Amy admires a schoolie bonefish on the the flats with Docky, our guide. This guy showed a lot of poise, and we found 22 different pods or schools of fish on a windy day.

There are many good bonefish guides---people who have grown up without television, with ample time to observe these fish and their tidal habits. We were lucky to be fishing with one of the best, a sharp young man with amazing patience. Blow a chance at a passing school, and Docky Smith only shrugs and hunts for more fish. He’s a cheerful fellow and doesn’t mind handing out a compliment or a backslap when a client does something right, but he also patiently educates when something goes awry. Down in de Islands, mon, we don’t yell at the clients or make them feel bad. His favorite bumper sticker says: Guide, not God.

Amy and I are wading downwind with him, pushed along by what feels like a 30-knot east wind. Frequently, I can’t even hear what he says, his words yanked away by the wind. The jig hangs from my fingertip, the short line pinned to the rod’s foregrip, spinning endlessly in fast little wind circles. Thank goodness these beautiful flats are perfectly sheltered from a prevailing wind by more than 60 miles of unbroken island. The bleak Atlantic Ocean crashes against a rocky coast only a half-mile away, carving cruel sculptures in solid rock, and dashing hopes of fishing on the ocean side of this island.

In unfavorable conditions the day produces a comedy of errors, as often happens with spooky bonefish. We had an estimated 22 chances at passing fish while exploring a half mile of mottled bottom. Three times, fish are led to my hand. In the howling wind, our near-weightless jigs fly all about the place, even tipped with shrimp or half of a small blue crab, a prize Docky chases after with a small dipnet. Local bones and permit love these crabs.

After seven hours of wading and poling along the rocky shoreline, where more bonefish are cast to in rock-and-sand potholes, we’re ready for the lodge. Wind and sun-beaten, ready for a dark refuge, ceiling fan, bartender.

Lo and behold, the folks running Stella Maris have a barbecue cookout this very evening, pitchers of spicy rum punch and a live band. They’re cooking pineapple marinated steaks on the outdoor grill. We position ourselves close to the pitchers, and then Amy coaxes me onto the dance floor. We fish hard but we play hard. The punch, reggae music and full moon overhead have stripped away our fatigue; it’s amazing. The band’s leader and drummer, who is also the local dive master, decides we’re real people and joins us until late, waxing philosophical on many issues.

* * *

The next day we found ourselves in the same body of water off Cape Santa Maria where Columbus’ ship (amazingly, with the same name) coasted around the corner and dropped anchor some years ago.

The water is rough beyond the Cape, but we dutifully troll our lipped plugs into at least 60 feet of water, judging by the coral shapes below. Wham! The 80-pound outfit doubles over, the reel briefly howls, the fish lunging deep, going the remainder of the way, lodging in coral below. As this is going on, we reel in some of the other lines to clear the way. A wahoo hammers another plug as I’m reeling, smoking 40 yards of line from the tired, old 4/0 reel. Pow! Two gone. We’re using short wire leaders in case of barracuda; so maybe his tail struck the line. Meanwhile, the other plug has been cut off in what felt like tall coral. Just like that, two big plugs have vanished.

I can tell our captain, Tim Smith, is frustrated by all this; he wants to anchor and fish the Island Way. He has huge lobster heads for chum and ballyhoo for bait. When I dangle a 6-ounce leadhead jig at him, he nods eagerly. So, we’re soon lowering a trio of these jigs down in 100 feet, while drifting sideways or stern-to in 6-foot seas. We catch jacks, sharks, cuda, yellowtails, and several big fish, likely grouper, plow into the coral.

We troll home along the shallower coast in 20 feet, where a mutton snapper slams into a pink diver, and a 40-pound barracuda gives us a fight before spitting the hooks. I’m bummed we didn’t catch a big grouper in this reefy paradise, but only for an hour.

A fast trudge back to the road and there is Sylvio and Rico wading back to their rented car, and they offer me a fast-track ride back to our house on the cliff. They’ll fetch my bicycle later. Fine-tuning our packing, Amy and I are ready when the taxi appears.

Arriving at the simple airport, we find the commuter flight has been delayed for at least two hours. After I had abandoned a flat full of bonefish not far from the runway? But there’s nothing that can be done, except pull a handy book from our heap of luggage, lay down on a wooden bench and while away the mid-day in the breezy shade. Around me, these Islanders are laughing, greeting and complimenting each other, and showing infinite patience.