This is the picture that started it all for me. I was 10. It was a couple of kilometers of bicycle ride to the first bookshop. Fishing was a new flame in the fire of my young heart, but books were already a long standing love. I went to see what a couple of coins that had not been put to better use (i.e. buy firecrackers) could get me a book on fishing. There was one withing my economic league. Bright orange cover, with a beautiful pic of a guy, crotch-deep in water, netting a trout. La pêche sportive en eau douce (sport fishing in freshwater) by J. M. Boelle, published in 1978 by Solarama. Still a good read for those who understand French. Elementary, but well written.
Anyway, the second chapter of that book opens with this picture, and it just tattooed itself in my relatively new mind. I was for ever given the concepts for fly fishing, and fly casting: art, grace, precision.
Yet it took me almost thirty years and a cancer to realize that I really want to be that guy. Very few things exert a stronger visual fascination on me than the fragile unfurling of a line, caught by gravity yet resisting the fall, and, for a couple of heartbeats, flying.