When I was eight years old, my dad taught me to fly fish from his boat. I loved watching his technique and longed to learn. The graceful arc of his rod positioned the artificial fly inches from the bank with a gentle landing. After Daddy’s casts—when the tiny ripples subsided—we patiently watched to see if a fish would bite. Fishing with an eight-year-old requires an extra measure of patience. One day my entire rod landed in the lake, but Daddy rescued it before it sank. My flies would often land a few feet in front of the boat with a…