“That was no jack. This is not place for jack! THAT WAS A PERMIT! OH NO, THAT WAS A PERMIT! DO YOU REALIZE WHAT YOU JUST LOST? OH NO, OH DIOS, OH NO....” “I didn’t know.” Riega turned around slowly in the water, almost crying, swinging his arms. He buried his head on the boat deck. “OH DIOS........”, he went on and on. “I FEEL SO BADLY FOR YOU. I FEEL SO BADLY.” “There’s nothing you could have done differently. You did everything right. I did everything right. Blame the fish. He did the wrong thing. He was the one that ran into the grass and tangled and pulled off the hook.” I shrugged. Riega was really taking this badly. There were tailing bonefish in sight and it was Dave’s turn on the bow. But Riega was unconsolable. “OH DIOS, I FEEL SO BADLY......, UNA PALOMETA!....” “It’s OK, Riega, really.” “Oh sir, you don’t know what a possibility that was. In my boat, so far, only two permit hooked. Both....Pfffft!”. He slapped and accelerated his right hand off his left. “Such an opportunity, very rare. OH NO, OH DIOS!”: It still took all my therapeutic people skills, semi-feigned indifference and twenty minutes of intense psychotherapy before we got poor Riega back up on the platform and fishing again. But he was a deflated man. I think Riega was really sorry, for me, that we lost the fish. I hardly felt badly at all. I had never caught a permit on a fly, but I hadn’t put any thought or time or effort into fishing permit. Actually I had totally and completely forgotten that the fish existed and was a possibility on these flats. It had been short and sweet and fun and memorable. Lightening had struck. Me. But Riega’s reaction...it might have been, we learned later, the ten cases of beer that the outfit gave the guides for a grand slam that had something to do with it. PMP March 1992
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