That part is simple. Sufficiently explaining the “why” has proven an impossible endeavor.

At times, the thrill of the hunt pulls strongest. Long nights preparing leaders, stretching lines, cleaning gear, tying flies, making preparations to tangle with predators of the deep. A pull with primitive origins.

At other times, it is the brute physicality of the game that pulls hardest. Enduring frigid mornings. Pummeling swells. Stiff winds. Ripping a shooting head ninety feet into the churning maelstrom of an ocean rock standing its ground against the winds and tides. A force tethered to pride.

At all times, however, it is an endless sense of wonderment of an ocean that is unfathomably vast, wild, and unknown that feeds my love for this sport. The sheer mathematical and scientific absurdity of fooling any given striper, permit, bonefish, tarpon, or other salty predator into eating a fly. For one beautiful and fleeting moment, handling these magnificent creatures is, at the same time, a primordial victory, a moment of bewildering astonishment, and a grounding experience so powerful as to only be possible by a force of nature.

Flies off my vise ought to capture a little bit of all of that. Tactical hunting weapons. Tools built for the elements. Humble expressions of the natural world as I see and experience it.