“Strip, strip, strip,” Mauricio yells at me. “Hurry, cast.”

I pull the rod back and cast forward with one false cast in the middle to get some line. Even so, the fly lands a mere 30 feet in front of us. A small school of dorado is feeding. Quick flashes of gold vanish into deep navy as soon as they appear. A large bull is among them.

“Strip, strip, fast, very fast,” he says.

I put the rod under my arm and strip with two hands. Almost immediately the line goes tight, and I pull the rod backward, setting the hook.

The bull runs and jumps and dives for the next forty-five minutes until I finally get it to the boat, both of us exhausted. Ernesto gaffs the fish and pulls it aboard.

Its size and color amaze me. I want to shout, scream, yell, and show my excitement, but there’s no one on the boat but Mauricio, and between his English and my Spanish we don’t communicate well.

A few years ago, I was with Chase and Josh hunting elk in New Mexico. We glassed a bull on the opposite side of a big, deep canyon that we immediately knew was big. I was with Chase when he killed a Kodiak brown bear. He turned to the camera and said, “Well, we killed a bear,” as if he were asking me to hand him a beer. He’s cool. Calm. Always. But he had the turbos in Josh’s Raptor screaming as we raced the dirt road to the opposite side. Josh stayed back to glass.

When we got there, we set up and found the bull. When it hit the dirt, Chase gave me a giant, gleeful hug — and we heard the echoes of Josh screaming.

Witnessing the moment he killed a giant bull was enough for me. Some moments are ours — some we’re there to witness for those we care about.

On the boat, I have only a guide I can’t talk to who sees these fish every day. I’m not alone, but it’s not the same.

I don’t yell. I sit down to take a picture. My arms stretch almost full wingspan to accommodate its length.

Mauricio snaps a few pictures.