a comparison of the two sports
Most people came to fly fishing after standing on a rubber mat in public trying to strike a golf ball with a club. Golf failed to hold their interest, probably because it was peaceful seeing the ball trickle away off the tee area after it was struck. They hit an entire bucket of rental balls with pink stripes, then asked, “What’s next?”
Really, there wasn’t enough to do-- just tee it up and hit it-- one right after the other, and the guy picking up golf balls in the cart had screen around him. “Play” didn’t seem that attractive. They imagined a sport where the target moved and might die if you hit it, like duck hunting but easier, and they turned to fly fishing, having no real idea what they were getting into.
Avid golfers seldom turn away from their game to learn fly fishing. To be a golfer you must have a screwed up self image, thinking that you look like a million bucks out there on the course, that the next shot will be a really fine one, regardless of all past performance. A thirty handicap golfer somehow holds onto what he calls his “game,” and he’s fine with it.
Many fly fishermen know they look bad and their casting is awful. They become “sick of it” after a few years flailing away and not catching many fish, sick of being a high-handicap fisherman. Weary of being asked when returning home from all day fishing trips--“Did you catch anything?”--they long for a simple game like golf, and put all their fly fishing tackle away for good. Back to the rubber mats. Why? What happened along the way?
Knots happened, for one thing, knots that come untied when a fish pulls on the line, leaving a little tell-tale curly-cue where the knot was...for everyone to see. Nothing in golf calls for excellent close-up vision like knot tying. Old guy golfers don’t have to wear special glasses on a string around their neck, or funny-looking magnifiers that clip to their fishing cap. A golfer who can see his feet and dress himself can play.
Fly fishermen are taught that bulky, poorly tied knots are bad for a variety of reasons. Small, proven knots are important to know. Dozens of websites and books teach knot tying because there are hundreds of knots and special techniques. Why fly anglers won’t stick with a few of the basics and learn to tie them in all conditions including total darkness is beyond the scope of this writer, but I can report that I personally had a knot slip last week. (You, the reader, had better not approach me with your favorite knot as a solution...at least for a few more days. I failed, not the effing knot!)
A wonderful, proven knot isn’t worth a s--t if it isn’t tied correctly every time, and that’s the essence of the problem. A knot that’s simple to tie at a desk in your den, under a bright light and a magnifying glass, can be impossible to tie when it’s windy where you’re fishing, or the boat’s lurching around, or if fish are suddenly biting, frothing the water within casting distance and excited hands are trembling, and your buddy has another fish on.
Knots slip and fail when they’re stressed, which means when there’s a big fish on the line. God never seems to care if it’s the only fish of the day or the biggest fish anyone on the boat has ever seen. Saying things like, “Oh, Jesus, please don’t let him get off!” fails as often as bad knots. He lets knots fail like he has hungry children, and after a while fly fishermen just don’t want to do it anymore, and look back to golf.
To compare a golfer to a fly fisherman, let’s assume a 22-handicap golfer--shoots in the nineties, hits enough decent shots in a round to “keep him coming back,” and a fly fisherman who’s learned to cast 50 feet reliably if the wind’s not blowing. He has caught a trout from a guide boat in Montana, where it’s impossible not to catch a trout when the water’s not hard--no trees to catch behind him and a guide to put him very close to likely spots. And, he catches small bluegills from the edge of a friend’s pond, where a long cast is forty feet and there’s a low, grassy bank behind him. Like the 22-handicap golfer, his swing’s bad--his cast-- and he rarely makes a really good one. Somehow, they always seem weak, though he’s watched casting videos, and once took a group lesson. His backcast, with its equivalent in golf’s backswing, somehow just doesn’t work well, and his forward cast is a disaster half the time.
Sometimes he “misses” fish that actually try to eat the fly. His companion may offer a suggestion at that point, like, “You want to keep that line pointing right at the fish when you strike,” but he knows it’s rude and thoughtless and could lead to the loser knocking him overboard. A simple, “Too bad,” is correct when a big fish is missed by any angler for any reason.
Really, there wasn’t enough to do-- just tee it up and hit it-- one right after the other, and the guy picking up golf balls in the cart had screen around him. “Play” didn’t seem that attractive. They imagined a sport where the target moved and might die if you hit it, like duck hunting but easier, and they turned to fly fishing, having no real idea what they were getting into.
Avid golfers seldom turn away from their game to learn fly fishing. To be a golfer you must have a screwed up self image, thinking that you look like a million bucks out there on the course, that the next shot will be a really fine one, regardless of all past performance. A thirty handicap golfer somehow holds onto what he calls his “game,” and he’s fine with it.
Many fly fishermen know they look bad and their casting is awful. They become “sick of it” after a few years flailing away and not catching many fish, sick of being a high-handicap fisherman. Weary of being asked when returning home from all day fishing trips--“Did you catch anything?”--they long for a simple game like golf, and put all their fly fishing tackle away for good. Back to the rubber mats. Why? What happened along the way?
Knots happened, for one thing, knots that come untied when a fish pulls on the line, leaving a little tell-tale curly-cue where the knot was...for everyone to see. Nothing in golf calls for excellent close-up vision like knot tying. Old guy golfers don’t have to wear special glasses on a string around their neck, or funny-looking magnifiers that clip to their fishing cap. A golfer who can see his feet and dress himself can play.
Fly fishermen are taught that bulky, poorly tied knots are bad for a variety of reasons. Small, proven knots are important to know. Dozens of websites and books teach knot tying because there are hundreds of knots and special techniques. Why fly anglers won’t stick with a few of the basics and learn to tie them in all conditions including total darkness is beyond the scope of this writer, but I can report that I personally had a knot slip last week. (You, the reader, had better not approach me with your favorite knot as a solution...at least for a few more days. I failed, not the effing knot!)
A wonderful, proven knot isn’t worth a s--t if it isn’t tied correctly every time, and that’s the essence of the problem. A knot that’s simple to tie at a desk in your den, under a bright light and a magnifying glass, can be impossible to tie when it’s windy where you’re fishing, or the boat’s lurching around, or if fish are suddenly biting, frothing the water within casting distance and excited hands are trembling, and your buddy has another fish on.
Knots slip and fail when they’re stressed, which means when there’s a big fish on the line. God never seems to care if it’s the only fish of the day or the biggest fish anyone on the boat has ever seen. Saying things like, “Oh, Jesus, please don’t let him get off!” fails as often as bad knots. He lets knots fail like he has hungry children, and after a while fly fishermen just don’t want to do it anymore, and look back to golf.
To compare a golfer to a fly fisherman, let’s assume a 22-handicap golfer--shoots in the nineties, hits enough decent shots in a round to “keep him coming back,” and a fly fisherman who’s learned to cast 50 feet reliably if the wind’s not blowing. He has caught a trout from a guide boat in Montana, where it’s impossible not to catch a trout when the water’s not hard--no trees to catch behind him and a guide to put him very close to likely spots. And, he catches small bluegills from the edge of a friend’s pond, where a long cast is forty feet and there’s a low, grassy bank behind him. Like the 22-handicap golfer, his swing’s bad--his cast-- and he rarely makes a really good one. Somehow, they always seem weak, though he’s watched casting videos, and once took a group lesson. His backcast, with its equivalent in golf’s backswing, somehow just doesn’t work well, and his forward cast is a disaster half the time.
Sometimes he “misses” fish that actually try to eat the fly. His companion may offer a suggestion at that point, like, “You want to keep that line pointing right at the fish when you strike,” but he knows it’s rude and thoughtless and could lead to the loser knocking him overboard. A simple, “Too bad,” is correct when a big fish is missed by any angler for any reason.
In golf if a player hits his ball out of bounds, he might turn to another player and ask, “What did I do wrong?”, thereby asking for a correction, which will surely be given, with thoughtful observations like, “I didn’t see a lot of face rotation,” and, “You might try keeping your hips quiet.” Inexperienced fly fishermen will not recognize how harmful this sort of commentary can be to the player hitting the ball, and will see it as camaraderie and want more of it.
Golf’s comparative tranquility is appealing to a fly fisherman, with its established rules and boundaries and television announcers who speak in reverent, hushed tones. Tee up a ball, see the flag in the distance or refer to a diagram on the score card, hit the ball towards it. Drive a little electric cart to the ball, hit it again until it drops in a hole marked with a flag. Fewest hits wins.
Golf offers ways to adjust the outcome during competitive play in ways fly fishing doesn’t have, and some discouraged fly fishermen take to it like fat boys to cheesecake. When fish are landed, then measured or weighed, both anglers see the tape or scales to determine whose was bigger, but in golf, a gentleman’s game with books of rules, players are often many yards away from each other, and a ball can be teed up in the rough, or “adjusted” from a bad lie in a fairway divot by pushing it around with a club, or a “lost” ball--maybe one hit waaay back in the brambles-- can be miraculously found. (A spare from the player’s pocket is dropped surreptitiously as a replacement, to avoid a penalty. In dense underbrush it is common for this type of player to search for a small clearing before “finding” the ball.) And sometimes a stroke is not counted on the score card by a player who contends that his arm motion that looked like a full whack at the ball was just a practice stroke. It’s always seemed just like cheating to me, but what do I know, I’m just a fly fisherman, so far untouched by gentlemanly behavior.
In fly fishing, the target, a fish, is often invisible, and its job in life is to move, called “high tailing it.” Having a mouth only on one end, a fly cast to a fish-- should you be lucky enough to actually see the fish-- to where it was is the equivalent of a shank in golf, except it happens more often.
Usually a fish will move away from the angler, so the distance increases and angles change, requiring adjustments during the cast. A golfer faced with the hole moving thirty feet to his left as he’s in mid-swing would probably weep openly. Imagine what would happen to the game of golf if the hole closed up as the ball approached, yet it’s routine to have a fish turn and swim away from a perfectly presented fly, which happens to anglers fishing for permit on a regular basis. Sometimes tears can be seen in their eyes.
A fly fisherman of average ability will routinely make poor casts, which can have unforeseen results. A barbed fly with a large hook can come zinging through the air as the fly comes forward at speed, sticking into the caster’s flesh or a companion’s--I saw a picture once of a size 2/0 tarpon fly hook-- a hook large enough to hang a macrame porch swing-- piercing the nose flap of an angler.
Believe it or Not, there is a technique demonstrated at a Fly Fishing Club meeting I attended recently-- using a lemon with a hook stuck in it to simulate a body part--for removing a barbed hook stuck in live human flesh. It’s simple: A strong string or fishing line is passed around the hook where it bends. (The barb’s stuck in the meat, remember.) Then someone, maybe the hooked angler himself, holds down on the long part of the hook--the shank-- while another person holding the string, acting like he knows what he’s doing, yanks quickly and firmly on the hook, thereby removing it cleanly, backing it out of the hole it made going in.
Now, imagine it’s your nose with the big hook in it, and you’re six miles out on the flats off Key West in choppy seas in a small boat, and your pal who’s had a few beers is preparing to remove the hook. You might be saying to yourself, “God, please get me back with my nose intact and I’ll quit fly fishing. I’ll take up golf, I swear.”
On the golf course a sudden cardiac arrest for a player means that the following foursome plays through. EMTs in a meat wagon with flashing lights make their way to the patient’s side and whisk him off to the local ER. The guy’s got a good chance, right?
If Ol’ Bob has a CA in a small skiff, it’s a different story. Just moving all 200 lbs of him presents big problems. What if he’s in sixteen inches of muddy water, wading for bass, or tumbling along over slippery rocks in a fast, icy stream? Lift, drag...what now? Maybe you couldn’t lift him back in the boat, dark’s coming on and you’re wading in a big Florida lake. Gators? Oh, yeah, gimme some golf!
(A good friend of mine was attacked by a 10 ft. alligator while we waded for bluegills at Lake Istokpoga. On another outing my son was hit by a stingray in shallow water while we waded in the Indian River. Hospital visits pronto! Golfers never get to have excitement like that. Think bull sharks on bonefish flats, bears in Alaskan salmon rivers. Think golf.)
Lightening culls a few golfers and fly fishermen every year, the dumb ones mostly. The smarter golfers race for the bar at the sign of a dark cloud. Fly fishing with a graphite fly rod as a storm approaches is a form of suicide comparable to pulling a gun on a Texas lawman, but if a fly fisherman sees a bonefish with his tail up, you can bet he’ll stay and try him, to hell with the weather. Golf holes don’t beckon like a big fish can.
Golfers with bad backs shorten their swings, take it easy, use an extra club. Fly fishermen in search of different varieties of salt water fish must ride in small skiffs that can slam and pound relentlessly in moderately choppy seas. What starts out as a fun day can turn into a nightmare for a guy with a bad back. What if he gets seasick at the same time? A golf cart looks mighty good.
“Penalty strokes” may sound ominous, but are applied to the score, not the player. A fly fisherman who makes a truly bad cast--equal to, say, a ball hit far out of bounds into a school yard-- may be required to spend quite a few minutes--all morning maybe-- reorganizing his tackle, called, “getting his s--t together,” before making another cast. In some cases an entire $80 fly line must replaced before casting can begin again. The golfer simply “takes a stroke,” drops another ball in a clean spot and whacks it towards the hole.
Some fly fishermen return to golf because it’s cheaper, waay cheaper. Golfers jump in a car with a pal and drive twenty miles to play a different course, just for fun, paying maybe--on a top Florida course--$100 for a tee time, much less at most places. No worries about tides or boats or rough water conditions.
If you’re an avid American fly fisherman you must travel thousands of miles if you want to catch Giant Trevally in the Seychelles or huge rainbows in Argentina, or tarpon in Costa Rica, just to name a few of the most popular fish and destinations, because that’s where they live. Each offers a completely different experience, unlike visiting a golf course that’s basically the same everywhere if you hit the ball where you should. Add the cost of two new fly rods, reels and lines to the travel and lodging for a week’s trip a fly fisherman can spend over ten thousand bucks, easy. It’s enough to keep a guy awake at night. Naturally, a fly fisherman would want new fly rods for the different challenges presented by each species. He could buy cheapo outfits, but he knows they won’t cast as well, and can you imagine traveling 1,000 miles to fish with embarrassing equipment?
A set of 14 fancy new clubs, bag and shoes can cost $3,000-$4,000. Sure, you can do it cheaper, but golf’s all about confidence, right? Wouldn’t you control the ball better and get more distance with a new set of Pings? You’d look better on the tee and be recognized as a “player.” So, you buy ‘em, put off getting the new car. They’re solid, sitting out there in the car trunk, or at the club. They’re part of you. They last forever. Once you’ve got the Pings you can relax, take ‘em anywhere in the world and look good.
The same mental game exists in fishing, the eternal quest for distance and control, but the choices of rods, reels and lines are bewildering, with specialized outfits for nearly every species of fish. Our twenty handicap fly fisherman with an attitude about his equipment like our golfer would have top-of-the line fly tackle...rods, reels, lines and flies. Say, a 4 and a 5 wt for smaller fish like trout and bluegills in fresh water, a 7 and an 8 wt for light saltwater fish like seatrout, bonefish, maybe salmon, and the occasional offshore fish like bonito and mackerel. Add one 10 wt outfit for big redfish, snook and small tarpon. Now, add a spare spool and line for each reel, so you have both a floating and a sinking line alternative to meet different conditions. That’s 10 fly lines at about $75 each, or $750, and spare spools at, maybe, $150, or $750. Rods, average of $600 each, or $3000 for the five rods. Reels, maybe an average of $500 each, or $2500. So far that’s around $7,000 invested. Could be a little less in some cases, and a lot more for specialty, big name branded gear.
Fly rods, unlike golf clubs, are very fragile and subject to attack by paddle fans in motel rooms, car doors and boat hatches. Fish can snap ‘em too if they’re handled carelessly, like when anglers put too much bend in the rod when there’s a big fish on the line at boat side. There’s a known term for that called, “high sticking”. It’s a common error caused by excitement and lack of experience. Oh, to be a golfer and never hear that loud crunching “snap” as the rod breaks... just before the fish gets away.
(Climbing back into a boat one day while wade fishing I sat on a pal’s rod tip. It snapped. While apologizing, showing the mess I’d made, the line on the rod found its way around the trolling motor propeller, which tangled and stretched it beyond repair.)
Let’s not get into here a long discussion of boat ownership as a means of catching more fish, as costs vary widely for boats, but the reader should know that all fly fishermen end up in boats if they have any money left after buying all the rods, reels, lines and tackle they “need.” The simple idea is to get nearer more fish to throw your flies towards, and after an angler has fished hard standing on dirt--wet or dry-- for months, not catching many fish, the desire for a boat follows quite naturally. It’s what fly anglers call a “need.” Maverick Boats has a 16 foot model that seems quite nice, a boat that would take an angler and a pal fishing for multiple species in Florida. Package price, $50,000... used. There is no equivalent cost in golf.
If you leave tomorrow to fish for permit in the Florida Keys you will need to pay a guide who does have a boat. Ditto for many other fish in different parts of the country. Gotta have a guide. Golf doesn’t have guides. A day with a Florida Keys guide with a skiff costs around $600 per day for two anglers.
Fly fishermen in search of permit who spend a few 8 hour days with a guide in Key West rarely actually catch one, though they look where the guide says to look, and try their best not to screw up any casts they might get. Despite doing their best, fly anglers are often hollered at most of the day by the guide, except when they’re eating lunch. After a week of that and not catching a permit--wind and sun burned, hammered in a flat-bottomed skiff by afternoon chop on the water while heading back to the dock--- permit fly fishermen have been known to give all their tackle away at the dock. Hollering just isn’t done on the golf course.
Private club memberships are available in golf and fly fishing, and are always a plus, though they can be expensive. All that water you see in Colorado? Most of it’s private or unfishable for a variety of reasons...like the Poudre River in Ft. Collins, which looks gorgeous but is fast and treacherous. A guide can help you avoid the Poudre by taking you somewhere else to fish. (It takes time to get accustomed to the pronunciation, which is, “pooter.”) Or, just west of Fort Collins In Walden, Colorado you might be able to get a membership in a decent fly fishing club with a reasonable $10,000 membership fee. Ask at North Park Anglers, the fly shop, about membership. Don’t want to join a club, don’t want a guide? Fish the North Platte River on your own. Good luck with that.
It’s also easy to see why so many fly fishermen miss the cleaner game of golf. Usually a golfer’s hands don’t smell of fish even after a sloppy eighteen holes, and bloody clothing is rare, while anglers can look like car wreck victims after a day catching fish like mackerel. A golfer gets to clean his balls regularly, while a fly fisherman, if he’s lucky, may get to wipe his hands on a slimy rag. No messy fish cleaning, no cooking with hot, bubbling grease.
Ah, to look like Ricky Fowler on the course, the youthful pro golfer in colorful attire-- maybe orange slacks, orange shirt and a chartreuse cap over $300 pink shoes. Now, that’s golfin’!
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