My line sighed through the warm, still air over the stream. Back and forth... me, the amateur, trying for the first few times to lay down a fly where there might be a trout. At least I hadn't hooked myself in the butt yet!
I let it settle on the mirror-like surface. It lit too soon, therefore too close to the bank. Damn!
From a few feet away, my host, Craig, said smugly "Not at all bad, dude! Not quite as good with a fly rod as a pistol, are you? But not bad! Couple of years' practice will help. Maybe by the time you retire, you'll catch a trout!"
We one-upped each other absolutely every time it was possible. He had nearly a dozen legals already this morning - me, I was skunked. The pistol comment referred to our first trip together to the local indoor range: we had been friends for a couple of years, and finally discovered we both like to shoot. At the range, he handed me his brand-new, never-been-fired Glock loaded with 17 rounds of 10mm.
It fit me beautifully, pointed like a second index-finger. I ran the target out to 25 yards, proceeded to put 16 rounds into one ragged hole the size of the end of my thumb, with one flier at 9 O'clock about an inch out.
Craig cussed at me, pulled in the target, signed and dated it for me, then almost pouted as his groups didn't match up at all well. Great fun... I used to shoot competition in the Marines, with a 45 auto, and of course he hadn't known.
Craig grunted in surprise as ripples appeared near my fly, but it was late midmorning now, fish not really interested, just curious. No takers.
Craig muttered "Shit. Time to go up on the bank and warm up. Go home for lunch - maybe Roxy will make something good, who knows? Maybe we'll make it ourselves. Gotta go past the store enroute, so your job is to think about lunch, whatever you want we can get it."
We'd been up since pre-dawn, had little breakfast. The water was cold, the chest-waders un-insulated. And me unused to the whole business - my feet hurt from the rocks on the bottom, and my legs ached from fighting for balance. I was happy we were done. But ashore, in the still brightness, lying there in our underwear, it was warm enough. I was leaning back on the grass, soaking up rays, being lazy.
Over at the truck, Craig popped a beer, then another - early by my standards, probably de-rigueur for fishing. He brought me one, sat on a stump, then laughed.
I opened an eye, he said "Jeezus, you must be one horny bastard. Carrying that around in the water all morning, were you? Hope it's a bloody hardon, 'cause if it's still a softie, the rest of the world is in trouble!"
He referred to the lump I was sporting in my long woolen drawers - a result of the warmth and drowsiness more than anything. Like the trout, I didn't rise to the bait, just chugged a third of the beer, waited. There would be more from him - we knew one another pretty thoroughly.
Craig is an oddity - college-educated redneck liberal truck mechanic, former longtime logger, incredibly sensitive and nice, foully profane in either friendly or vitriolic mode whenever he chooses. And as dependable and solid as a long summer day. Rednecked guntoting liberal - for real. Quite an interesting guy, about 65, four years older than me. Married over 30 years now to Roxy - a big (my height), solid woman, maybe fifty-eight, I don't know exactly. A study in carefully-cultivated plainness, Roxy was actually quite nice looking, no makeup (NEVER), short-cropped hair. Busty, solid, anything but sexual on the outside - the veneer was, in fact, almost neuter, except for the bottom and bust.
They were a good couple, stolidly unromantic but seemingly the closest of friends and devoted to one another and to their single college-age kid. Craig was balding, thickening fast through the waist now, and his often-damaged knees and back precluded any strenuous efforts at keeping in good shape. Roxy, at least, worked out a lot. Roxy was a match for him - tough when she needed to be, and if absolutely required, equally blunt.
I had arrived as scheduled yesterday afternoon, for a few days' visit - a long flight first, then a three-hour drive. When I pulled up to the house, I was stiff as a board. After the initial greetings and half a good beer, I was shown to my big, well-appointed guest room, huge bed, private bath. When they'd moved here from the city, they knew they'd be having company, so bought accordingly.
Back in the living room, I groaned, complained about the stiffness, Jim made his usual comments about stiffnesses, male variety especially.
Roxy rolled her eyes as always, then said to me "I started yoga a year ago - if you'd like to stretch, we have a room downstairs all set up for it."
Craig sputtered, and said in a friendly way "Darn it, Roxy, let the man relax before you drag him into your exercise den!"
The idea of a long session of stretching appealed, and I was intrigued as well - I had given up long distance running about two years earlier, and taken up intensive yoga. I said so, and Roxy brightened: "Let's go! We can do a short practice together. Craig, of course, thinks it's all hogwash, but at least he admits he can't do some of the things I can do now! Can you, Boy?"
He shook his head. His knees and back and hips were in poor shape, too much logging in his youth and middle-age. "Go ahead. I'll bring my beer and a spare just in case one of you gets thirsty. I can be your chaperone, can't have the two of you going unsupervised if you're gonna be in your underwear, getting all hot and sweaty together!"
I changed into my yoga exercise shorts and singlet, met them in the basement. Nice room, cool-warm, good floor, plenty of headroom. "What style do you do?" she asked.
"Straight Iyengar... the basics, none of your fancy hot-yoga or other stuff..." I replied.
She nodded - the fact that she understood was a good omen - solid basic yoga was what she had to have learned. We warmed up gently: Craig sat on a stool in the corner and watched, occasionally trying something simple, then shaking his head and giving up noisily. But in good fun.
Eventually, Roxy asked me if I did headstand: I demonstrated in the middle of the room - no problem. She asked me to spot her near the wall - she wasn't used to doing it outside of class, and had never tried it free-standing so far. I encouraged her to try going up in mid-room, and she agreed, if I would spot her. She positioned herself well, kicked up two or three times to test me and herself, then came all the way up. She grunted with pleased surprise, got her balance easily.
