or a short time, my life felt as perfectly balanced as the 11-foot surf rod riding on my shoulder as I clomped along a beach in waders, a converted Army surplus plug bag bouncing on my hip, a piece of pot warp found on the sand serving as a shoulder strap. I could pick up the rod in my sleep, open the bail and uncork a cast that traveled straight and true into the night. I was catching well and was as comfortable in my skin
