He tied the fly on. He was whispering, ‘Did ya see it, son?’
I looked over and said to him: ‘Yeah, I saw it.’
He gave a grin, fixed the fly, adjusted the reel, stood away from me, just a few feet, spun out some line, caressed the length of the rod, all the time whistling through his teeth as he whipped the rod back and forth above his head, fluidity to it, the swish and swerve, casting away as if there was no tomorrow, none at all, just casting away with all his might.