The pinnacle of the entire experience took place when Kyle’s and my hand were clasped together in a “biker” style handshake. The grip was fueled by adrenaline and we each let out a primal grunt or two. At that moment I accepted the fact that I had finally landed a bonito on foot, alongside someone who truly understood the importance of my catch. Moments before, the two of us found ourselves in the middle of a grotesque amount of hardtails slashing through massive dark clouds of peanut bunker and silversides. Experiencing the same insanity further off, was our friend Nate, who we could just barely make out. The explosions in front of him were clear as day. Waves of tunoids continually changed their location from out of reach, or down by Nate, to at our feet in a matter of seconds. Another large school approached Kyle and I. We each waited for the ideal time to cast. With approaching fish to my 3:00 and a wind blowing from about 8:00, I reversed my casting direction, made a decent double haul false cast or two, and dumped my fly into the feeding frenzy like we had each done several times prior. Literally in a sweat, my two handed retrieve was brought to an abrupt halt, the line went tight, and I was on! The bonito game has proved to be extremely demanding on foot. For the past couple of years I’ve poured my heart and soul into it, doing whatever I could to piece together a trip that would simply put me in the right vicinity as often as possible. Days spent with “no shows” become the norm, as do the logistical nightmares associated with a trek to the islands. At night you grow accustomed to sleeping in sand and waking up with severe chills that penetrate your lungs. During the day the fatigue catches up fast. It is normal to look over and see your buddy passed out in the sun. Nate…It is 90deg. out. Are you still cold from the night or just too tired to move? But the window of opportunity is short. The fish are only around for 3 months tops, and when you live far way from the action, the window shortens. There’s no time tobe lackadaisical, there‘s no choice but to fish, and fish hard. When you here they’re around, you go, no matter how remote you believe the possibility of you catching one actually is. If you don’t… you won’t. One night this past summer while in the middle of a hardtail tying session over at my friend Nate’s, I got a call from Jeremy. We share an enthusiasm for these fish and this type of fishing that stretches far beyond normalcy! He spoke in a frantic manner, more frantic than usual! The way people do when they’ve been on the water for days. More specifically, into fish for days, and ridiculous amounts of them. There wasn’t time to be rational, with chasing bonito on foot there probably never is. Come hell or high water, I planned to be down the next day and was. Kyle and I immediately spotted acres of fish blowing up the moment we arrived but the action slowly moved offshore and before long the night had fallen. Welcome to the shore game. Nate linked up with us for day two and it proved to be one of the most eventful hardtail days I’ve ever witnessed. Success from shore is based on the number of shots you get. I consider a single shot to be an excellent day of fishing, I‘ve grown to accept and appreciate having low standards. That day I had one shot, and my friends had several apiece. What a day! Again arriving at first light the following day, it proved to be the day I had envisioned throughout that long New Hampshire winter, a day when the fish were just everywhere and the shots were counted by the dozen. I’d been clocking into the game for awhile but that day it was time to punch out. Bonito on foot…check!