I don’t want to ever make an excuse for a seagull. However, the fly line was transparent.

Casting 60 to 70 feet of line into the surf becomes a little monotonous. But it is monotonous in a good way. When you get into a rythm, the double hauling becomes effortless. The only interruptions are strikes from striped bass; which are delightful, as far as interruptions go. Good, long casting does require a bliders-on focus. That is why it is good to stop, intentionally assess your surroundings, and then start back up again.

The seagull (referenced earlier) was a part of my surroundings that unintentionally became a significant part of my focus. Gliding along at a pretty good clip, it ran into the belly of my sailing fly line. The density and force of the shooting 9-weight line was too much for the shorebird to overcome. Its flight path took a sharp arc downwards into the calm ocean below. Well, it was calm before the surprised bird frantically attempted to regain its bearings and dignity.

Don’t worry. The seagull was fine. If anything, that little ordeal with my 9-weight line was better for it than eating McDonald’s french fries and cigarette butts. As seagull do.

This was not the first flying creature that rode my fly line into the water. One hot summer night I was fishing a post-twilight hatch on a trout stream. Big mayflies were coming off so fast and thick that matching the hatch was less important than getting your fly in front of a fish. These are good times for anglers. They are also good times for opportunistic birds, bats, frogs, and whatever else eats mayflies. The river and  its banks teemed with activity. Every creature eating as if it was scheduled for execution that next morning.

The bats only seemed awkward because their flight patterns were much less refined than the swallows which shared the airspace. Plus, they’re bats. Rabies, vampires, and looking like flying mice don’t help their reputation much.

Bats were the most brazen animal in the mass feeding. They would use my headlamp as a spotlight; darting inches in front of my face so I could feel the wind of their leathery little wings. One particularly saucy bat followed my backcast as it unrolled beside me. I heard it tailing my fly as the loop opened into my presentation. The line went tight right as the cast straightened out four feet above the water. The recoil of the added weight at the terminal end shot the bat and a pile of line back to about ten feet in front of me.

Using my headlamp, I hoped against all odds that I wasn’t going to have to manage an angry and hooked bat. Thankfully, all it had to do was untangle itself from the loops of leader and line before it swam (?) downstream.

I’ve had run-ins with ducks, geese, and redwinged blackbirds.  I once hooked the leg – and I mean hooked as in around the leg with the bend of the hook, not pierced – of some sort of loud shorebird in front of a beach full of people. The squawking.  The fluttering. All it had to do was chill the heck out and it could have walked away. No. I had to grab the thing in front of people.

What is the moral of these stories? Well, for one, I think it is that fly fishing is always an adventure. You’re never not going to be a part of nature when you’re out there. Secondly, remember that animals aren’t that smart. Especially birds. And bats. Makes you think: is flying really the superpower that you’d want?