“YOU GO,” I said.
“You sure?” Jack asked. My son knows I don’t like giving up the casting deck of a flats boat.
“Go, go,” I replied. “You want a permit worse than I do. But hurry up before I change my mind.”
And there wasn’t time to waste. Two permit were already ahead of the boat, and our Belizean guide was frantically working the pushpole, trying to keep up. One fish was too far away, so Jack split the difference and cast a crab fly toward the blue gap between the sickle-finned fish.
, I said to myself,