the park itself and the curve continued, the inner, near shore water slower, the flow against the covered outside bank faster. No single rock stood up enough to create an eddy that would twist a floating line or leader around it. Finally, almost 1/3 of a milet above Joe's position the brushline broke for a five foot wide space clear to the far bank. I laughed at myself. What were the odds? A million to one, a trillion? Flyfishermen fuss about getting just a few feet of natural float and I was about to attempt a third of af mile. It was too far to walk up again. There would be only one chance. Had I missed seeing a single rock eddy or a sweeper branch sticking down into the water? Who had laid out this river this precisely? Were there any other, smaller fish under all that cover that would take and ruin the float? What the hell, I had come this far. I tied on a Royal Coachman, then greased the line, leader and fly heavily. This is impossible, I thought to myself as I cast across the river to the approximate length from shore of the fishes position. The cast laid out straight and I started the march downstream. Immediately I lost sight of the fly as it passed under the canopy. I could only follow the line, still arrow straight, as the river and I both rushed downstream. A hundred yards and the cast was still straight, the outer current faster, the inner slower, to sweep the line like a perfect radial through the immense curve. Stumbling to keep up, I came within sight of the park. Was the fly still up on the surface? No time or way to check. Onward I marched downriver. When I reached the park, I was swallowed up in the bedlam. I dodged wide receivers running routes looking back. I guided the line over kids lifting and stacking rocks along the river's edge. One little girl wading deeper saw me coming and froze until I pleaded with her to get out of the way. She sloshed just far enough in so that I could clear the line over her head without disturbing the cast. The line was still straight. I went around the picnickers, over the sunbathers. Everyone stared. Some snorted. None understood. Now Joe was in sight, seated facing the river, a slice of french bread covered with salami in one hand, the other cradling his jug. He was laughing too hard to eat or drink. Arrow straight the float continued. Why was there only one fish, and right THERE? As I approached Joe I began to panic. How far under the cover was the fly, the fish? I could miss six inches on either side and it wouldn't see the fly in the shallow water. At Joe's feet I stopped, stooped down, and spotted the fly ten feet under the brush. The head came up and took it down.
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