By Steve Brigman

"Look."

Jim Darnell's voice was barely audible from 50 yards away. He stood knee-deep pointing to a group of about 20 blue-wing teal that drifted earthward and disappeared behind the small sandy island we were fishing. The sky had yet to relinquish the morning's warm glow, and the ducks were but silhouettes, only identifiable by their size and their-late season presence.

I turned my attention back to the water, continuing to cast my red and orange clouser toward the sandy patches visible through the clear water of Aransas Bay. I was sure one of them held the redfish that would make my day. Stripping in line in foot-long jerks, I stayed focused on the surface in front of me.

"There" guide Michael Henderson said.

The boil behind my fly vanished as suddenly as it had appeared. An exaggerated sense of disappointment fell over me. I had only the morning to spend with my friends fly fishing for reds. That could have been my only opportunity.

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During the countless hours of sitting on the giant granite blocks that lined the Texas City Dike watching the tips of their rods, it was redfish they most sought. Dead shrimp on the heavily fished strip would indeed occasionally produce a red. That would make the trip.

Redfish populations were struggling in those days, and the two brothers had yet to develop their fishing skills to match the reds. But on a summer day on the shores of Moses Lake, the cast net produced nothing but a few small crabs. With no money to buy bait, a crab was hooked in the side and the rod was soon leaned over a rock while the boys explored the edges of the marsh. They had roamed down the shore a ways when the rod was pulled into the water. Streaking back and wading in, the rod was retrieved and an eight-pound redfish was reeled in, making their day.

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As we eased away from the dock, the sun had yet to show itself. Only a orange glow previewed its arrival. The three of us talked duck hunting as we idled toward the intercoastal canal. Michael chartered duck hunts in the fall and winter and ran bay fishing trips most of the year.

Jim was uncharacteristically without his wife Beth, who does the shooting for their television show, "God's Great Outdoors." I was along to gather a story for my Dallas-area readers. The three of us loved duck hunting and fishing the bays. Jim spends plenty of time chasing reds, specks and flounder on his own, but I was back where I had spent much of my childhood but few of my adult days. The salty smells of the coast brought back memories of years long passed.

We were where we wanted to be and who we wanted to be with. And we had new toys to play with. At a meeting of outdoor writers the night before, Shimano had given me a pair of wading boots and Wade Aid had given us all a wading belt. This was a far cry from the tennis shoes and flowered "jams" that made up my wading attire as a kid.

As we pulled out of the intercoastal into the bay, Michael was explaining to Jim where we were going to start, and it was clear Jim knew exactly where it was. As we neared a long, thin island, Jim pointed out where he had caught fish before.

The water had a familiar warmth as I slipped off the side of the boat. Jim had beat me in, and was loaded for bear. He had three rods in his belt that made him look something like a radio operator in some theater of war with three antennas. Jim waded off on his own while I stayed close to Michael. I find the guides as fascinating as the fishing. We were talking when he spotted the boil behind my fly.

The sandy shoreline we faced would be the backdrop to the last casts of the day; I had a meeting in North Texas the next morning and needed to leave by noon. Michael and I stood close, talking and casting occasionally. Arthritis and carpel tunnel have reduced my ability to cast a No. 8 fly rod to just a couple of hours at a time.

But I couldn't have been more pleased. I was learning from a new friend who had invited me back to his home waters. I liked the idea of keeping a rod in the duck blind for those reds that wander by, as Michael said his bird-hunting clients often did. We were planning a future get-together when I spotted Jim, a couple of hundred yards down the shore, hanging on to a rod arched downward. We talked duck hunting as we watched Jim battle his fish in the distance.

With the clock about to strike 12, Michael and I soon boarded the boat and eased down toward Jim. He was quick to show us the nice redfish that made the day for all of us.