I cast my fly. A bonefish, one of the most difficult sport fish in the world to catch, finds it. He starts stripping line from the reel. I put the tip of the pole just above the water and then let him run. And run. Yards of line zip out across the mirror surface. The bone, catching his breath, stalls. I reel quickly, the tip of the pole bending in half. The bone runs again. My knuckles, already bruised and bloody from several days of fishing, smack the reel handle as it unspools 60 yards of line. I yelp in pain. The bone escapes. Keko says, "Tip up," as he shakes his head in disgust. If Hemingway were watching me, I'm sure he'd do the same. That thought is much more devastating than losing the bonefish. After all, I'm not here in the Jardines de la Reina, a pristine archipelago about 50 miles off the south coast of Cuba, just to fly fish. I'm here to fish as Papa did. My confession: I'm a closet Hemingway freak.