Fly fisher David McDonald, of Harlingen, Texas, was the first person to tantalize me about some annual event put on by the local Laguna Madre Fly Fishing Association, based at South Padre Island, the southern tip of Texas.

For those who have kept up with the insignificant details of my early fishing days, you remember that water qualifies as my “home water”. The term “home water” itself, is subject to interpretation. That water lies 550 miles away from my home now, and in our upwardly mobile age, there are other fly fishers that are even more distant from what they call their “home water”. Well, there’s home, and then there’s Home. The lower case “h”, I propose, can apply to old childhood home waters, while we reserve the capital “H” for our real geographic near Home water.

Once the fascination of DM’s description sank in, I realized this was a must do trip. It would give an opportunity to see Grandma (who lives in Weslaco and will be 90 in November), and if all elements cooperated, emulate the famous short film “Running Down The Man” – a movie about chasing (literally) roosterfish along the beaches of Baja, Mexico. Therein came the first mistake: Don’t pre-visualize an entire event based on a DVD from another beach on another ocean. As a photographer, and writer, if you find yourself going down roads of what you think will happen, you will have taken a wrong turn before you even get in your four-wheel-drive with the tires aired down.

I arrived in the Valley, Weslaco, early enough to spend some time with Grandma at her retirement bungalow, take her to her favorite restaurant – Red Lobster, and get back in time to watch “Highway to Heaven”. After a 550 mile drive, it didn’t really matter what we watched because all I could see was the highway. Another day, another episode of “Highway”, and it was early to sleep for an early departure to the Island. If you’re a local, you know it’s just “the Island”.

I started loading gear in the Land Cruiser at about 4:30 am, after one of those nights where as soon as you close your eyes, the alarm goes off. I made it out quietly, heated by the humidity and again chilled by the cold air conditioning in the bungalow. All the windows were all misted over by the dew – like it always has been and always will be in the Valley. I knew I would be early to the party, but just wanted to make sure I was not late.

Once I was in Port Isabel, I knew something was up. There were flats boats in gas stations everywhere, and in the gas stations were anglers brightly attired in their new Columbia fluorescent pastel fishing shirts stretched tight across their bellies, standing at cash registers buying ice, donuts, and all means of gas station breakfast tacos. I knew there was a tournament related to the South Padre Music festival, but this event was taking on a different magnitude. The second truth is that I also had a sneaking suspicion that the plan for the group to gather at the South Padre Island Convention Center was, potentially, precarious due to the Center being the epicenter of all activities related to the Festival.

I was there early enough to casually wander up to the Convention Center, and sure enough the parking lot was blocked off with chain link fence, and the lot was smattered with steamed limos and tour buses. I texted DM and drove back down the street and parked in an empty lot. The mosquitoes were waking up too. I wandered back down to the Convention Center, and the gate was cracked open, I assumed in anticipation of our arrival, so I edged the Cruiser in sideways and parked. I thought I was the only person awake until a security guard in a golf cart came my way at breakneck speed.

I was promptly shown out, and parked just outside the makeshift chain link fence gates. Out of nowhere all manner of SUV’s started pulling in. It may not have been the exact meeting place, but I was in the right place at the right time.

Tomorrow – The Journey