New Delhi, India
September 3, 20–

Dear Roger,

How the heck are ya? Fishing somewhere, I hope. I’m in India. We’re supposed to be setting up a mahseer program on the Nepalese border, but the monsoons are holding on later than they usually do and we’re having to wait them out.    

This morning I woke up from a very strange dream, and you were in it. I mean in it. So before I forget the whole thing, I thought I’d write it down and send it to you.

Remember the guide shacks out back by the marsh at Flamingo Cay? You walked over there that night after dinner and sat with us on the porch until really late. It was your birthday and unfortunately I’d beaten you on the skeet field after fishing that afternoon. I always tell people that story because even though I’d been in the skiff with you for three days I still had no idea who you were. Just some English guy named Roger, I thought. An English guy that can cast though. I’ll never forget that permit you pegged on the nose at 90 feet off the north end. But when you picked up the dobro and started playing, then singing, your voice seemed a bit too familiar. I walked back over to the kitchen and asked and chef about fell over laughing: “You’ve had Roger Waters from Pink Floyd in your boat all this time and you didn’t even know it?” If I had known, I would have been so intimidated I’d never have won shooting clays. We played guitars until late that night. You’d brought a bottle of single malt straight from Scotland and you shared it. It was great…

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