Tosh Brown has been telling me stories.
I flip through chapters like episodes of a television show — The Spanish Fly meets It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.
Frog legs and “hea-shuns” and Bob from Boston.
Winds and tides and pirana fillets and the robust inuit lady-shoppers of Eek.
Fat nurses and musky fluffers and the assholishness of snook.
I am greedy. I am tired. I am jealous. I am excited and laugh, hopeful. I feel the sun burning my nose and the stinging of line burns on my tired fingers as I read on — watching the clouds build, hearing the swirling figure-eights, waiting for the flood tide, feeling conspicuously shy of experience. If this is halfway through a fly fishing life, I better get busy.
Thank you, Tosh. And thanks for sharing.
I bought this book. You should, too.
Have Tosh tell you stories.