As I grow older I find it easy to identify with the Sith Lord, versus the insufferably righteous and preachy Jedi crowd.

For us fly fishermen the lure of the Dark Side seems more appropriate given how close the downward spiral that is fly fishing, mirrors that of intravenous drug addiction.

The eventual homelessness resulting from too much fishing differs from other forms of dissipation only because the fishermen can boast of better dental hygiene, his dilution of conscious mind and productive spirit being quicker than a frontal lobe dipped in opiates.

Both share the same dingy blanket, the same zip code, the same fortress of cardboard ensconced in some darkened alley, only in the depths of their depravity is real distinction possible; one unfortunate sold his parent’s car because he needed to score drugs,  the other stole his roommate’s Sage because he simply wanted it – and both crossed bridges never taken lightly.

Itemizing decades of self-destructive behavior and the eventual chilly, “stone-pillow” finale to some fresh-faced Jedi hopeful can never aid a Dark Lord in his quest for fly fishing converts. These details are best revealed after taking a fisherman’s measure, ensuring your plebe has the courage and fortitude to finish his training …

When they inquire as to whether conversion to the Righteous Path will hurt much, I omit the sobbing spouse, hungry children, and bounced checks, rather I’ll focus on their resolve in spin, bait, or fly terms, using the same time honored milestones used on me …

Like knowledge of the Outdoors version of the Prime Directive, Do you eat what you catch?

This is an easy question for a true sportsman. A floating softball that can be smacked clear of any fence, or whiffed so badly as to bring a rush of blood to the cheek. There are hundreds of possible answers, yet there is only a single correct one:

The Prime Directive:

If by act or deed I am successful with rod, gun or steel-belted radial, and my quarry lies bleeding and lifeless at my feet, or is hemorrhaging and not long for this mortal coil, I will dispatch it in all haste, and endure the consumption of its flesh … with wrinkled nose, and with as much ketchup as is possible.

While other answers exist, involving lofty ambitions like catch and release, respect and care for an adversary, and serenading with harp music, the ugly truth is that at some point the hook is so large or so deep that we’ve kilt our foe, even if it was an accident.

With special regulations and “no kill” zones, obeying the Prime Directive is made more difficult, but in the recitation of his answer a special gleam enters the eye of the fish-hating-plebe, as he recognizes a crack in an Immutable Law of the Outdoors, and will make haste to exploit it.

Like a World Series of Poker player, a Sith Lord notes these “tells” and is unmoved.

Loopholes are for the 1% to covet at tax time, or for lawyers who make their living unearthing them, not for the sporting fraternity in their element, where only the Prime Directive and an unopened Twinkie truly matter …

If a spin, plug, bait, or fly angler insists, “… the only fish that passes my lips are Gorton’s or Filet O’ Fish ..” – then you know this acolyte unworthy, his training to end in the pyrotechnics of Force-based petulance.

For those that pass the Prime Directive, the last great hurdle is calling the fisherman on his bluff. Does the thought of an opened jar of Powerbait baking in the airless interior of their car sends them careening about in an “ew-Ew-EW” dance?

Each area of the country likely has its own  odiferous, disgusting, or life-threatening  bait, used to distinguish real fishermen from wannabe’s. In my youth, and for the Greater Bay Area saltwater crowd, that would be provoking an angry Pile Worm …

… Pile Worm, able to sever a man’s finger in a single bite, possessed of thousands of cold, slimy feet, capable of strangling unwary beach combers in a many-footed embrace of constriction,  or so we thought.

They were the Miracle Bait, the Super Expensive Bait, only slightly better than their evil cousin the Blood Worm, which sent us young anglers screaming in fear, as unlike the Pile Worm, it had two sets of razors sharp talons …

Any fellow contemplating learning to fly fish shouldn’t break rank at the prospect of steel hooks entering extremities either under power or uninvited. Nor should he wince at the thought of the thousands of slimy feet in his waders should he lose his footing and ship some inboard, or whether ten fingers are better than nine …

… and why all this suddenly matters is my promise to escort a noob into the brown water Friday, and his insistence that a set of borrowed fly tackle is no problem due to the Force being strong within him.

An earlier interview failed him spectacularly on both the Prime Directive and the Pile Worm test.

… so I’m prepared for another episode of blisters, tears, and force based petulance, meaning I should carry a couple six packs of Go Girl and additional Twinkies …

… I just hope this time I don’t have to carry him back to the parking area like the last guy.

“ I know it smells bad, Luke – but you’ll still need to cover your face with it so the fish don’t see you.” – Darth teaches his son to fish …