Fly Fishing on a School Day?

 It was twenty-one years ago on a beautiful May morning of my sophomore year when I pedalled up late to school and found the staff ushering a massive line of students to the middle school across the street. Riding my Dyno BMX bike up to the line, I asked an acquaintance what was going on only to be met with two words: BOMB SCARE. 

Ugh...high school.

Since it wasn’t the first bomb threat in the school’s history, albeit the first I had experienced, I casually looked up at the sky and thought, “It’s a nice day. Makes sense.” Realizing this was likely either a senior prank or a group of kids seeking a beach day in the most idiotic way possible or even more likely both at the same time, my first impulse was to turn around and head home rather than spend the next few hours packed with my peers in the stuffy middle school gym. What stopped me was the realization that anyone absent, especially those absent without a parent phone call to back it up, would undoubtedly be placed amongst the usual suspects the next day. Therefore, I locked up my bike and joined the herd bound for the gymnasium where we would be held with nothing to occupy us until sufficient time had passed for the district to be legally credited for the school day, thus preventing an additional day being added to the end of the year. 

Sometime around noon the gym doors flew open and a mass of hormones and solipsism poured out into the sleepy town of Point Pleasant, New Jersey. My friends and I, six in total, were ravenous and made for what only starving teenagers with unrefined palates would make for: Pizza Hut. We actually dined in. I remember it vividly for two reasons, one of which being it was the first time I had eaten at a restaurant solely with friends and no parents in sight. I didn’t merely feel like a man but rather more like a king----eating at Pizza Hut. It must have been how Gorbachev felt a few years before when he filmed that Pizza Hut commercial (Look it up; it actually happened.).

The second reason this experience stuck with me was because of our server who, realizing her next table would be a group of uncouth and poor-tipping teenage boys while simultaneously seeing right through how cool we thought we were, decided not to steer the logical course of ignoring us as much as possible and instead confidently walked up to our table, opened with a “Look at what we have here,” and proceeded to roast each of us one after the other with an unrestrained, Don Rickles-like efficacy still unsurpassed to this day and we loved every second of it. I can’t remember what she said about me but I’m sure it was spot-on and well deserved. 

By the end of our meal we had made a new friend (whom we tipped generously) and upon leaving the restaurant with plenty of time left in the day, all of us agreed on the only sensible thing to do with a volatile mix of what passed for pizza and breadsticks churning in our stomachs: trek all the way to the opposite side of town and fish the nearest excuse for a freshwater fishery. That fishery was Godfrey Lake, an egregious misnomer given that this “lake” was no larger than a football field and no deeper than a motel swimming pool. 

The angling experience among the group ranged from zero to thinks-they’re-hot-shit with my friend Bill and I being the latter. Since most of the group was ill-equipped, we stopped at both mine and Bill’s houses along the way to gear up. At this point I was barely two years into my fly fishing journey, fifteen years away from discovering trout, and still yet to do more than bring a fly rod as a back-up to spin and casting gear, so when I passed out my two best bass fishing rods and was left with only an Ugly Stik spinning combo and my 3-weight Cabela’s fly rod, I was a bit apprehensive to leave with only the 3-weight. In a moment of extreme conflict, I decided to take a chance. Looking back on it, I honestly think the determining factor of an important moment in my fly fishing journey was more of a repugnance towards the Ugly Stik than any particular desire to fly fish that day.

When the six of us arrived at the so-called lake we set up at a sandy stretch of bank where the first lesson Bill and I had to immediately teach our eager but inexperienced crew was to refrain from putting the rods down in the sand. We then provided a tutorial for the two who had never fished, partly so they would have fun but mostly so they wouldn’t break our rods and lose our lures. 

With proper handling and release,
 as with everything in life,
you live and you learn.

When I was finally free I took out a fly box containing some Adams, Elk Hair Caddis, and hoppers I had picked up for panfish and small bass. After making my first cast I was intently watching the Caddis float on the surface while explaining to a friend why I had just “waved the rod back and forth” when what ended up being a personal-best crappie crushed the fly up top as it was being pushed slowly across the surface by the breeze. Up to this point, none of my friends’ jerkbaits or soft plastics had attracted the attention of a bass or pickerel, so the crappie was the first action we had; it was a big deal for a moment but was quickly dismissed as a fluke until the next cast brought in a slab bluegill followed by a few more bluegill and another crappie shortly after with the action only halting for the occasional warning of the dangers of standing in proximity of my back cast.

After landing about a dozen fish, I spent the rest of the day casting and then handing my 3-weight over to one of the others who were taking turns so they could all set the hook and bring in some panfish. Bill was the only one who stuck with what he was doing, not out of stubbornness but because he (a beginning fly fisherman like I was) had already experienced what they were enjoying and was having fun just watching them. Nobody was ripping lunker bass through the lily pads with my Cabela’s combo, but everyone was catching fish and having a great time.

Probably one of
my first fish
on the fly rod.

The day was memorable for a number of reasons: “surviving” a bomb scare, the unforeseen early dismissal, the bizarre Pizza Hut adventure, and a great time on the water. What stuck with me most, though, was the sense of pride I felt towards a skill I was in the beginning stages of developing as well as the realization that if I put my faith in fly fishing it would reward me in ways I never thought possible. After more than twenty years, what had been a reluctant gamble by an ignorant teenager low on gear still pays off every time I’m on the water and I predict it will continue to do so for the rest of my days.