He doesn’t know it, but Steve Duda is partly responsible for The Mission existing. I loved the way Duda, a former editor of The Flyfish Journal, put that magazine together, the contributors he worked with, his own writing and the general outlook on what fly fishing writing could be. It did not have to be a tiresome “how to” (an approach better suited to digital) nor an onanistic “look at me” hero thing (hello, Instagram). Instead, it could be anything as long as it was compelling, entertaining and real-personal stories, snapshots of lives well fly fished, in-depth profiles, piss-takes, you name it. The Mission took bits of that as inspiration then went off in its own regenerative direction, but I have always kept Duda in mind as a sort of editorial talisman.

A collection of Duda’s writing, some published in The Flyfish Journal and elsewhere, some new, River Songs unsurprisingly embodies that feel. Accompanied by 14 illustrations by Matthew DeLorme, longer pieces are book-ended by shorter “River Songs”, the collection braiding together into a brilliant, hilarious and powerful read that stays with you long after you put the book down. A few of the highlights include “A Long Run With A Tight Crew”, a dedication to a recently deceased fishing dog; “Cue the Tango Scene”, Duda’s account of a magazine gig to Argentina replete with boat banana sacrilege and cleansing ceremonies; “It Pleases Me, Loving Rivers”, literary icon Raymond Carver’s path as a mad-keen fly angler; a beautiful nature boy dedication in “Make The Sky Better, A Meditation on the Western Cliff Swallow”; and “Sir Longballs”, Duda’s epic telling of both an issue he had with his gonads and some impromptu fly fishing camp dental work he endured among drunk, cheering friends.

Duda’s got few airs and graces. And the ones he exhibits in River Songs will likely make you appreciate your own time – on the water, in nature, and with your fishing friends – even more. mountaineers.org, stevedudawrites.com

Pressure Drop

It’s hard to just sit there – waiting. Nothing to do. Drink some more water. Drink a Kalik, but don’t make too much noise rustling around in that cooler. Ponder the fly box and attempt to hide from the determined Bahamian sun. Fret about the wind and the clouds but cheer at the thought of the fried conch with rice and peas that the ladies in the lodge kitchen, fattened by kindness, have in store for dinner. Tend line for Kasper, the fishing bum from Sweden, who won’t stop twirling that pink-assed bonefish fly between his fingers. Comment on the wind. Say something to break the silence: “Man, this point sure looks fishy.” No one responds. Mutter something else to the guide or to Kasper or to the wind. Try to remember the lyrics to “Pressure Drop” by Toots and the Maytals. The Specials covered that song. Keith Richards had a go. So did The Selecter. The Clash put out a ripping version too. It’s the perfect song for a bonefish skiff. The song’s writer, Toots Hibbert, said the song was about karma. The lyrics are straightforward. The melody is insanely catchy, and once your brain queues it up, it won’t stop playing it: “ . . . pressure drop, oh pressure.”

Since grabbing the first bone on the first cast of the morning, I view forty-five minutes of Kasper’s failures, flubs, screwups, and fumbles as a personal attack – a conspiracy to keep me not fishing while he takes forever on the boat’s casting deck. But I shut up about someone else’s bad luck. It’s bad luck to talk about bad luck. It’s even worse luck to take pleasure in someone’s bad luck. It’s fly fishing karma.

“I don’t know how that lead bone didn’t eat that fly, man,” Kasper says,   gesturing toward the flats. He shakes his head and looks at his bare feet. “He was all over it. Why didn’t he eat?”

He’s not really asking me, but I answer anyway: “Sometimes life ain’t fair, dude.”

“Yeah,” he says. “It almost never is.”

“You’re breaking my heart back here. Catch a fish, for cripes sake. For both of us.”

Mikey Bones, our guide, relights his spliff and I spark a cigarette. Even over the mingling smoke, the stink of desperation is acrid and burning. Mikey is considered one of the finest guides on the planet. Long dreads and a big smile make him instantly recognizable – a friendly face in the fly fishing magazines – but out on the flats, he’s all business.

Mikey asks Kasper, “You seen that fish out there comin’ strong to the boat?”

“Yeah, I saw it.”

“Then why you cast so short?”

Silence. Ears burn. Somewhere a gull cackles. The sun continues to punish. “You can’t put the puck in the net if you’re gripping the stick too tight,” I offer. It’s a lame thing to say. I don’t even know if Kasper likes hockey.

“Ya get down, now. Ya take a break,” Mikey finally tells Kasper.

This is no way for me to take back the casting deck, but Kasper just shrugs, sighs, and reels up. Resigned. A failure.

The sun seems even more intense on deck. The winds never abate. But things are brighter, more in focus. Even the smells – mangroves and mud – wet or baked, soaked or withering, are easier to perceive. The clouds play hide and seek with the sun. I try to remember the names of the clouds. Stratus, cirrus, alto. I think of the word cumulus and let it roll around my mouth. It feels cloudlike. I put names to the clouds lining up to cover the sun – Snoop Dogg, Godzilla, Beast Mode, The Cathedral. I congratulate myself for thinking of the cloud word nimbus even as that cloud – a huge bird shape about to swallow the sun – is whisked away by the wind.

The light splotches across the flat, and somehow a fish sneaks past our famous guide’s famous eyes and glides left to right across the skiff’s bow – a mere thirty feet away. The wind has somehow receded into a slight howl. Even I can see that fish. Even I can make that cast. I put the fly out there before the guide sees the fish and can claim it, but it looks too far to the right. He’s never even gonna see it. But no. The bone slows, turns, and starts tracking the fly. Yes. I give a long, slow strip. I can’t imagine stripping this fly any slower or any smoother. Long strip. Smooth strip. Looooong strip. Smoooooth strip.

“Stop stripping. Stop the fly. Cause dem a crash,” Mikey whisper-shouts. “Make him bump into it. He gon’ take or he gon’ turn and run. Right in they face, man.”

I stop the fly. One more tiny twitch and he’s on. I don’t even have time to trout-set. The bone is well hooked and bolts on his first run, speeding off with everywhere and nowhere to go.

That is ridiculous luck for a mediocre angler. I wash the bonefish slime off my hands and shirt, and reach for a victory Kalik. Kasper steps up on the deck whistling “Pressure Drop.” He’s got the melody right. He’s doing a sassy little skank dance. We all join together and shout-sing the chorus to the clouds and the water and the fish.

Things are about to get even better.

This excerpt from River Songs by Steve Duda first appeared in The Mission Issue 47. Dip into the rest of the magazine, for free, below.