I've been looking forward all week to a post-work Cedar excursion. Tonight was that night. Tied up some new flies, a heavy headed gray bodied and black marabou tailed clouser, some stonefly emerger sort of things, a couple of lousy D-grade imitations of the dries lost in the fluorocarbon betrayal (still smarting from that one) this past weekend on the mighty Yak. On the way out of Seattle convergence zone rains were heading south, slowly. It looked like I90 was about the boundary between a sorta wet south and a really wet north. So be it, I'd hope that zone would hold. I didn't pack any rain gear prior to leaving for work in the morning, so when I arrived at the river, with mild rain and threat of more, I looked through the way back where the spare tire is for the emergency wet-weather gear. Fantastic. A women's poncho, see-through, with a print of a girl in a hoop skirt walking a dog. Some horrible chemicals or wet from the way back had caused my old WDFW regs books to stick to the poncho. When I peeled them off, primary layers of text remained, the net effect was to make it look like I was wearing a giant clear trash bag with newspapers in it. Perfect homeless camo for the cedar. What do I care what I look like anyways, my waders are about 1/3 aquaseal on the inside and patched prominently on one outside knee with dupont adhesive flashing... Suffice it to say this won't be a fishing report. I did fine, the fish, ospreys, ducks, waxwings, swifts and great blue herons were there. Given I had fished through the mile I wanted over the first two hours and it was still light out, I walked back up and went to fish a couple of the more productive spots. That's when I ran into the Cedar Playboy. He was hanging beneath a bridge, rather aimlessly. I greeted him with a "hey" "What's up bro." In general, unless it's Bhudda, I'll stick to the warning of "beware the dude who calls you bro" Figuring that would be the end of it, I jumped in the river and started fishing. "Show me ?" I was sort of annoyed/surprised he'd followed me. I like fishing alone. Nevertheless, I showed the kid the fly, figuring that's what he wanted to see. he was probably like 20 or so, sorta South East Asian, 5' 10, probably 170 lbs, a little stubble, wavy hair. I worked my way downstream. Dude who called me bro paralleled me at every point. He was starting to creep me out, so I waded over to the other side of the river. Fished there, hooked up the third rainbow of a night mainly filled with cutts, let the fish go, next thing I know the kid is taking his shoes off and getting into the river. It's maybe 58 degrees or so in and out of the water, raining, and this kid is getting into the river, barefoot, to come over and speak to me, the guy wearing a fucking trash bag who did not see merit to using the poncho hood. I look way more homeless than this kid, got the slick & flat lego hair look. "Dude you are crazy, this water's cold, what are you doing?" No answer. He's coming towards me with a zombie-like lurch over the cobble and mussel shelled river bed. He's close now, holds out his hand, like he wants a formal greeting, or some support. I shake it. he doesn't hold on for support, nor does he try some move to throw me off balance. At this point I am not willing to turn my back to him. "how's it going bro?" I thought we had covered this. I asked the kid what he wanted, because the behavior was really weird, he didn't say anything. He wasn't there to watch the fishing. "You should get back this water's cold." Which apparently registered with the kid. He ducks under my line and heads towards the far bank, the seams and undercuts of which I was productively fishing. For trout, not dudes. Barefoot, he makes his way into the deeper water where the rip rap has channeled. It's slippery in there, and way deeper than where I am standing. The river looks placid to someone who doesn't fish, but you know the waters there are fast and deep. Overhanging branches are all around, he lunges for one, slips, and falls neck deep into the river, which carries him about five feet before he gets a purchase and scrambles up the bank, still holding his shoes. I am glad there was no need for a rescue. "You're crazy. Are you Ok?" He shakes his head, lifts his pant leg up and points to what appears to be a normal blood-free knee. "You're crazy man, I'm moving on" He says a word, I don't recognize it, I ask him to repeat it, he says it again, I still don't know what it is but it has the tone of a proposition when repeated several more times. The word's got a "CK" consonant in it. I shake my head and fish and walk downriver. Some 200 yards down there's a dude with a Speyrod, excepting maybe for the speyrod, he looks reasonably sane and rational, seems to be more practicing than anything, I move towards him, faster than I really want but not wishing any more interaction with this weird barely verbal, and now soaking wet kid. As I am wading down, he's there again, this time walking barefoot atop a narrow wall, again 90 degrees to my position in the river, about ten yards away. The riprap trough and gentle berm of halfway there and just flowering blackberry bushes are between me and him. I decide to bail, walk down a hundred more yards, hoping to maybe talk with the spey dude about this weird kid, maybe warn him, but they Spey dude is moving every bit as fast as I am, perhaps because I am dressed like a homeless bum with a fly rod and maybe he's anticipating an uncomfortable low-holing. I exit on the opposite side of the river, away from the kid, and make my way up to my car, which is not far from me, but 400 yards minimum from the kid, if he used the bridge. I moved pretty fast, not running or anything, but the goal was out ASAP. I got out of my gear about as fast I ever had, threw everything in but just as I'm about to get my wallet and phone and keys in my pocket, there's the kid, like 5 yards away. I swear he must have sprinted, Usain Bolt fast, in his wet shoes and pants and stuff. "What do you need, you need help? You need some money?" He shook his head. He says "Can I come with you?" "No" "What am I going to do?" I shake my head. Shrug my shoulders, get in the car, lock the doors. He starts tapping on the window, not aggressive. He's still staring. "You have a phone?" I open the window a crack. "Yes." "Can I call someone?" I shake my head. No way was I handing over my phone to a dude with judgement as lousy as his. Nor was I going to call anybody for him. As far as I was concerned, the guy had little understanding of boundaries and did not seem at all right in the head. Psychiatric not neurologic, and I'm not on call. He looked healthy and would not have met any admission criteria perhaps excepting a hostel bed. There was no crime, no need for authorities, just weirdness. "I got to go." As though I needed to explain and be polite. I shut the window, turned the car on and left. Apart from that general weirdness, the fishing was fun and the birds spectacular. I did just fine with monofilament tippets, excepting I lost the clouser to a submerged blue raft or the branches it was wrapped around.