This day was memorable for very ordinary reasons. It felt normal to be out fly fishing with my dad as he was the one who first taught me all those years ago. It felt normal to be out by a lake with a fly rod in my hand. And it felt normal to feel that tug on the end of the line that lets you know you’re in. But, nothing has been normal for any of us lately. My Dad lives in the UK, where I’m from and this was the first time I’d seen him in over 3 years, since before Covid began, and the first time I’d been able to spend more than a couple of hours with him since moving to New York in 2016. I can’t even remember the last time we went fishing together. But, as with all things that mean the most, it felt like no time at all had passed once we were tackled up and had cast that first fly. We were both a little rusty and lost one or two flies to the trees (probably more!), but soon everything came back. I don’t get to fish much nowadays and neither does my dad, but the image of him hooked into his first fish for years, with the mayflies and stoneflies hatching around the water’s edge and the geese fighting in the background, will stay with me forever.