and her children had left. I clutched Billy’s fly rod and told myself it was time for me to go home and see Sarah.
The next morning I telephoned a casting organization and learned that their next tournament was in August, in the Newark Civic Center, and that competitors had to use the organization’s official fly line. I asked, “How long was last year’s winning cast?”
“One hundred two feet.”
“Who won?”
“Jake Bender.”
I ordered the official line.
A few days later, Ross and his girlfriend, Melissa, visited Sarah and me and told us they were engaged. To celebrate, I took them to dinner at the Antrim Lodge. As I ate my dessert, I looked at Ross. “Do you remember the time Everett told Jake Bender I could cast farther than he could?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I got this great rod as a gift. I’m going to see if Everett was right.”
“But Dad, you’re forty-nine years old.”
“Well, the way I see it, I have three months to experiment and perfect my technique. If I don’t win, I’ll know I did the best I could; that’s why, this time, I’m not keeping it a secret that I’m competing. I’m going to tell every angler I see.”
The next day I started practicing and eventually determined that, using Billy’s rod and the official fly line, I could false cast up to 50 feet of line and shoot another five feet on my last back cast.
But could I false cast more line and therefore increase the length of my presentation cast?
Like Einstein imagining relativity, I tried to imagine new fly-casting techniques.
Finally, I came up with four: 1. Stopping the rod more abruptly on my back cast by stabbing it slightly upward. (As the line unrolled, I slightly lowered my rod hand back to casting-level.) 2. Starting my downward haul later and faster. 3. Increasing the length of my casting stroke by slightly lowering the trajectory of my forward, false cast and therefore having the rod in a lower position at the start of my back cast. 4. As the line unrolled, not losing power by shifting my weight before starting my false or presentation cast.
I went to the baseball field and tested each technique.
They all worked! I was able to false cast up to 54 feet of line.
I cast 100 feet!
Thrilled, thinking I could beat Jake Bender, I drove home. During the next week, however, I never cast farther than 100 feet. Discouraged, I told myself I was a fool for believing I could beat Bender, probably the best caster on the planet.
I stopped practicing, but my mind, as if it had a life of its own, wouldn’t stop asking, what if I tried ...? What if ...?
So day after day I wen
t back to the field and experimented with new techniques. But the final answer was always the same: 100 feet or less.
Why can’t I cast as far as Jake? I wondered. Is it because he’s younger than me? Bigger than me? Or am I just not good enough? Why even go on? But I’ve told so many people I am competing. There has to be other casting techniques out there. I can still try to find them
But time, I knew, was running out. The tournament was only a month away.
I told Ross I still couldn’t break a hundred feet. Joe Louis, he said, added snap to his right cross by sharply twisting his fist just before he landed the punch.
Could I adapt the technique to fly casting?
The next morning, as the sun rose, I drove to the baseball field. During my first back cast I turned my rod hand outward, so my palm faced straight ahead. I cast forward, sharply twisting my rod hand. Abruptly, I stopped the rod with my palm facing left.
But I hadn’t fully accelerated the rod.
Don’t give up! I told myself.
I didn’t, and on the fourth day of practicing the new technique I accelerated the rod and simultaneously twisted my rod hand.
I cast 103 feet.
But not consistently, so I wrote all my—or I should say the world’s—casting techniques on index cards. Before every practice, I reread the techniques. As I executed them one after the other, I reminded myself not to rush, to stay in the casting moment.
A week later, I consistently cast 103 feet. But casting by myself on a lawn was a lot different from casting in front of thousands of staring eyes in an arena, so as the days marched toward the tournament, I became more and more nervous. Often I woke up in the middle of the night and saw myself standing on the casting platform, freezing up and making a fool of myself. Terrified, I wondered if I should tell everyone I knew that I hurt my elbow and was backing out of the tournament.
No! I told myself.
To keep my mind off the tournament, I decided to fish again. Wanting to be with other anglers, I drove to the most popular pool on the Beaverkill, Cairns.
The long, straight pool was lined with about fifteen anglers. Mickey, Roger and Doug waded out of the river, walked up to me and offered condolences. Feeling welcomed, I asked how the fishing was. Slow, they told me.
“Ian, is that a new rod?” Roger asked.
“Well, a new old one. Many years ago around here there was a young guy named Billy Reynolds ...” I told them the story of Billy and his dream of building great fly rods. As I did, the anglers looked into my eyes as if I were Abe Lincoln giving the Gettysburg Address. Suddenly, I felt I was back in the Antrim Lodge, telling Doc’s story. “... And so this is the rod I’ll use in the tournament. Maybe Billy will become famous after all.”
They wished me luck. I thanked them and walked downstream, along the bank. I cried. Wearing the tears on my face like medals, I waded into the tail of the pool. The gently flowing water seemed to hug my legs and to comfort and welcome me. All my fishing days, I knew, were not downstream of me.
The afternoon before the fly-casting tournament: Wanting to be close to Everett, I drove to Junction Pool, stood at the bank, near the deep water, and watched the eddies swirl, disappear and pop up a few feet away. Suddenly the eddies and the seams looked like ancient letters on a Rosetta stone.
Maybe the Beaverkill, and even the universe, have been writing to us all along, and we’ve been unwilling to learn its eternal language. Maybe if Einstein or Newton were here they could decipher it, but I can’t. “My beloved son, Everett, I know you wanted to see me as a courageous hero. I’m sorry you didn’t. You once told Jake Bender I could beat him in a fly-casting tournament. To tell you the truth, I don’t know if I can, but I’m going to try; and because I am, I hope, I pray you will see me as I really am, a man, so much smaller than the laws of nature, as a man who didn’t always have the courage to see the world the way it was and to make peace with it, so instead I often tried to see it in my own way and to change it. And I hope you also see me as a man who, in his way, tried to do the right things.”
I walked downstream. The island in the pool’s tail still looked like it needed a haircut. How was it that its hair seemed frozen in length, as if, unlike me, it was outside the laws and clutch of time?
Was the island really a giant subatomic particle?
Mark, an angler I hadn’t seen in years, fished the tail. He waved to me. “Good luck, tomorrow.”
“Thanks.”
Ray sat on the bank. I walked to him. He smiled. Around his eyes were lines that looked like rays of light drawn by a hieroglyphic-carving Egyptian. But in my mind, I saw the man-in-the-moon face I saw 30 years ago.
“Ray, do you need me to tie on a fly?”
“Would you, Ian?”
He handed me his fly box. His crooked, arthritic fingers were so swollen they looked as if they had marbles in them. His fly box was full of wet flies and a few streamers.
I asked, “Which one?”
“You pick.”
“A Green Drake? I had luck with that once, remember?”
“I remember.”
“What about a streamer, Doc’s streamer?”
“Yeah. That sounds good.”
I tied on Doc’s streamer.
Ray studied it. “Hell of a fly, backward and forward.”
“Sure is.”
“Ian, I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to say it. Look at how I’ve become a sick, old man. Damn time has robbed me of my joy of fishing. The hemlocks can grow back and line the banks, and look as if they’ve never been cut down, but I can’t grow young. At least I can still come here and see and hear the river. I just wish, Ian, that the river took me instead of Everett.”
“Ray, I don’t feel it was the river that took him.”
“So you’ve made peace with the Kettle That Washes Itself Clean?”
“The river was one thing I was never at war with.”
“I hear you’re going to compete in that fly-casting tournament in Newark.”
“I am.”
“Wow. That takes real guts. From what I read, it’s about time someone put that Jake Bender in his place.”
“Ray, I remember the first day I came here. I was lonely and scared and wanted to run home, and I probably would have if I hadn’t met you and felt welcomed; and for that I’ll always be grateful. Sarah, Ross and I are driving to the tournament. I’d really like you to come with us.”
“I’ve never seen a fly-casting tournament before.”
“I have to warn you: we’re picking up my father in Manhattan. He’s a rich lawyer.”
“Hell, from the first day I knew you were a rich kid. I didn’t hold it against you, did I?”
“No, you didn’t.”
Ray stared at his swollen fingers, then into my eyes. He smiled. “Damn right, I’ll come to the tournament.”
The morning of the tournament: “Ian, wake up.” Sarah shook me. “Ray’s downstairs having breakfast with Ross.”
I glanced at the clock. “I can’t believe I slept so late.”
“That’s a good sign.”
After breakfast, we all piled into my car. I drove to Manhattan, picked up my father and drove through the Lincoln Tunnel and to the Civic Center in Newark. The football-field-sized parking lot was about half full.
“How do you feel, Dad?” Ross asked.
“Nervous, like a prizefighter before a fight. But I want you all to know how grateful I feel to have all of you here with me. I feel like a winner already.”
“Remember, Ian,” my father said. “Try to relax and let your body do the work.”
We walked into the lobby of the Center. A casting official wearing a green sports jacket sat at a desk.
I said, “I’m here to compete. I’m Ian Mac Bride, with a space between the Mac and the Bride.”
He wrote down my name and gave me two hookless flies. We walked into a big auditorium. Fly casters competed in the accura
cy event. Standing on both sides of the long, casting platform were about five hundred people. Unlike the platform that had been in Madison Square Garden, this one was white and straight and didn’t resemble a cross. Another five hundred or so more people sat in the long, steep balcony.
At the far end of the auditorium was a roped-off practice area.
I looked at Ray and my family. “Well, I think I should practice one last time.”
I walked to the practice area. Jake Bender reeled in his line. Our eyes met. His tightened into a glare.
Yes, he remembered me!
I stared back, then set up Billy’s rod and took out my index cards. As I read each casting technique, I visualized executing it.
I false cast, reminding myself to stay in the moment and in-line with the ideal casting image in my mind.
“May I make a suggestion?” a man asked.
Not looking for advice, I didn’t look at him. Curtly I said, “Why not?”
“I think you’re turning your head too fast. When you start your back cast, keep looking forward for a split second. When you start your forward cast, keeping looking back.”
A hint of an accent. The man wore a green, broad-brimmed, fly-fishing hat. He looked about ten years older than me. His hair was gray and curly. His nose was hooked.
I muttered, “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
I retrieved line and got into my stance.
Izzy? The beak-like nose. Yes, that was Izzy!
I turned. He was gone. I put Billy’s rod down and marched through the crowd searching for the fishing hat. I didn’t see it.
The technique, I said to myself. I have only a few minutes to try it.
Back in the practice area, I false cast, making sure I didn’t turn my head too quickly. I made a presentation cast. The line pulled hard against the reel, too hard. It snapped back a few feet. Izzy’s technique worked!
I retrieved line and pulled about three feet more line off the reel. Again I cast. This time the line gently pulled against the reel. The fly turned over perfectly.
I sat on the end of a line of casters. By the luck of the draw, I would cast last.
Was that an omen?
I didn’t know.
Was it a benefit?
On the one hand, I would know exactly how far I had to cast to win. On the other hand, I would have more time to get nervous.
Forget about everyone else, I told myself. Pretend I’m alone. Put my casting notes on my lap. Read them. Visualize them.
Jake Bender’s name was called. I looked up from my notes.
Jake cast beautifully, effortlessly. But I saw he didn’t shoot line on his last back cast and he turned his head too fast.
I could beat him!
He cast 103 feet, five feet farther than anyone else.
“Ian Mac Bride!” an official called.
I stepped onto the casting platform.
Don’t look at anyone, I told myself. Get out of myself and in-line with the ideal fly cast.
I put down Billy’s rod and walked off about a 100 feet of line. I walked back down the platform, picked up the rod, and reeled up line until my mark was about three feet from the reel. I tucked the rod handle under my arm. Hand over hand, I retrieved line and piled it in front of me, then got into my stance, glanced at the tournament official and nodded. He started his stopwatch.
I looked straight ahead, at my fly line.
Slowly, I cast the rod back, thinking, Keep elbow in place. Turn rod hand out. Haul and cast, faster. Abruptly stop rod by stabbing it upward a few inches. Stop downward haul. Don’t move shoulders. Lower rod hand to casting-level. Look back. Loop is tight. Good. Keep weight back. Wait for narrow candy cane to form. Cast forward. Still look back. Now watch casting hand. Haul and cast faster. Rotate hips forward. Twist rod hand and hammer nail. Stop rod and downward haul at same time. Shoot line. Slide rod hand up. Count: 1, 2, 3. Catch line. Watch loop unroll. Lower rod slowly a few inches. Keep weight forward. Candy cane. Look forward, cast rod back. Haul downward. Stop rod and haul. Point rod lower. Look back. Good tight loop. Shoot line and slide rod hand up. Lower rod tip. Break wrist back. Candy cane. Look back, cast forward. Watch rod hand. Rotate hips all the way forward. Drive body through the cast. Savagely haul. Slam nail! Hit the wall. Stop rod and haul. Let go of line. Raise rod butt. Stab rod forward. Keep still. Did it!
The rolling loop tightened into a narrow wedge and missiled over the casting platform.
I yelled, “Go!”
The line gently pulled on the reel. The fly turned over.
I won! I know it!
“One hundred six feet!” the official yelled. “A new record! The caster has two more casts to see if he can break his own record.”
I looked at the official. “Sir, I think I did the best I could. I’m finished.”
“Very well. We’ll engrave your name on this trophy later.”
I remembered how Izzy didn’t take his trophy.
Should I take mine? Yes, I’ve earned it! I’ll keep it in Everett’s room.
Holding up the trophy, I looked across rows and rows of faces. The spectators applauded, wildly, the way they had so many times in my mind. I searched for the green, fly-fishing hat.
I didn’t see it.
A silence. The spectators wanted me to say something.
I said, “First, I want to thank the greatest fly caster I ever knew, Izzy Klein. Next, I’d like to thank the greatest fly-rod builder I ever knew, Billy Reynolds. Next I’d like to thank my son Everett, my mother, my family, and all the people in my life. I feel I had so much help in teaching me what I couldn’t teach myself: how to come to believe. I’ll always be grateful.”
I stepped off the platform. Ross jogged through the crowd and hugged me.
I said, “I’ll meet you outside. Here, take my trophy.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll tell you later.” I fought my way to the front of the exiting crowd. Outside, I scanned the faces pouring through the doorways and tried to pick out gray, curly hair and a hooked nose.
I didn’t.
I saw Ross, my father, Sarah and Ray.
“What’s wrong, Dad?” Ross asked.
Still scanning faces, I said, “Nothing. Just give me a few moments.”
“Sure.”
The faces were fewer and fewer, and fewer—a trickle.
Then there were none.
“Who are you looking for?” Ross asked.
“Do you remember I once told about—well, I just thought I saw a guy I once knew. Maybe it was his ghost.” I smiled.
“Ian, aren’t you too old to believe in ghosts and in fairy tales?” my father said.
“Dad, I thought so. I guess it’s time we all headed home.”
And so as I sit on my porch this autumn day and write the last words of my story, I wonder, are some world events meant to move outside the historical law that rising empires will one day fall? Does this random, accidental movement, like red-coated British soldiers firing into a Boston crowd, often lead to great ideals: the Bill of Rights and to Liberty?
Are subatomic particles meant to move outside the scientific laws of gravity? Does this random, accidental movement, like cells mutating, often lead to stronger species and to evolution? Can history be perfected like a fly cast?
Even if so, maybe the long line of events in my life or in world history weren’t really random. After all, I chose to go to the Lower East Side. Chose to move up to the Catskills. And the world chose to go to war in 1914. Choose to not stop Hitler before he became so powerful.
Are some events, therefore, Man-made and random at the same time?
I think so; so maybe now, after two bloody, world wars, the world and I will choose to find the zigzagging path to peace, faith and love. And maybe one day I’ll be able to make amends to Everett, to my mother and to all the people in my life by seeing that in this world of flesh and blood, love is
rarely born from perfection, from a Mona Lisa or a David, but usually from a mixture of black and white, from seeing beauty in the midst of defects, from feeling love in the midst of anger. Yes, how grateful I am, that for a short time on the river of eternity, I was a small, small part of it.
Finally, I have one more thing to tell you: Often I read words in a biography of Einstein, words he too often read. The words are Sir Isaac Newton’s:
“I do not know what I may appear to the world; but to myself I seem to have been only like a boy playing on the sea-shore, and diverting myself in now and then finding a smoother pebble or prettier shell than ordinary, whilst the great ocean of truth lay all undiscovered before me.”
Epilogue
JENNIFER, THE LAST TIME
I put down Ian’s manuscript. I really liked it, even though I knew someone with my education and editorial position should have found the ending a little hokey.
Do I hide behind intellectualism? I wondered. Am I too afraid to be emotionally moved by stories?
The next morning I put Ian’s manuscript into my briefcase and went to work. I called Brad. He invited me to stop by his office in the afternoon. I called Eric and asked if he wanted to meet in Greenwich Village.
“Why down there?” he asked.
“I want to see something.”
We met for lunch. Afterwards, we walked to Washington Place and Greene Street, the site of the Triangle Waist Factory. Unlike the site of 9/11, this one looked too small to be the site of such a horrible, history-changing tragedy. I was glad, therefore, to see two plaques commemorating those who died in the fire. I hoped the brass words, unlike the cement words on tombstones, would never be chiseled away by time.
I looked at the sidewalks and tried to picture twisted, broken bodies of young girls littering the street like dead soldiers on a battlefield.
I couldn’t, maybe because the images were so horrible they didn’t seem to fit into quaint, narrow streets, and because the eighth floor windows seemed so close I felt I could throw a stone through them, even though I was a woman.
I imagined young women standing in the windows and jumping. I imagined their long dresses opening like parachutes. I imagined the girls still falling like stones.
I held Eric’s hand. “I wonder, just before the girls jumped, did they see the gray sidewalk below them, or see big events of their lives, or see the faces of their loved ones? Eric, were the girls angry that after living short, moral lives, they were now faced with only two choices: to jump or to burn, the same choice that, ninety years later, less than a mile away, other good people also faced? As they chose, did they still have faith in God? Suddenly, I feel so grateful to be alive and to face choices like what to wear or what to eat.”
Eric looked at me. “I never heard you talk this way.”
“What do you mean? Don’t answer. I know what you mean. Eric, I want you to know that, even though I didn’t always show it, I’m so grateful that you’re in my life. And I’m sorry if I haven’t always been the most generous person in the world, but from now on, I will try to be, I promise. I, I love you.”
“Jennifer, is this about—?”
“You have a right not to trust me in certain ways, so instead trust the time in front of us. I have to go downtown and return the manuscript. Why don’t you come with me?”
We rode the subway to the Wall Street station. As soon as I smelled death and saw images of 9/11, I wanted to turn back. I grabbed Eric’s hand and walked to 26 Broadway.
Brad welcomed us warmly. I introduced him to Eric.
“Sit down, please. I guess I have a present for you.” Brad opened his top drawer. “I made a copy of my grandfather’s fly-casting article. You can publish it if you want.”
“Thanks. Brad, I loved Ian’s memoir. I’m curious: Is Ross still alive?”
“He and my mother are living in the Keys. Believe it or not, my father became an avid fly-fisher for bonefish.”
“Did you know your grandfather?”
“Sure. He died in 1979. He used to fish with me and my sister on the Beaverkill, the Saw Mill and even the Harlem Meer. Right to the end of his long life my grandfather amazed people by how far he could cast.”
“Did Ian ever see Izzy again?”
“Not that I know.”
“That’s a shame. If Ian’s story was fiction, I would have had them become good friends, like Rick and Louie in ‘Casablanca.’ Can you show Billy’s rod to Eric?”
Brad opened the case, put Billy’s three-piece rod together and handed it to Eric.
“What a work of beauty,” Eric said. “I never fished bamboo.” Eric handed me the rod.
My fingers hugged the cork handle. I looked into the rod’s smooth finish. “I think I see a reflection of a face. Is it mine? Or Ian’s? Or Billy’s?”
Brad laughed. “Or the man in the moon’s? I think you’re starting to think like my grandfather.”
“This is going to sound corny, but maybe holding the rod is connecting me to Ian in some way.”
“Then why don’t you cast the rod?”
“When?”
“Now. We can go to Battery Park. I just happen to have the reel and line my grandfather used in the tournament.”
I looked at Eric. He smiled like a boy.
I said, “Brad, you know what I’d really like?”
“What?”
“A fly-casting lesson?”
“I’d be happy to.”
We walked to the park and found an empty space on the lawn. Brad set up the rod and asked me to hold it. Pulling line off the reel, he walked down the lawn. The clicking reel sounded like the spinning Wheel Of Fortune on television.
Eric put his arm around my waist and whispered in my ear, “I have a secret.”
“What?”
“I love you and, something tells me, always will.”
“I love you too.”
Eric kissed me passionately.
Acknowledgements and Sources
I had a lot of help along the way, but I don’t know where to begin thanking people so I’ll do it alphabetically: Chris Bessler, Deanna Birkholm, Bob D’Amico, Gord Deval, Dave Hughes, Howard Jones, Jackie Oldfield, Eric Peper, Ernie Schulman, Ian Scott, David Siff, Mats Sjostrand, Judie Darbee Smith, Dick Wentz and Ed Van Put.
Also, I’d like to acknowledge the sources for some of my historical material.
For the Beaverkill: Ed Van Put’s, The Beaverkill, and Austin Francis’ The Land of Little Rivers and Catskill Rivers.
For fly rod building: Martin Keane’s Classic Rods and Rodmakers.
For tournament fly casting: Earl Osten’s Tournament Fly and Bait Casting.
For an easy-to-understand explanation of Albert Einstein’s Theory of Relativity: Michio Kaku’s article, “Einstein (In A Nutshell)” which appeared in the September 2004 issue of Discover Magazine
The cover illustration is by Bruce R. T. Hakli.
Appendix
TECHNIQUES FOR THE LONG-DISTANCE FLY CASTER
By Ian Mac Bride
To be able to fly cast 80 feet or not.
Does it matter?
No, argue many dry fly anglers. After all, since we fight drag by having slack line on the water, we can’t mend or set the hook with 80 feet of line out.
But wait, insist streamer anglers. Since we feel strikes by having tight line on the water, we can set the hook with 80 feet of line out.
Well, like they say: there are two sides to every argument.
And sometimes a third or fourth.
Consider this scenario: You’re fishing a fast, rocky river, so instead of wading you’re making long casts. But you keep missing your targets. And even though it’s the first day of your fishing trip, you’re already exhausted.
Is there any way around these problems?
I’ll answer the question this way: you show me an angler who can cast 80 or 90 feet, and I’ll show you an angler who can accurately and almost effortlessly cast 50 or 60 feet.<
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And so for many frustrating and often discouraging years I experimented with long-distance, fly-casting techniques. Now that I have dramatically increased my casting distance, I’d like to share those techniques with you.
Before I begin, let me say I’m well aware of what I call “The Very Open Stance” way of long distance fly casting. (A right-handed caster puts his right foot well behind his left.) My purpose is not to compete with that or any other way but simply to describe another. In the end, I believe each caster should experiment with as many techniques as possible and see what works for him.
I believe, however, that the casting method I describe will allow anglers to dramatically change casting trajectories, which is often very useful, for example, if we want to make a high back cast to avoid a bush.
GETTING STARTED. I prefer to use a short piece of string or yarn for a fly. A long 9-foot leader will help reveal some of our casting defects. During each practice, I like to focus on one technique and not worry about putting all the techniques together until I feel I’ve become good with each one.
THE OPEN STANCE. (For purposes of instruction, I’ll assume we’re right-handed.) Start with our feet about shoulder-width apart, a little closer for more power, a little wider for better balance. If we’re casting vertically, we’ll put our left foot forward about eight inches and point it at the target. We’ll point our right foot about 30 degrees to the right of the target. If we’re casting with our rod pointed outward—somewhere between vertical and sidearm—we’ll point both feet a little more outward. With our shoulders facing the target, we bend our knees and put our weight on the ball of our front foot. To make a long-line pickup, we bend forward and hold the line just behind the stripping guide. We point the rod at the water, with the rod tip about an inch above the surface.
THE CLOSED STANCE I believe there is nothing wrong with using an open stance. In fact, an open stance will make it easier for us to look over our casting shoulder and watch our back cast unroll—something that I believe is essential for executing a long distance fly cast. I also believe, however, that when we cast a fly rod, unlike when we throw a ball, we don’t bend at the waist to generate leverage and power. Instead, we rotate our hips as much as possible, like a batter hitting a ball or a boxer throwing a punch. If my left foot is forward, I will not be able to fully rotate my hips and get all my weight into the cast. Therefore, I often prefer to use a closed stance and place most of my right foot in front of my left. At first, this will probably feel awkward for many casters, but with time, I believe it will become more comfortable.
THE GRIP. We start by holding the rod lightly, then tightening our grip as we increase our casting acceleration. I prefer to slightly bend my thumb and place it directly on top of the handle. Other casters, however, place their thumb slightly on the side of the handle. This is often called a V-Grip.
LONG-CAST SEQUENCE. As a general rule, casting slightly upward will help keep our loops tight; so, if there is no head or tail wind, we aim our first back cast upward about 30 degrees. We then aim our next false casts and our presentation cast at a slightly lower angle or even parallel to the water. (Aiming our presentation cast too high, especially if we’re casting a long-belly line, will cause the belly to pull our cast down and kill it.)
For maximum distance, our back and forward cast must form a straight line (180 degrees). If we’re casting weighted flies or sinking lines, we aim our false casts upward about 20 degrees. And remember: We apply maximum force (by reaching maximum acceleration) only at the end of our presentation cast.
However, at least four basic casting defects will cause our cast to lose power and therefore change our intended trajectory: 1. Starting our cast after, or well before, our cast has unrolled and, thereby, in effect, shortening our casting stroke. 2. Accelerating our back-cast haul too slowly. (Because there is no back-cast wrist snap, our hauling acceleration should be faster on our back casts than on our forward casts.) 3. False casting, especially a weighted fly, too hard for the length of the line we have out. (When the line unrolls it will snap like a rubber band and create slack) 4. Shooting line without increasing the acceleration of our casting stroke and our haul. 5. Our back and forward casts form an angle greater than 180 degrees, and we therefore lowered the rod tip from the target line. As a result, our fly rod unloaded too early.
ANGLE OF THE ROD. Some casters argue the vertical cast is the most efficient. Others disagree and cast with the rod tip pointed outward. Besides, they say, this is a safer way to fish that makes it easier—especially for us older guys—to turn our heads and watch the back cast unroll without turning our shoulders and then inadvertently moving the rod. Maybe so, but the important point is: If our cast is not under powered, and if we do not move our rod hand in a convex motion and lower the rod tip from the target line, the fly will not hit us or the rod. The following casting defects will cause us to move our hand in a convex motion: 1. Pulling our elbow back. (Our elbow should move back because of our rearward body rotation. To me, making a back cast is more of a flexing up motion than a pulling back.) 2. Beginning our forward cast with our elbow behind our rod hand. (We always want to lead with our elbow.) 3. Breaking our wrist more than halfway during our forward-cast power snap. (To prevent this, try to pretend you’re hammering a nail.) 4. Lowering, instead of just rotating, our shoulders. 5. Stopping the rod too late. (This sometimes happens because we started our weight shift before we started our casting stroke, or because we quickly accelerated our back cast but didn’t abruptly stop the rod with a slight upward, stabbing motion.) 6. Beginning our cast with our rod hand too low for our intended trajectory. (For example: If you want to execute a cast parallel to the surface, you must finish your back and forward casts with your rod hand at the same level.) 7. Casting with our elbow too far out from our body. 8. Using an open stance but having our right foot too far back or pointing too far outward.
In short, a lot can go wrong that can cause us to get hit with the fly. Besides, even the best casters make imperfect casts, so I recommend wearing sunglasses and a broad-brimmed hat, and casting heavy flies and sinking lines with the rod tip pointing out to the side.
To simplify my descriptions, I’ll assume we’re casting vertically. (If you’re casting with the tip pointing out, adjust your rod-hand position more outward and less upward.)
BACK CAST. First, remove all slack from the line. Aiming upward, we slowly start our cast by slightly lifting our elbow, and moving the rod in sync with our rearward body rotation. Slowly, we tighten our grip. When the rod butt reaches 12 o’clock to the target line, we quickly increase our acceleration—I call this my power acceleration—and execute our downward haul. (More about hauling later.) For maximum power, I like to keep looking straight ahead. When the fly comes off the water, we squeeze the handle and abruptly stop the butt at about 1 o’clock. Our forearm points to 12 o’clock. Our weight should be on our rear heel.
We ease up on our grip, turn our head, and watch the cast unroll. If we stopped the rod by stabbing it upward, we lower our rod hand to casting-level. (Some casters feel they increase their power by rotating their forearm and palm outward during their back cast so that they can then execute their forward power snap with a sharp twisting motion.)
Now we make our forward false cast. Because we probably won’t be able to accelerate our false back casts as fast as we accelerate our false forward casts, I like to begin my false back cast when my forward loop is about two or three feet long. This will prevent my forward cast from unrolling and then bouncing or falling.
We aim our second back cast a little lower, but again we stop the rod butt at about 1 o’clock to the (new) target line. If we’re casting vertically, our casting elbow should point outward at an angle of about 45 degrees to the target. Our wrist should be at about eye-level.
If our loop turns sideways or swings open, we moved the rod in a curving motion or pulled our elbow out and back during our back cast.
HAULS AND DRIFTS. First, to keep
the line from tangling during the haul, we pull off about 3 feet of line from the reel.
The more line we’re false casting, the faster and longer we have to haul to keep our casting loops tight. To do this, we usually execute our haul faster than our cast.
If we’re casting a weight-forward line, we begin hauling when most of the belly of the line is outside the rod tip. During our back cast loading move, we keep our hands at the same level. When the rod butt points to about 12 o’clock, we begin our power acceleration and our downward back-cast haul. On most back cast hauls we haul at an angle of about 60 degrees to the water. We stop our cast and haul at the same time. Our line hand will be at about 8 o’clock. If we’re false casting more line, we want to increase the length of our haul (as well as our casting stroke.). To do this, we haul at a steeper angle. Also, just before we finish our haul, we generate additional power by snapping our line hand down.
Immediately, we begin our upward haul, giving back line at the same speed it is unrolling. (If we still add slack, we probably stopped our downward haul too late, or our cast was underpowered.) Do not prematurely move the rod tip back! (You’ll add slack.) When the fly passes us, we turn our head, but not our shoulders, and watch the line unroll. Next, we move our line hand up to, but not past, our rod hand.
Not moving our line hand up far enough may cause us to then begin our forward cast by moving our rod hand before or faster than we move our line hand. Because this will add slack between our hands, we won’t be able to fully load the rod, and our cast, therefore, might collapse. And remember: The stronger the wind we are casting into, the shorter, but faster we have to haul.
At the end of our forward false cast haul, our hand, depending on how much line we’re false casting, will point to between 8 and 6 o’clock.
To make a long presentation cast, we can add a drift move after our last back cast. That way, we’ll increase the length of our forward casting stroke. We can execute a drift move in two different ways. The first way is to we keep our wrist stiff, our elbow in place and our shoulders level, and wait until our back cast has unrolled about three-quarters of the way; then we move our foreman back to about 12:30 and slightly break our wrist down and point the rod lower, to about 2 o’clock.
However, at least five casting defects will cause us to add slack during this drift move: 1. Drifting too fast or too far. 2. Not hauling fast or far enough. (Our cast will be underpowered.) 3. Beginning a cast after the false cast has unrolled. 4. Stopping our downward haul too late, so that we then have to execute our upward haul faster than the line is unrolling. 5. False casting too much line.
(When false casting, unless I’m trying to change trajectories, I do not drift and therefore reduce the risk of adding slack.)
The second way of drifting is to instead move the rod back so that the tip travels along the path of the target line. We then begin our forward cast by leading with our elbow and moving our casting arm forward before we begin to rotate our body. (Our arm will catch up to our body.)
On our presentation cast, we haul as hard as possible and concentrate on stopping the rod and letting go of the line at the same time. (Momentum should force our hauling hand well behind our front thigh.)
To make an effective back-cast haul, I find it helpful to visualize a loose rope connecting my rod and line hands. When I stop my rod, I imagine the rope snapping tight and stopping my hands.
Finally, to me the secret of becoming a really good hauler is to practice throwing a ball left-handed.
FORWARD AND PRESENTATION CASTS. When making a long cast we should start it before the back cast loop opens. (The heavier my fly or the faster my line is unrolling, the earlier I begin my cast.) To start our forward false cast, we keep looking over our rear shoulder and push off our back foot. With our wrist locked, we begin our forward cast in sync with our body rotation. (Watching our rod hand during the cast will help prevent our casting arm from getting ahead of our rotating body.) Move the rod butt perpendicular to the target line. When our casting arm is extended at about halfway, we begin our power snap and haul, and then abruptly stop the rod and our haul when the rod butt points to about 10:30. We ease up on our grip. Our right shoulder should be slightly ahead of our left. Our weight should be on the ball of our front foot.
If we want to finish our forward false cast in position to increase the length and power of our back cast we can: 1. Speed up our forward false cast—if we get a tailing loop we should slow down our haul— and end our cast with our weight on our toes and with our right shoulder well ahead of our left. 2. Execute our cast parallel to the water so that we’ll begin our back cast with our rod in a lower position. 3. Add a drift move by slightly lowering the rod tip.
As soon as we finish the cast, we can shoot up to eight feet of line. (As the line slides through our curled fingers, we keep moving our line hand up so that we’ll be able to reach our rod hand before the cast unrolls.)
To make a long presentation cast, we begin with the rod drifted back and then push off our back foot. Again, we move the rod butt perpendicular to the target line. When our arm is extended about three-quarters, we execute our power snap and haul. Reaching maximum casting acceleration, we fully rotate our body and fully extend our casting arm. We again stop the rod when the butt points to about 10:30. Our front leg should now be straight, and all our weight on our front toes.
To reduce friction between the line and the guides, we immediately raise the rod butt, so that the rod points to the target line. Do not lower the rod tip from the target line!
Finally, if we do everything right, but we still can’t get the fly to turn over, try lowering our casting trajectory, or by beginning the cast with a little less line off the reel than we want to cast.(When the cast unrolls, line tension will help the fly turnover.)
ROLL CASTS. To increase our distance, we start the cast just before the fly stops moving and slack forms in our D-loop. Also, we can use a short single (downward) haul, or we can hold the line against the bottom of the rod handle, then let go when we stop the cast.
OVERHANG. Overhang is the amount of running line between the rod tip and the belly of the line. As we increase our overhang, we must also increase the acceleration and length of our casting stroke and haul.
If we use too long of an overhang, our cast will be underpowered, and our loop will not turn over. If we use too short of an overhang, we’ll probably get a tailing loop. We should, therefore, experiment to find the longest overhang we can handle. Keep in mind that the more long false casts we make, the more we risk adding slack; so once the belly of our line is outside the rod tip, we should try to make our presentation cast after our second back cast.
To increase our overhang, we can try: 1. A heavier, stiffer rod. 2. A fly line one weight lighter than our rod. 3. Shooting line as our last back cast unrolls.
If we’re casting a shooting line, however, we’ll probably have to shorten our overhang.
HOW MUCH LINE DID I SHOOT? To answer this question, I use the counting method. For example, if I fully accelerate my casting stroke, and then I shoot line for as long as it takes me to count to 3, I know I shot almost 10 feet of line.
TAILING LOOPS. Some common causes are: 1. The rod tip is moved in a concave path because too much force is used too early in the casting stroke. 2. The casting stroke is too narrow for the action (bend) of the rod. 3. Executing a presentation cast with too short of an overhang. 4. Beginning our downward haul too early or quickly.
WEIGHTED FLIES. If we use the same casting and haul acceleration as we use with lighter flies, our loops will open up. Many casters prefer this, as they feel a wide loop will help prevent the fly from hitting the rod tip. I believe, however, if a cast is executed correctly, it will not hit the rod tip; so, for maximum distance, I actually increase my casting and hauling acceleration. How much do I increase my acceleration? To me, the answer is as much as possible as long as my fly doesn’t bounce at the end of the cast.
(To me, finding that �
�sweet acceleration” is the biggest challenge to casting heavy flies.)
Also, I’ll use shorter leaders and a shorter casting stroke. If my loops are still too wide, I’ll then shorten my overhang.
Remember: At high speeds, weighted flies, if they hit your rod tip, can break it. To fish below the surface, therefore, I like to use lighter flies and sinking lines.
IF YOU DECIDE. Whether it is necessary to learn to cast 80 or even 90 feet and endure hours and hours of casting trials and tribulations is up to you.
But if you decide it is, try not to get discouraged. Long-distance fly casting, like hitting a good tee shot, is a lot harder than it looks. Luckily, however, studies have shown that frequently visualizing proper athletic techniques is often more effective than practicing them.
For us older guys, isn’t that something to be grateful about!?
About the Author
Randy Kadish is an outdoor writer and avid angler who has spent countless hours experimenting with long-distance fly casting techniques. For this novel he extensively researched the history of fly fishing, particularly on the famed Beaverkill River during the golden era of the early 1900s. “Flycaster” is his first novel, but his short stories and articles have appeared in many publications, including Flyfisher, Flyfishing & Tying Journal, Fishing and Hunting News and Yale Anglers’ Journal. Much of Randy’s writing is about the techniques of spin and fly casting, and about the spirituality/recovery of fly fishing.