The fly line hisses as it shoots through the rings, the salt-laden north wind catching it as it touches the waves. The angler, hunched against the elements, pulls in the slack, and waits for the line and flies to sink before beginning a jerky retrieve. Halfway back the line stops, then goes slack again. A muffled curse is lost to the breeze. That's the second one to come short today. Three casts later a sharp tug is accompanied by a swirl amid the white topped waves. That one is on