Yesterday was a day to remember, or better, forget. I hit the beach at low slack and fished through the flood. The wind was shifting continuously and even came from two directions at once. My trusty cigar smoke wind gauge couldn't keep up with the constant changes and simply copped out by blowing back into my eyes. At times, I false cast with the wind off my left shoulder when it shifted directions and came from the right just as I was shooting line. It was a chuck and duck day. I chose not to use my stripping basket. Bad mistake number one. I had forgotten to clean my flyfline from my last trip so the #6 floating bonefish taper became an intermediate sink line and soon, my popper was awash. The slack line floating at my knees sought out what few bits of seaweed remained in the bay. My flyline was a kelp magnet. The incoming tide kept me from wading out and away from the road at my back so I had to be conscious of passing predestrians and cars. I knew they were in backcast range because my fly would tick against the guardrail every once in a while putting nicks into the hard Gamakatsu metal. It's a little disconcerting to imagine hooking a giant Lincoln Navigator zooming by at 50 miles an hour and having all your flyline, backing and possibly your reel, disapppear through the guides in milliseconds. The water in front of me was a veritable searun cutthroat condominium filled with aggressive hungry fish. They rose to my popper moments after it landed but were lost while I was dealing with seaweed in my line. They pounced on my popper as I was stripping then came unbuttoned because I dropped my loop. They leaped at the popper as I lifted it off the water. I swear I had a fish follow or boil on my fly on almost half my casts. They were suicidal. They wanted to escape from the water and I couldn't accommodate them. I wanted to cry. Today, I went back today seeking satisfaction. I rose only two fish. Have you ever heard fish laugh? I have. Leland.