I HAD JUST RETURNED from Homosassa, Florida. I had driven 10 hours each way to fly fish for tarpon. I had recently broken three ribs in what remains disputed as either a biking accident or a drinking accident, which required that I ride in the poling skiff with a full-size bed pillow clamped under my arm to cushion the fractures. It was not a “manly” look, and it was not comfortable in the least, and all this underscores how badly I wanted to catch a Homosassa tarpon. Imagine my disappointment when, upon my return home, my wife asked a ridiculous question: “Did you catch a tarpon?”
I shook my head. Julie should have known better. But