Al Kyte's Life Take-Aways

 

There are potential dangers in many of the things we do, even in activities we enjoy.  When fishing with my mind focused on what I am doing, I am nevertheless also alert for resident snakes, bears, sharks or other dangers.  Yet just knowing such dangers are nearby heightens the excitement and feeling of adventure.  In a clash of opposing impulses, this sense of adventure has sometimes edged me forward even as my common sense was holding me back.

When I started fly fishing in saltwater, sharks didn’t seem to pose any danger.  We saw only skinny, small ones on the shallow bonefish flats.  One day I saw a slightly-larger shark, maybe four-feet long, swimming by in the deeper water out from the mangrove-lined shallows where I was wading.  Our guide had gone back to get our boat and my fishing partner was wading along behind me about 50 yards back.  Neither of us had seen any fish for some time, and I felt like casting to something.  So, for practice more than anything else, I cast my bonefish fly about 10 feet in front of that shark and started retrieving it.  I knew that shark would not be interested in such a small fly, so was surprised to see it speed up.  

Then I felt, rather than saw, something take my fly, so set the hook.  It was not the shark, but a smaller, foot-long pompano I had hooked.  Apparently the shark had been following it and now, sensing its stress, moved forward to grab an easy meal.  I was already backing up toward shore and reeling the fish in when I saw the shark turn on it.  I lifted the rod, line, and hooked pompano up out of the water.  To my further surprise, the shark jumped into the air and snapped its jaws shut—barely missing the smaller fish.  I continued backing up toward shore while reeling in, and was treated to a repeat performance—the shark turning on the fish, me lifting the fish out of the water, and the shark clearing the water, again snapping its jaws shut on air.

Now on the bank, I swung the pompano ashore as the shark turned toward it again, saw me, and veered away.  I spent some time reviving that pompano, hoping to give it back enough energy to be able to fend for itself when released.  My fishing partner, after witnessing that entire scene, approached and said, “You never have a video camera when you really need one.”

Another day on the Bahamian island of Abaco, I walked out to fish a deep spot along the shoreline directly in front of our lodge.  I had cast a sinking line out and waded knee-deep to the edge of the drop-off into deeper water.  As I was giving my line time to sink, I scanned the water from right to left, then started back to the right before jerking my head back to the left.  My eye had caught some subtle movement.  There, making a slow, stealthy approach directly toward me along that drop-off, was a heavy-bodied shark about six feet long.  In two quick steps I was back on shore.  Wading two-feet deep had always seemed safe until then.  Close call?  Maybe.

On yet another day our boat had re-entered the ocean after we had fished on an estuary of South Andros.   As we turned to follow the shoreline, the weather had become overcast and windy with waves treating us to one of those uncomfortable, “butt-bouncing” rides.  I typically keep a camera ready, but in such gray conditions didn’t see how there could be any photo worth taking.  So I went against my own rule and put the camera away under my slicker.

A few minutes later our guide slowed the boat as we watched a long, dark shadow pass by directly in front of us.  Our boat was 14-feet long, but that shark was easily longer.  Even in that somber lighting, a photo of that black shadow crossing the front of our boat would have been fun to show people.  Why hadn’t I at least kept a disposable camera handy?