|In line for take-off ... and about to start dive-bombing|
For four straight days while wading the flats off of Deadman's Cay, we'd been hounded by nesting gulls--it's understandable that the screaming, squawking, black-headed birds would be threatened by us as we walked quietly among their nesting islands in search of bonefish, and I think it's understandable that, after a time, the birds began to drive us nuts.
In a fit of frustration, as a maniacal gull dive-bombed me and spooked a sizable school of bones headed my way, I took a half-hearted swing at the bird with my 8-weight ... and connected. It was a glancing blow, and I immediately felt terrible for doing it. The bird flew off unharmed--if a bit startled--and I shouldered a pang of guilt for the rest of day.
My guilt didn't stop the birds from harassing us (and I suppose, in their eyes, we were harassing them), and I wasn't the only one to report back to the lodge each evening with tales of gulls diving uncomfortable close, or of gulls flocking overhead and spooking the fish were we stalking.
My kingdom for a 20-gauge.
|Preparing to attack.|
With a curse I'd be ashamed to repeat, I screamed at the foul (fowl?) bird for its brazen attack on an innocent bystander. Then I looked at my finger and realized this wasn't just a little poke. The fly was in there, and good.
|The end result. Don't mess with Angry Birds. (Thank you, Sam Root, for|
the great photo)
I clipped the fly from the tippet, reeled up and started walking back to the boat, where I knew there was a cooler full of ice that I could use to numb my finger and maybe yank the fly out of the flesh.
But, every time I touched the fly, the point of the hook would move deeper into my finger and send a wave of pain shooting up my arm and then down my spine. With each tinge, I'd break out in goosebumps. And, barehanded, I couldn't muster the strength the pull the fly out without passing out in the process.
After a bumpy ride across open water back to the lodge (and with each bump, the pain would shoot up my arm) with my hand immersed in a bag of ice, I walked into my room and was greeted by Marc Payne, who sympathetically offered to try to pull it out. Then he saw the hook deeply imbedded into my finger and thought otherwise. In fact, I think the sight creeped him out a bit.
I grabbed my favorite pair of Hatch pliers, gritted my teeth and yanked on the fly stuck into the cold flesh of my finger.
Spots appeared across my line of vision as I put the pliers to work. I heard an audible "snap" and then leaned into the vanity counter next to the sink to keep from hitting the tile floor. I looked down at my finger. I'd managed to remove the fly, and blood was flowing freely.
|Thanks Andrew Payne for the bandage... you're a life-saver!|
Marc did turn out to be helpful, after all. His son, Andrew, had given him an Angry Birds first-aid kit to take with him to the Bahamas, not knowing, of course, that it would be hid Dad's buddy who would need it. It was fitting, of course, to spend the next day wearing an Angry Birds bandage on my left forefinger, given that the wound was induced by a temperamental gull.
Needless to say, I gave the gulls a wide berth over the course of the rest of the week on Long Island. And I'll never again walk the flats with a fly in my hand.
They're Angry Birds, after all.