Fly-fishing, silence, and common ground: A stepfather’s gift
The concrete practice casting ponds of Oakland, California, were truly lacking. Nonetheless, my stepfather was determined to teach me his art. Back, forth, 1 o’clock, 10 o’clock, ticktock, like a poem with iambic meter. I cast, and I cast, and I cast until I could drop that fly into the little floating target ring at almost any given distance, like a stray leaf lightly fluttering to earth. But to
