By the time you read this I’ll be on a plane that’ll deliver me from my northern Point A to a southern connection that’ll then deliver me to an even more southern Point B. Deep south. Keys-deep. Islamorada. I’ll have enough fly fishing gear for four people and not nearly enough to prepare me for the ass-whuppin’ I’m sure to receive from the bonefish, peacock bass, (hopefully) permit, ‘cuda, and tarpon we’re sure to cross paths with. I’ll be debating whether or not I should ask the flight attendant for a beer. I’ll be staring out the window listening to a stellar playlist, mouthing words, avoiding the no-one’s-that-effing-happy-this-early-in-the-damn-morning conversation with whoever happened to draw the lottery ticket for the seat next to me, and trying to reconcile a couple different minds lingering like tropical evenings and campfire smoke in my head. I’ll wind up realizing that I left something like my phone charger on the passenger seat of the truck and ordering that beer somewhere over the Carolinas.
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