I’ve always been good at self-handicapping.

Sometimes it’s intentional, like when I head to a multi-day shoot (I’m a photographer and writer by trade) and only bring one camera and lens. Or, you know, when I decide I’m only going to fish with a single rod and reel for an entire year.

Yep. One rod. One reel. One year.

I live on Cape Cod.

This means I have a higher than average chance of becoming an opiate addict, and it takes me way too long to drive anywhere in the summer. Also, I’m lucky enough to have world class fishing right out my front door. Putting aside the ‘Salt Life’ ‘Bloody Decks’ bro culture that comes with this, it’s amazing living somewhere where you need a rod in the car at all times in case you pass blitzing stripers while driving around.

"Ah man, not on my pants. Not again."

A knowing sadness weighed the voice bursting sharply from beneath the bathroom stall, startling me mid-stream. Not sure what to say or do to help, I finished depositing an afternoon of coffee and beer and made for the exit, tired from a long weekend talking fishing, wiggling fly rods, and knowingly peering at gear.