Post Saltwater Blues: A Comedy

You used to be someone. You had wind in your hair, salt on your face, and a fly rod in hand. Now? You’re just a weirdly tanned human trying to explain to TSA that, yes, this is a reel worth more than a used car, and no, it is not a weapon.

You open the fridge, hoping for ceviche… instead, you find expired milk and a bag of spring mix you lied to yourself about eating. You used to eat fresh tuna, now you’re staring at questionable gas station food.

You twitch in your sleep. You still hear the guiding yelling at you. Tick, Tick, Tick. Strip set. Strip set. You nearly slap your spouse’s iPad across the room, thinking it was a tailing permit. Your fingers are still sunburned and still gooey from bonefish slime.

You tell yourself cleaning your gear will be “therapeutic.” Four hours later, you’re whispering to your 8 weight like it’s Wilson from Cast Away. “We had something special, didn’t we?” you sob, polishing the guides.

You begin planning another trip. You’re scrolling Yellowdog. Your bank account winces. You’re consumed by the one that got away.

You start to feel alive again.

You may be off the water, but the water is never really out of you. Embrace the madness. Wear your sun hoodie to the grocery store. Practice your backcast in the backyard. Tell a stranger about the one that didn’t get away.

And if all else fails… just book another trip. Your liver, wallet, and responsibilities will understand.

Eventually.