Guide Garth Thompson steadies the skiff as Angie Chestnut makes her cast.

I doubt there were two blades of grass between me and Angie Chestnut. She was tiptoeing like a heron so as not to put the bones on notice. The water was ankle-deep, so the fish swam on a tilt, backs out, tacking right, then tacking left. Their fluttering, translucent tails and dorsal fins looked like little Saran Wrap jib sails catching a breeze.

After a couple of hookups apiece on No. 6 and 8 Gotchas and Charlies, Angie and I were suddenly being snubbed by schoolies—something rumored to never happen in the Bahamas—perhaps because the tide was dropping as fast as stock prices in a bear market. I figured they were scrounging up nondescript little somethings from the sugar-white sand, so I stooped to sift the stuff through my fingers. It looked like salt and coarse-ground black pepper, the pepper being the tiniest of tiny black snails. I feared that these micro-crustaceans were the breakfast entrée, and I sure didn’t have a fly in my box that came anywhere close. No fly on Earth does, except for maybe a No. 20 Black Gnat that I cast at Smoky Mountain rainbow trout. Matching this snail hatch was not an option.

Our guide, J.J. Dames, knew the well was quickly going dry, so he struck out for the skiff, staked out a quarter-mile away. That gave us more time to fuss with these fish, so long as we kept pace as they moved out to deeper, cooler water. And, so long as the lemon sharks didn’t get any more aggressive. Sharks put bones on edge big-time. No surprise there—I imagine it’s hard to concentrate on eating when you’re trying to avoid being eaten. Sharks with an attitude put wading fly fishers on edge, too. At one point, two juiced-up 75-pound lemons squeezed into my territory, to check out my trailing mud and got a little close for comfort before turning at the last second. I would have happily traded my 7-weight fly rod for a bang stick.

Once I reached water a few inches deeper, up popped a more relaxed and happy bunch of dorsaling fish. Since my Gotcha wasn’t gettin’ it, I tied on an extra sparse No. 6 Bonefish Special—that out-of-fashion old favorite that nobody uses, that still catches bonefish. It served me well for fussy fish in the Turneffe Islands, so I had faith. I laid it in their path, and let it sink. The leaders of the pack raced over and pounced, but the taker dropped the fly five seconds into its run. The rest of the bunch took off in a panic, so I turned to watch Angie, crouched over, stripping her fly, as an armada of tails closed in. She was mouthing some words, totally zoned in, talking to the fish, or, perhaps to herself, like we bonefishers do when things are a struggle. Her body language suggested rejection, that is, until her fly line twanged tight. She let out a little victory cry as the fish roostertailed across the flat, but toward the dry crown, slowing as it ran out of water.

“It’s gonna beach itself!” she laughed, but the fish found a deeper pocket and her drag screamed anew. The spunky 20-incher swam off in good shape after a bit of resuscitation. The water was getting hotter now, and apparently just about as low as it would get. I looked around to find a new school. But our bonefish had left the building.

The morning’s new moon tide range was astounding. In fact, there was so much water at 8 a.m. that there were no fishable flats. Just a waist-deep world of white, with not a hint of a bonefish anywhere.

Alan Erickson, Angie, guides J.J. Dames, Garth Thompson, Reno Rolle and I could have slept late and eaten a leisurely, respectable Bahamian breakfast in Georgetown before launching, and not missed a thing. But you don’t sleep in (or sleep that much) on a 3-day bonefish trip, so it mattered little. Better to be in a skiff talking bonefish and waiting on bonefish than watching the clock and twiddling your thumbs on the couch back at the inn.

By noon the action was over, and the dry flats looked like the Mojave desert, though I would imagine the Mojave has more plant life than Exuma’s White Bay flats, and sand not nearly as blindingly white.

The afternoon rising tide got cranking around 2 p.m., and schools of bones, small barracudas and the ubiquitous lemon sharks (though much, much smaller this time) came out of the woodwork. With but a few hours of light left, Alan and Garth motored off to a flat a couple of miles away, and Angie and I bailed out with J.J. to wade a long shoreline with a big cove that was still largely high and dry. But it wouldn’t be dry for long given the way the water was gurgling around my ankles. J.J. gestured out toward deeper water, where wakes and tails appeared in virtually every direction. After I hooked a couple of fish, he broke off to join Angie, a bit closer to shore where tails were sprouting like mushrooms.