John hooked five tarpon over the course of the next two hours, but each fish spit the fly after one jump. Every other shadow they cast to would rise into focus — some after a somersault to reverse direction — and inhale the fly. John would come tight but the fish were moving quickly and he wasn’t bowing fast enough or keeping control of his line. It started to feel hopeless, even vainglorious; most days, hooking any fish would be enough. William felt the moment escaping. He thought of John as a competent angler, but perhaps not up to the task; the pressure was testing him and he was quietly disintegrating in front of the fish. It didn’t help that all the fish were over 100 pounds, or that they seemed to come out of nowhere.

But then again William didn’t expect John to catch a permit and bonefish this morning either. “Just relax, John. It’s only 2 o’clock. You need to find one that will keep his mouth closed.”

They fished for another hour. Three more fish tried to eat the fly, but now John was pulling the fly out of their mouths. William saw how this was all going to end. He was feeling frayed from trying to help John focus and from keeping himself from overreacting. He’d been through this many times before. He was almost thankful when they ran out of fish.

They sat in the boat quietly for several minutes. William’s mind churned. The options weren't good; the tide was falling fast now and what tarpon were around were sinking into the channels.

“Do you ever tie up at the Raw Bar?” John asked out of nowhere.

“I used to go there sometimes, with bait fishermen.”

“There are some big tarpon there,” John said, smiling again. He knew the thought of fishing for the tarpon that lived in the harbor was distasteful to William, who had once referred to them as the 'junkyard dogs.' “Do you think a couple of guys could go there and have a drink?”

William suddenly felt a little sick. He knew they had better fish constantly over every remaining minute of the day if John was going to get his tarpon. But he guessed John had given up. He stood up nodding his head. “Sure, why not?”

They ran down through the sailboats in the harbor and idled toward the bar. William tied the boat off to the guano-white dock and eyed the tourists at the railing eating French fries and looking as though they were waiting for something to happen although they didn’t know quite what. If it was pleasure they were feeling it was vague and unidentified. William actually detested the whole scene.

“What’ll you have, William?”

“I’ll have an ice tea, please,” William said to the waitress, one who had first waited on him many years ago. She still pretended not to know him, as if to say, “What the heck are you doing here?”

“I’ll have a Bloody Mary.”

Great, William thought.

John drank his Bloody Mary slowly, and William could see that the pleasure he was deriving from the cold cocktail was not vague at all. John’s mind seemed to wander; he wasn’t having a hard time not thinking about fish. But William was sorting out his remaining cards, counting the minutes until John finished his drink. He looked at his watch: 3:43. They had just missed another good tide at a nearby flat.

A belching tourist seemed to wake John from his reverie. William drank the rest of his tea quickly but as the ice rattled in his cup he heard John say, “I’ll have another one” to the passing waitress. We’re done, William thought.

Twenty minutes later they were idling away. He knew of only one clear option on this last of the outgoing tide, and John would have to make some fairly long casts. He planed up the boat and ran west across the channel. As they started off, John yelled over the revving engine: “Whoever said alcohol was a depressant was full of $#@$.” Finally William felt like smiling again.

“Now John,” William said, “if these fish are here they will be easy pickin's. All you have to do is cast up-current and beyond the fish. They’ll be right on the edge.” He changed the fly to a small chocolate pattern and they waited while William held the boat in place. Key West shone in the mid-distance. “Look right toward the Customs House.”

William didn’t really expect the fish to be there, but minutes later a fish rolled, then another. He didn’t have to say anything to John. John was false-casting beautifully — as elegantly as William had ever seen him cast — and he released the line in a long tight loop. It landed right where William would have put it had he walked over and dropped it there himself.

“Strip erratically, John.” William almost didn’t get the words out. A tarpon was airborne with John’s fly in his mouth and John bowed quickly and then line was flying off the reel. John looked in perfect control. The fish jumped, John bowed, and William guessed they might have to go after the fish, which was now down-current and in the channel proper. But it wasn’t a large fish — probably 25 pounds at most — and they stayed put. Minutes later the tarpon was at boat side and William was removing the hook and almost afraid to look up at John, but he could feel the man beaming.

“I think congratulations are officially in order.”

“Well. If you say so.” They both laughed.

William stowed the rod and John sat down beside him and they started to idle toward home. William was about to put the boat up on plane, but glanced at John and stopped and pointed a finger to his head. John took off his fedora and put it in the cooler.

“Nothing like a cool hat.”