Richard Stanczyk is growing impatient. We haven’t caught a bonefish. “One thing I have not figured out in 67 years of fishing is how not to catch fish and still have a good time,” says Stanczyk.

The first time I ever paid to go fishing was when I took a trip to Iceland in 1980. I had never fished for Atlantic salmon and was looking for some romance, as well as for a new experience in a new land.

Our wives told us: If you catch a king, kill it, and we’ll turn it into ceviche tonight. They said: We’ve got all the fixings at the house, then went downstream to fish for trout. Two beautiful women, late in the long Chilean afternoon, about to work up ample appetites.

Fighting has made him a better fisherman; fishing has made him a better man.

Who answers the phone at 3:30 a.m., chats amiably, swaps helpful information, wishes the caller good luck but doesn’t go back to sleep humming a lullaby of curses?

The evening began like a fishing daydream. The sun was dropping. The flooding tide and a cool wind were roughly aligned.

My mind was unconsciously running through the 20 other places I would no doubt have been better off standing.

Competitive, curious and obsessive-compulsive, Nick Smith has laser focus once he sets his mind on something.