The New York Times June 7, 2002 Casting a Line, Catching Yourself By DEIRDRE FANNING But there is no time for me to try it his way, because now the other instructors are dividing us into two groups - Red Fish and Blue Fish - and we Blue Fish are heading indoors to learn to tie knots while the Red Fish stay to practice casting. The knot tying, which I learn is an essential skill since much of fly-fishing seems to consist of securing various plastic lines to each other as well as to different flies in an attempt to tempt the fickle fish, goes moderately well. My fingers are completely numb from the cold but I finally manage a double surgeon's knot and get an approving pat on the back from the knot teacher. Lunch, or what one instructor calls the "dinner pails," is delivered and then it is the Blue Fishes' turn to practice casting out on the lawn. As we run through the various casts - the roll, the sidearm, the opposite shoulder cast - my new-found fishing euphoria wanes a bit. Try as I might, I cannot get my line to do anything other than land heavily a few feet ahead of me in the grass in a rumpled clump. I'm in such a lather and flicking my rod back and forth so furiously that I hit myself in the eye with the hookless (thank God) lure and get my arms and hair barrette tangled in the line at the same time. What's more, my arm and shoulder are starting to hurt, and I wonder whether I missed any mention of carpal tunnel syndrome on the liability form I signed. Luckily, Mr. Lord has noticed my situation and appears suddenly by my side. Placing his hand over mine on the rod he gently pulls my arm back, then forward a bit, then forward some more, then down to the ground. And like magic it happens: my line flies out 40 feet and sinks straight down in front of me. Again and again he does it with me, and again and again my line shoots straight back and straight ahead. I try it on my own and I can barely contain my pride at what is originating from my rod. The minutes race by - I could do this forever, I muse to myself dreamily - before my reverie is interrupted by a shout from the farmhouse: "All Blue Fish inside for fly-tying!" As an instructor will point out to us later: "You'll find that there's something for everyone in fly-fishing. Some will like the knots, some will like the gear and gadgetry, some will like the fishing and some will like the fly-tying." Count me out of that last one anyway. Fly-tying, which is the art of making the fuzzy, furry little things that go on your hook to lure the fish, consists of meticulously wrapping minuscule pieces of cloth, thread and feathers around a tiny hook and then giving the result names like "Woolly Bugger" and "Bead Head Gold Ribbed Hare's Ear." I spend 15 minutes wrestling with a recalcitrant bobbin of thread and disintegrating strands of yellow chenille before another classmate takes pity on me and finishes wrapping my fly for me. But the evening ends on a high note as we watch a slide show about bugs and an instructor wheels out a display rack of the latest in fly-fishing duds and gear - all from L. L. Bean, naturally - and I brighten, recognizing that I can incorporate one of my favorite pastimes (i.e. shopping) into an outdoor sport. Who would have thought it? The second day of school is spent actually casting on the water for fish: the school keeps a small pond nearby stocked with rainbow trout and yellow perch. Once again, I find myself improbably addicted to standing in one place for hours, casting and recasting my line into the pond waiting for a bite. I get a few nibbles - most of the other students actually land their fishes and then release them back into the pond - but I realize the thrill for me is just in completing a beautiful cast. Back, stop, forward, stop, forward and gently down becomes my mantra and I make a mental note to recommend fishing as an alternative to all my yoga-loving friends. We are videotaped practicing our moves, and then our tape is reviewed by the class and instructors. One instructor, who obviously adheres to the "Everyone's a winner" school of criticism, compliments me on my "quiet stance" and diplomatically reminds me "less is more" as we watch my casting arm give an overzealous lurch backward. Nevertheless, I am beaming and nearly bursting with pride as we head toward the farmhouse at day's end, ready for the graduation ceremony, where we will be presented with a diploma and special L. L. Bean fly-fishing pin. On the drive home I find myself staring wistfully out the window at rivers and brooks I have never noticed before. What would it be like to stand on that particular bank, I wonder, and what weight rod and type of fly might I use there? I will soon find out. I already have a little fishing trip planned with the family for next weekend. Copyright 2002 The New York Times Company
