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Milia B

I bow to the king

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You could live a hundred years and never see anything more beautiful than the flats off the Florida Keys. The waters are warm, shallow, and clear as gin. Yet somehow between the sugar sand and a sky filled with clouds you could climb, this watery landscape is transformed into a myriad of colors. One moment it takes on the blue-green of a '57 Chevy, swirled with streams of lavender. Then, it's olive etched turtle grass floor appears from the sand. And somehow the sunlight changes it once again, to a tantilizing sapphire blue.

This bright place is filled with life and has it's own rhythm. A pair of ink black rays glide through the waters like stealth fighters, casting wavy shadows as they silently pass by. Bonefish stir the sand, their tails tipping out of the water in persuit of shrimp and crab with the changing tide. As I look out across the horizon in the distance, it all seems to merge into one, and with that, the hope of a big fish calls.

I have come to this place for an audience with the king, the "silver king" as tarpon are called. Anyone who grew up reading Field & Stream is reverent of this big, powerful fish. Tarpon migrating through The Keys can weigh more than 150 pounds. Record fish in Florida exceed 200 pounds. It's back is dark green, bluish, almost black, with a prominint dorsal fin and metallic, silver sides. It has a boney mouth that turns upward. It feeds on crab and fish like mullet, swallowing them whole.

Sight fishing for tarpon is just that: watching the clear waters for fish and then casting your line in their direction, waiting for their reaction. I know that even if I catch this silver wonder, weboth will win in the end and I will set him free. But the wind and clouds have their own agenda now. It's blowing and the clouds make it difficult to see into the waters. The waves created by the wind don't help either.

Still I am mesmerized watching for tarpon in the water. Standing in the boat, my rod ready to cast, my eyes peeled for rolling or their dark torpedo like fourms moving through the water. I remind myself that should I be lucky enough to get a strike, I must fight the impulse to pull back on the line when he makes his run into the air. To catch a tarpon, you must learn to "bow to the king" - bend toward him, giving the line slack as he leaps up in battle trying to throw the hook. The tarpon's true glory may be in his acrobatic attemps to break free of the line.

The boat gently sways, the water now kissing the hull. An osprey whistles out from it's perch in the pines along the shore. I'm distracted and look up at the sky. It's almost too big to take in. It's quiet, peacful, almost motionless above. The sunlight streams through the clouds, and the water sparkles. Suddenly, out of nowhere, there they are, within shouting distance - tarpon! I feel the rush of adrenaline as I hold my breath and cast in their direction. He strikes. I have him - but only for a split second. I make one wrong move, and he makes his escape. The silver king has won. He streaks away in a flash of glory. No tarpon today. And with all the respect he is due, I now bow to the silver king.

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