Skelton climbed out of the boat and, running the line through his fingers lightly,  began to wade the tidal creek. The mosquitoes found him quickly and held in a pale globe around his head. He waded steadily, flushing herons out of the mangroves over his head. At one point, he passed a tiny side channel, blocking the exit of a heron that raised its stiff wings very slightly away from its body and glared at him. In the green shadows, the heron was a radiant, perfect white.

He stopped a moment to look at the bird. All he could hear was the slow musical passage of tide in the mangrove roots and the low pattern of bird sounds more liquid than the sea itself in these shallows. He moved away from the side channel, still following the line. Occasionally, he felt some small movement of life in it;but he was certain now the permit would go no farther. he had another thirty yards to go, if he had guessed right looking at Rudleighs partially emptied spool.

Thomas McGuane – Ninety-two in the shade