As I continued reeling, something felt off. There were no vibrating headshakes making their way up the line, and as I tightened down on the fish I realized the pattern had been broken. I felt as though my line had been tied to a submarine, with the fish leisurely towing me around without yet noticing it had been hooked. Suddenly, hell broke loose as the fish turned around and emptied the fly line and a generous portion of backing off of the reel. The fish leisurely pulled as much line as it pleased, occasionally turning and swimming straight towards the boat to give us a good scare. I was trying not to let my mind wander to what could possibly go wrong at this point, as I knew the list was long. After multiple diligent attempts to get the fishâ€™s head turned towards us, finally we were able to get her in the basket. The measuring tape read just past the 28inch mark, and the girth resembled that of a rugby ball. I realized as I watched a massive tail propel her back to the depths that no matter where or how far I travel in pursuit of new fly fishing opportunities, there is no place like home.