From: Jori Date: Mon, 19 Jul 1999 16:20:03 -0400 Subject: Lessons V: On the Fly Title: Lessons V: On the Fly Author: Jori Rating: PG-13 Category: SHR Keywords: UST Summary: Scully teaches Mulder the finer art of using lines and handling his fly. All previous Lessons can be found at: http://www.netroenterprises.com/stories ************************************* Somewhere in the Maryland panhandle June 26, 1999 The water is flowing steadily past her as she stands solidly on the floor of the riverbed, unmoved by its motion. It gently splashes around and over rocks, carrying years of debris and sediment slowly downstream, and taking fish along for the ride. Thoug h the water isn't pouring down the riverbed in rapids by any means, it makes Scully look smaller than she is. Water has a way of doing that, reminding humans of their real place on this earth. It gives us life and it can take it away. The large trees provide some shade but not much. The afternoon sun glitters off the surface, creating a dazzling light show of small rainbows as it flows around her. Scully is a dazzling show herself, standing in that cool water, old blue jeans on, castin g and recasting that fishing line repeatedly. I am almost disappointed that she doesn't have a floppy, old fishermen's hat on, covered in hooks and lures. Instead she is wearing a normal baseball cap with her hair pulled in a ponytail through the back. I knew she was going to have to do something good to top our afternoon on the links. I just didn't imagine she would have me driving for hours to the panhandle of Maryland to meet her at some river. This must be her little revenge for making her drive all the way to Virginia Beach for a lesson in beach volleyball. All my answering service said was check my E-mail immediately. In it were the precise directions on how to get to this spot, a tributary of the Savage River called, strangely enough, Blue Lick. It also included an advisory to stop at Ed's on the last road and pick something up. Ed would know what I meant when I got there. I was expecting Ed to hand me a canoe paddle, but instead he handed me a fishing license form to fill out. My dreams of watching Scully rowing a boat all afternoon were dashed. "I would have taken you to Red Lobster for dinner, Scully. You didn't have to go to such extremes for some fish," I say, and she turns to me, puts her hand up to shade her eyes and smiles. I'm standing on the riverbank, the sun behind me. She reels in her line, and wades over to the edge. "What do you know about fly-fishing, Mulder?" she asks me, and I look at her dumbfounded. Where in the hell did she learn to fly-fish? This isn't something one just learns out of a book. It must have been her father. "I know that it is all in the wrist," I say, as I flick my wrist in an almost obscene way. She rolls her eyes and sets her equipment down on the rocky bank of the river. She looks great in the late afternoon sun. I've seen her often before at this exact moment of the day. But this isn't Scully in a suit out on some work-related endeavor. The Scully before me is out in the woods and having fun. And properly equipped for a trip out into the wild for a change, I might add. Her face is slightly tanned, and I know if I could get close enough, I would see freckles through that tinted sun-screen. Besides her fishing gear and hat, she is also wearing a t-shirt with 'Virginia Beach Spring Break '99' embroidered across the chest. A pair of sunglasses protects her eyes from the glare off the water. She wanted a change of clothes before we headed back to DC that day. One kid we had been playing volleyball with picked this one out for her, although it was well past spring break. I preferred the shirt that said Virginia is for Lovers' but settled for this one. I like it because it reminds me of the day I decided to push some limits of volleyball terminology. That was nothing compared to golf. I wonder what she has up her tackle box for this weekend? "Come here," she says, as she reaches into another bag of equipment. She pulls out a pair of hip waders, these large rubbery things. "These were Bill's. I think they will fit you. Or if you don't mind getting wet, you can forgo them." "Are you getting wet?" I ask, looking her up and down. Her jeans are wet up to her knees, and I can tell she got splashed once or twice. She blushes at my question, and it makes her skin look better. "I'm not that wet, yet," she says, as she hands me the waders. "I forgot to tell you to bring a change of clothes, so unless you want to drive back to DC soaked, I suggest you put these on." I look down the long leg to make sure her brother didn't hide any asps in there in the unlikely event I should ever be wearing them. If he would have, his gamble would have paid off. I lose my balance as I try to step into them, and end up with my hands o n her shoulders for support. "Let me help you," she says, as she takes the hipboots out of my hands, and holds them in a way that I can step into them. This is not the first time Scully has helped me put on an item of clothing. Usually it is a piece of equipment, such as a kevlar ves t. There is something about a woman dressing a man that I find sexy in some strange way. Perhaps it is just because she is touching me. The only thing I hate is when she messes with my tie. She has also undressed me plenty of times. I just wish I hadn't been passed out cold or near death when any of those times ever happened. I wish I was conscious if only so I could see the expression on her face. "Scully, you are amazing at putting rubbers on," I say to her with a smile after I'm nestled in my waders. "That is one skill I have mastered, Mulder," she says to me with a teasing grin. She pulls a hat out of the bag and places it on my head. I get the floppy fisherman's hat. "Do I have to wear one of those vests with tackle in the pockets, too?" I ask, wondering what else she is pulling out of her bag. "I'm going to look like Lt. Colonel Henry Blake in a few moments if you don't stop it." "I was working on the 'Brad Pitt fly-fishing on a Montana river' look, but I think that is impossible here," she says. She steps back and looks at me. "Well, maybe in one of his scruffier movies." "Thank you," I say, as I try to get used to walking around in these things. Maybe I should have just gone for the wet look. "I'm going to go over some equipment with you. There isn't much that isn't already set up, so you shouldn't get too bored," she tells me. Simply listening to her is enough to keep anything from getting monotonous. "What else is there besides a cane pole and a piece of string with a worm on the end?" I ask, and she puts her hands on her hips. I hope she isn't going to give me one of those 'fly-fishing is a religion' speeches. There is only one true religion. And th at is baseball. "There are five elements to this sport. The fly, flyline, leader, rod, backing, and reel. Which to choose is determined by what you are fishing for and how experienced you are," she says, licking her lips. "Do you always have to pick something I'm not experienced at? I am quite good at some things you know," I say, but Scully just keeps right on teaching. "First, let's discuss the dynamics of your rod," she says to me, watching me closely as I swallow hard. Our sports of choice have become head games more than an actual game itself. 'Anything you can do, I can do better.' We are just waiting to see who is going to crack first and who is going to be the loser at this. Perhaps in losing, we would win . . . "Is that one my rod?" I ask. "The one that leans to the left?" She looks at rods leaning against a tree. There's a few of them to choose from, not that I would even begin to know how to go about picking out a fly-fishing pole. Scully walks over and chooses one for me and puts it in my hands. I swish it over my head a nd through the air a few times until she grabs my arm and takes it from me. "The longer the rod, the more energy is required to cast it, but the easier it is to control the line," she says, as she moves her hand gracefully up my pole. "I'm all for a long rod. How about you?" I ask. She just keeps right on going, not missing a beat. "Stiffness on the other hand, depends on the rod's thickness, the material from which it is made and its taper. Of the various rod materials, graphite is the stiffest, whereas bamboo, and then fiberglass, are less stiff," she continues, ignoring my looks. "This one is graphite." "Stiff and long," I say, admiring her ability to keep a straight face. "What is more important when you choose a rod, Scully? The length or the stiffness?" "The way a rod is tapered, the transition from a thick base to a thin tip, will decide its action," she says, ignoring any comments I make. "Amen," I say, wondering what any of that had to with catching fish. She steps away from me and casts the line out into the water, but doesn't whip it back. "This is the flyline," she says, as she points to the line in the middle. "They are classified by weight, taper, and density. Density is if they float or sink. The lighter the line the more delicate they are in their presentation and they cast small flies well. The density of flylines also differs. There are floating lines meant to always stay on top of the water's surface. There are sinking lines meant to stay below the surface. And some fall between. Your first should be a floating line. They are the m ost common, the easiest to learn with and the most versatile." "I want my first to be versatile," I say. When Scully gives the instructions, she is unflappable. I can get her to break down a little when I'm showing her how to do something. She should know that I'm not just going to stand here in silence while she tos ses around notions of stiff rods. "A flyline is usually around 90 feet in length. On this one there is 60 feet of thin diameter running line, and a thirty-foot section known as the head. The head consists of the front taper, belly, and rear taper. The combination of different tapers and d ifferent diameters of belly can greatly affect the line's casting characteristics. A weight forward line has a moderate front and rear taper," she says, as seriously as possible. "Heads, fronts, bellies and rears," I say. That was really all I got out of that. "A leader is attached between the fly and the flyline. The wide end is known as the butt, and this is what gets attached to the flyline. The middle of the leader is called the mid-section. The narrow end is known as the tippet, and this is what attaches to the fly. The leader keeps the large flyline away from the fish, and it also softens the flies' approach to the water. Leaders are classified by an X system, which designates the tippet diameter for that particular leader. Every leader's X-rating is the same. Three X means the same for all of them," she says. "I didn't know you were interested in any hobbies that had anything classified by a system of Xs. But I must say that triple X *does* not always mean the same thing. Hey, did I mention I finally got that bill paid off?" I ask, only to be ignored. "There are only a few different types of reels. This is a single action. It isn't like your bait fish reel. You'll see that in a moment," she says. Obviously she doesn't know how long it has been since I went fishing at all. "It's been awhile since I took my rod out and went fishing. A long while . . ." I say, my voice lowering, and that stops her for just a brief moment. So maybe she isn't so unflappable. I just have to find the right thing to say and the right way to say it . "This is the most important and hardest part of fly-fishing to learn. The cast. The backcast can be broken down into three sections. The first step is to begin moving the rod slowly upward to apply tension to the line. The second step is to accelerate the line and then abruptly stop. The third step is to allow the rod to drift back slowly a little bit to prepare for the forward cast. It is very important that you abruptly stop the rod at the 12 o'clock position," she says, as she begins to reel the line in. "Get my rod to the 12 o'clock position and abruptly stop. I think I can handle that," I say. She gets the line reeled in and goes on with her instructions. I wonder how much of my instructions she absorbs? Sometimes I just watch her mouth move, and listen to the words as they flow through the air. But if I were tested on this tomorrow, only my eidetic memory would save me. "The forward cast can be broken down into two sections. The first step is to accelerate the rod to an abrupt stop. The second step is to follow through to a finish. Again, the abrupt stop at around 11 o'clock is very important. The forward cast power stro ke is very similar to the cracking of a whip. The follow through just helps absorb some of the power to allow the line to land quietly," she says. She swishes the rod in the air, showing me the positions without casting. "I think I'm ready to try," I lie. I have no damn clue what I'm doing. "So, you're ready for a one-on-one demonstration?" she asks, her voice so casual and light as she offers me the same thing I offered her on the driving range. She enjoys our games as much as I do. She just isn't going to admit it readily. "Hey, I'm packing some rubber. I must be ready for some one-on-one," I tell her as I follow her to the river's edge. She leads me into the water, carrying the pole she was just using to explain stiffness and length. "Tying the flies used to be the hardest part, but it is only legal to use artificial ones here. There are still many knots to learn, but due to time constraints, I'll save that for another day. This one is a nymph, by the way," she says, pointing at the t hing dangling off the end of the line. "These are courtesy of Ed." "How well does a man have to know a woman before he lets her go messing with his fly?" I ask her. "Ed? He and I go way back," Scully says, not adding anymore. Of course, I would worry more if Ed hadn't been about 300 pounds and well over 70 years old. I stand back from her, wishing that this instruction required me to wrap my arms around her again. It doesn't look like that is going to happen this time. "What now?" I ask. "Watch me. Focus on how my wrist moves. Observe the movement of my body as I cast. Pay attention to the way the fly barely touches the surface of the water and then is brought back again," she says, as she begins the intricate movements. It is almost a da nce, as she casts the line. It forms a graceful arch in the air as it hits the water, only to be pulled back behind her. She repeats it again, her body making the precise movements required, the rod stopping abruptly like she said it should, with the line continuing. "Beautiful," I mumble, and it breaks her concentration. The line hits the water and is pulled away a short distance by the current. "Ready to learn?" she asks, motioning for me to come closer. I wade until I'm standing right behind her. She leans into me, her body fitting into mine. "I'm always ready to learn anything you have to teach me," I say. My arms go around her, holding her waist and rocking with her in the shallow water. She stiffens a little, tensing under my touch. This isn't a part of the fly-fishing lesson she had planne d. She gradually becomes comfortable in my arms, and sinks back into me. I hear her breathing change, and it becomes more shallow. Or maybe that is me. I can barely hear over the rush of my heartbeat in my ears and the bubbling water around us. I curse th e fact that I am dressed for standing in a damn stream. Suddenly, she snaps back to reality and steps forward a little, getting back to business. "Put this hand over mine," she says, and I oblige. "Now it is all a matter of timing and touch." Just like everything in life. Timing and touch. Instead of speaking, I just feel her movements. She is right. There is no way one could give oral instructions on how to do this. This is something learned with practice. I can see Scully standing out here, her dad behind her, calling her Starbuck. He would be showing her how to fly cast with the same perfection in which she does everything. He would set her timing, calling out the movements. She would try to please him. That is why she would be standing in this river in the first place, trying to learn right along side her brothers. I feel her body move back into mine and then forward. Back and forth. Back and forth. It is like dancing, as we move together. The rhythm is distracting as I try my hardest to pay attention to what she is teaching. What is she trying to instruct here? I c annot hold my hands over hers the way I did in any of her previous sports. She pulls at the line, getting the tension she needs. All I can do is stand behind her and feel the way her body moves. My one hand covers hers on the base of the pole, but the oth er one is wrapped around her waist. The line arches out in the air, dancing back and forth. The fly skips about the surface, teasing the fish that might be right under the water. She pulls it back again, only to send it to the exact same spot. Every snap she makes sends a rhythmic whoosh w hoosh whoosh through the air and it does sound like the cracking of a whip. Nothing is biting but who cares. Scully stops casting and reels in the line just a little. Now both of my hands are around her waist, holding her still in the moving water. She stands there for a moment, looking out over the river before turning around in my hands and facing me, looking up at me through her sunglasses. None of our lessons required us to stand this way and I'm sure this one doesn't either. I know she had to notice my breath catch as she turned, and she smiles just a little. "You ready to try it?" she asks. "I'm ready to try anything," I answer. "You will have to let go of me," she says, and I don't move. We stand there with the water flowing past us for a few moments before I release her. The time she was in my arms wasn't that long and she doesn't step back from me the second my arms drop to my sides. She and I just stand there feeling the current wrap around our legs. She clears her throat and steps back, the spell of the river broken. For now. I take the rod out of her hand and try to imitate everything she did. Instead of the line flowing gracefully through the air, it gets snagged in a tree behind us. "Hey, at least I caught something," I say, as Scully wades over and untangles the fly from the foliage. "Here, let me show you again," she says, as she takes the rod from my hands and somehow quickly maneuvers herself in front of me. My hand goes back over hers, while the other one goes around her waist. We repeat the moves over and over and I try to memori ze the quick movements she makes. I know she won't keep coming back to my arms if I can't figure it out. Eventually she will just give up. After a few minutes of her instructing me again, I try it by myself again. This time, I'm a little more successful though I know I can't do it with her grace and ease. She offers me hints from the sidelines, and I avoid catching any more wood. But I don't catch any fish, either. The summer sun causes me to sweat although I'm standing in cool water. Keeping the line moving constantly is more strenuous than she made it look, and I want to take a break. Scully has her own rod now and is fishing downstream from me. I wade over to her , avoiding getting scalped by the hook. "Scully, I don't usually object to wearing rubbers, but this is a bit much," I say, and she keeps her rhythm perfectly. "I never said you had to wear 'em. It all depends on how wet you want to get," she says, not looking at me, not missing a beat with the fly-line. I know I have a change of clothes in my car from the last time I played basketball. It is a trade off. Stay hot but dry in these things or drive back to DC in old gym shorts. I think I'll have to go with the gym shorts. They are abandoned on the riverbank, along with the hat, rod and reel. I just want to watch her. I'm not sure that Scully is even aware of what I'm doing. I move down the rocky bank until I'm standing closer to where she is. She moves out into the stream a little more, the water coming up higher on her legs. Still she casts her line repeatedly, turning it into the art form that it is. I sit and wait for her to stop. Finally, she does. Scully doesn't notice me as she wades out of the water. She sets her rod on the embankment and abandons her sunglasses and hat. She takes a sip out of her Naya bottle before she returns to her spot in the river. Scully wipes her hands on the front of her jeans, and then crosses her arms in front of her. She stands there in silent introspection and I can only imagine what or whom she is reflecting on. Father? Mother? Brothers? Sister? Someone taught her to do this, and I'm sure this reminds her of them. Just like golf reminds me of ninth hole delights, I'm sure this reminds her of family times. Standing, I quietly move behind her. She is still watching the river run by us and doesn't hear me approach over the gurgling river water. I don't care about getting wet. I don't care about much of anything right now. I put my arms around her again, and r est my chin on her shoulder. She doesn't flinch or try to move away. "What are you thinking about?" I ask. "Oh, I don't know. How much fun I used to have with my grandfather while he taught me to do this. How my dad hated it in comparison to bait fishing and how much better I was at it then Bill and Charlie," she says. So, it wasn't her father. It was someone she rarely mentions. I really know nothing about this person standing here with me. Six years now and I know so little. "Is that all?" I ask. Just once I wish my name would come up in a list of what she is thinking about. I think about her. A lot. "Well, I was thinking that . . ." she starts and stops. "Thinking what?" I ask and she turns around in my arms again. This time, her arms also go around my waist and she stands there, the two of us lost in a pregnant pause so ripe it is about to burst. We haven't experienced this since . . . last summer. "I was thinking that I always wanted to do this . . ." she says, her eyes meeting mine. Those eyes that always convey so much. I stand there not knowing what to expect. All I know is that my heart is racing just from her words. I feel my breathing grow shallow as she watches me, the corners of her mouth turning up into a little smile. So different this time. No pleading words. No tears. No anything. Just the two of us standing in a river hopefully a mile and a half away from the nearest bee. She moves in just a little closer to me. Just a little . . . And the next thing I know she wraps her leg around mine and takes me down with a splash. "Scully!" I shout as I grab her leg and pull her in with me. The two of us wrestle in the water for a few seconds before we both end up sitting side by side. We are dripping wet from head to toe, our clothes clinging to us. She is laughing. "Is this part of fly-fishing?" I ask, splashing her a little. "Only when I give private lessons," she says with a wry smile as she reaches for me and brushes the wet hair out of my eyes. "So, Agent Scully . . . when *is* my next private lesson?" The End So, MoJo . . . what's next? Kayaking? Pairs figure skating? Demolition Derby? Or maybe Roller Derby?