Unlike partygoers and thrill seekers across the world, I spent the final hours of 2017 withering in pain in my bed in an old British loyalist cottage on Harbour Island in the Bahamas. My right elbow was severely inflamed, immobilized with an ace bandage, and a feverish ache was beginning to spread to the rest of my body. The overtly pessimistic black hole of medical self-diagnosis, WebMD, told me the affliction was olecranon bursitis, where small fluid sacs that enable smooth movement of the elbow joint become inflamed and infected. A visit to the island’s health clinic produced a cocktail of steroids, antibiotics, and painkillers, but I was convinced my rod would gather dust for the week while my casting elbow recovered and the rest of my family chased bonefish.
Waking up in 2018 after falling asleep with the aforementioned symptoms was like waking up clear-headed after a double digit beer night. The pain was gone, the fever was vanquished, the unhindered range of motion was back. I took a long beach walk to see the sunrise, thanked the Maker for restoring my casting abilities, and returned to the cottage to string up my rod and tie some tapered leaders. I hurrried through brunch, nervously watching the wind and the clouds, shunning a cold Kalik in anticipation of hoofing it for miles across mucky bottom. Getting the check was like getting the go-ahead from your parents to begin ripping into presents on Christmas morning.
A $5 ferry ride and a 15 minute walk down a dusty road found me at a long sandy beach, beautiful in its desolation and remoteness. Immediately I began seeing bonefish in the deep azure water off the beach. I quickly observed how long it took my fly to sink in hip, knee, and calf deep water, and translated that into lead distance for cruising and tailing fish. Having traversed the bay to a rocky headland without any further sitings, I hurriedly hopped onto the bank to get into the next bay, almost bypassing the 20-incher lazily feeding just a rods length away. He showed no interest in the shrimp fly I noisily plopped in front of his face, and he slithered off into the deeper water offshore.
Rounding the next rocky headland opened up a whole network of mangroves, craggy protrusions above the surface, deep turtle grass flats, and bright white mud flats ready for their twice daily tidal bath. I hurried off along the shore to the west side of this prey factory so the afternoon sun and gentle westerly breeze would be to my advantage. A flats boat slid through the deeper waters just offshore, propelled effortlessly by a Bahamian guide. Surely I was in fishy water.
I started seeing fish immediately. Several individual cruisers moving quickly across the flats. To my surprise, I was reasonably able to see these mirror-sided predators, and able to get much closer than I had anticipated. There would be no 65-foot casts against a 20-knot wind; if I were to catch a bonefish today, the hookup would be no more than 4 rod lengths away. The cruisers showed little interest in my presentation. They were in a mission to get into the skinny water against the mangroves, only inhibited by the slow progress of the incoming tide. As my knees became dry, then my upper calves, the bonefish began congregating in larger groups. Suddenly it was not just one expert pair of eyes analyzing my trap, but a whole group, nervously darting about against a coral head. Wading further shallower, I found what every bonefish angler seeks: tailing fish.
In water barely topping my flats boots, the slimy backs of a half dozen fish broke the calm surface of the bay as they uprooted crabs and shrimp from the grassy bottom. I arrogantly served a cast into the feeding window of one of these fish, who took offense to my intrusion and promptly relocated 50 yards away. And so it went in this bay, chasing these nervous but obviously hungry fish in circles as they refused offering after offering. Feeling unwelcome with this crowd, I moved further east to the rocky outcrop that overlooked this learning ground. Trudging through thigh deep water towards a white cloud that glared the water surface, I hardly expected much of the next 100 yards.
A disturbance in the water ahead betrayed a bonefish moving from my right on a diagonal to my left. My brain quickly performed the mental calculus necessary to choose a landing spot and my right arm was up to the task, delivering the fly 12 feet ahead of the nervous choppy water. Fish still unseen, I waited the necessary time to let my fly sink to the bottom before making a single long strip followed by a pause. The strip and pause mimicked a shrimp initially fleeing a predator then relying on its camouflage to blend in with the bottom. During the pause I saw no tail or flash to give away the fish, but I felt that if he was there, I had given him enough time to eat. I nervously gave another strip, that instantly felt heavy. I lifted the rod tip ever so slightly. The fly line went tight in my hand. A harder lift and strip, and the fish was on!
Unlime my pursuit, the fight was relatively uneventful. The fish gave me the expected scorching run into my backing, and then a second, less spirited run after I’d regained my backing. The most difficult part was trying to grab the fish as he darted between my legs. Photographic proof of this catch was non-negotiable; I had to show my family what they’d missed out on. 
After a quick photo and release, the endorphins began flowing and my stealthy wading and casting turned into carefree wandering and flinging as I made my way across two sandy bays. I think I spooked at least three fish while not paying attention to the water left to cover. I was content to leave them for later in the week; I had claimed my prize for the day.