Whenever I close my eyes, I transport myself back to the scene of the crime.

 White sand. Gin-clear water. Big, angry animals patrolling the surf zone.

You know, that place where everything started unravelling with a fly rod in hand. The place where you knew you’d be ruined from here on out and no drug would ever equal the high.

Covered in slime and sand, heart pumping, knees shaking, hands broken from a combo of too much fly line and salt….a shit-eating grin from ear to ear and a powerful creature swimming back to where it belongs.

Yeah, that one.