I’d just about managed to explain my way out of trouble when the shark appeared once again in the slick, this time madder than ever. So much so that at one point Andy had to literally yank the carcasses from its snapping jaws. I fixed the fly situation as quickly as I could and eventually, the shark made the same mistake twice.

Deceptively gentle, the feeding continues.

This time however, we were able to break anchor and follow in its wake.

To his credit, Brian handled the monster admirably. However, after a half-mile pursuit, the hook actually broke, forcing him to reel back several hundred yards of fly line and backing. I knew he could have caught that fish legitimately. That made the loss even more disappointing, although we had managed to learn more about putting the proverbial hammer down with heavy fly gear.

Although he later managed to land two nice permit, Brian remained inconsolable. So much so that during an afternoon thunderstorm when the water was too dark for sight fishing, he impaled a half mackerel on his fly and fed it back in the slick. I know what you’re thinking. Nevertheless, let he who’s never been tainted cast the first unseasoned fly.

They say that the sun also shines on the unrighteous. Maybe that’s why Brian no sooner set down his rod than it bent in a mighty arc. Once again, he joined the fray. But this time, it was amidst a stream of guffaws that the Good Captain hauled his ill-begotten prize to the surface. The shark turned out to be a nurse and a good one, too. Let it suffice to say that it took more time getting this fellow off the hook than onto it.

Later that afternoon, we anchored over another wreck and hung the last carcass over the side. This time I was the designated hitter. But just to make sure nobody accused me of any improprieties, I tied on a double-hooked billfish fly that I could really cast.

For some reason, schools of permit kept racing up to the fly in order to get a better look. I knew they wouldn’t eat. Still, to reinforce the original catechism, Andy reminded me that this wasn’t what we came for. After 20 minutes of nervous waiting, a nice blacktip finally entered the slick. I cast as quickly as I could and only had to strip the fly once before he gobbled it on the run. Mr. Blacktip went nuts, but after some spirited side-stepping, I managed to get line and backing off the anchor rope and back on the reel before ultimately being able to wrench my victim to the boat.

Pretty cool, I thought. But this time, I was huffing like a sprinter. In addition to my own discomfort, we’d all managed to pick up a few dings and bruises during the day. But like the man said, that’s what we came for. On the way back to the dock, I popped open the ibuprofen bottle and started thinking about dinner.

If you’re looking for a statement, you won’t find it here. When someone later told me that the IGFA was considering adding an extra-heavy tippet class, I balked. After all, what we did that day was simply an expression of frivolity.

I mean the same kind of wide-eyed curiosity that gets anglers fly fishing in the first place.

We’d enjoyed some exciting action. And on a day when Brian and Andy insisted there weren’t many sharks.

The real highlight, however, came from realizing we didn’t have to conform to any guidelines in order to have a good time. Both anglers and sharks came away in better shape, so you might say we showed a little class. But as any seriously indoctrinated fly fisherman will admit, this fly fishing was definitely in a class all its own.