It was one of those moments we live for as anglers, when the weather breaks and it’s just you and the fish. No other boats in sight, your damp clothes drying, the air smells sweet and you feel like you’ve got eyes like an osprey.

Minutes after the storm departed, we spotted fish marching up the line. In discrete bunches, spiky fins vibrated through an otherwise unbroken slick of glossy, reflected green. Each pod of fish moved as a tight unit, weaving with the tide through tenacious mangrove shoots. The water rippled around them.

At the moment I counted six pods, each spaced about 100 yards apart. They were obviously bonefish. Poling in, we’d seen some suspiciously permit-like wakes farther offshore, but up this skinny, it’s usually bones. We stayed quiet. The click of pushpole against lower unit, the clack of a hatch, the thump of a nervous heart: Any sound would be telegraphed instantly to these fish, with predictable results.

It was Dan’s turn at the rod, John’s at the poling platform. John Reilly and I had already each landed a fish, sharing the timeless, gentleman’s symmetry of guide and caster. One bonefish, one Biscayne Bay bonefish, is enough to make a day for a fly fisherman. Dan Mottern would make it a third for us. These are discerning fish, notorious for refusals and spooking at bad intentions.

With minimal false-casting, Dan deftly laid a No. 6 Snapping Shrimp about six feet in front of a foursome of big bones. The tiny fly landed without a sound, settling in less than a foot of water.

“Perfect,” I whispered. “Now strip, strip, strip.”

A football-size dome of water humped up behind his fly and accelerated. Often when this happens, the fish already has the fly. You don’t feel it, because it’s running straight for you.

“Set the hook!” I croaked, louder than I expected.

The trick is to strip-strike—pulling the line farther and with more authority than a usual strip. You don’t want to raise the rodtip suddenly, but for many folks that’s automatic, and a lot of times it works out just fine. Like now.

Number 8 flyline ripped through the water, roaring like a jet. Dan pivoted in the bow, and struggled to get his line flowing through the guides.

“Oh no, he’s going for it!” John shouted. Dan groaned in response. The fish took aim for a mangrove shoot that looked big enough to finish the fight. I winced. Flame-yellow flyline arced to deep water, and somehow the fish missed its opportunity.

Three glorious runs later, Dan landed his prize.

Trips like this get me reflecting on the yin and yang of summer weather—and how rainfall in moderate doses can be a flats angler’s ally.