Chris Dombowski Feb 5, 2019 Anglers Journal
Permit is an altogether different stimulant, one that shoots a charge far more feral than most through the bloodstream
We roll out of the campground toward Long Key with the windows open. Bleached shells and limestone gravel crunch under the Westfalia’s tires. Birds make their vibrant predawn racket, a symphony in stark contrast to my brain’s lethargy, stymied as it is from last night’s festivities. At least I remembered to set an alarm clock.
My good friend Toby interrupted his slumber, too, and left the rest of our spring-breaking comrades to their own convolutions so he could chauffer me up the Florida Keys to meet a flats guide. In the pocket of my khaki shorts, I clutch payment for the charter, a post-deposit $250 that I hid, lest it end up in the rum fund, but other than that I’m ill-prepared. I’ve caught a few trout on streamers in northern Michigan, but I’ve yet to cast a fly, let alone an 8-weight, in salt water.
Aloof, squirrely, dishonest — call them what you want, but permit are difficult to bring to hand.