I’ve had a long love affair with the Bahamas and with Grand Bahama Island in particular. I’ve spent many days exploring its vast bonefish habitat—from the lush, food-rich north side with its mangrove abundance to the snotty bones that prowl the achingly clear beaches on the south side. I’ve made friends. And so I agonized, sitting in the comfort of my green little bubble in Vermont, while Hurricane Dorian pummeled the Grand Bahama—especially the East End, where the storm hovered with winds of over 150 mph on September 2^nd—and stubbornly refused to move on.

I fished this past Saturday, and again on Sunday. It was cold — mid 30s — and every once in a while the skies, which were dark and threatening, decided to dump rain on me. Rain, of course, has no place in Montana in January when, by all rights, the precipitation should be white. Still, rain is what we had.