So the other day, after a rather complicated and slightly stressful two-and-a half hour surgery, we were just getting underway to our next appointment when we drove past a rather large park in Garden Grove.
In the middle of this park there is a very large, flat, grassy area. Now, a heavy downpour had just stopped so this grassy area was pretty well flooded and actually looked like a decent sized pond.
In fact, if I weren’t familiar with this particular park from previous visits, I might have thought that it was a pond and would have excitedly added it to my list of places to explore as potential urban fishing spots.
Just as I caught this little trick of weather in the corner of my eye, a rickety, dented and rusting gardener’s truck chugged out of a side street in front of me and forced me to focus on the task and challenge of bringing an eight-ton rolling hospital to an abrupt slow down on a partially flooded and rain slick road,
“What is that guy doing?” My wife asked but without the same hint of malice that I was harboring for Mr. Gardener at that moment.
“Attempting suicide.” I shot back.
“No, over there.” She said while pointing toward the park, apparently unflustered by our near brush with catastrophe. (That partially explains why she is such a good surgeon — she’s unflappable.)
Secure that we would not have a 1972 Chevy pick-up truck as a new hood ornament, I glanced over to where she was pointing and saw a man spey casting on the same little psuedo-pond that I had been admiring just seconds ago.
“Oh, that. He’s spey casting.” I replied. “And from the looks of it he’s got a Mirage reel from Orvis…”
“What’s that? How can you tell all that from 100 feet away?”
Gifts like that don’t just get handed out every day: My wife was asking ME to tell her about spey casting and equipment…
(as they say on Facebook; OMG!)
… Long story, short. That flung open wide the door for a whole discussion (OK let’s be honest – pontificating) on the art of spey casting and perhaps even allowed for the hint of a seed to be planted regarding potential upcoming birthday gifts and such.
Ah, I love this addiction called urban fly-fishin’.
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