Probability

Bona Fides are a threatened specie (catcalls from the cheap seats...).
In A PERFECT WORLD, my cast turns over beautifully and drops, at full extension, the battered Adams squarely in the path of the mouth of a very large Brown that's been feeding, like clockwork over there, just shy of a hydraulic hell (I'm going to do my damndest to avoid) for the past three, or four minutes...
Well, my cast turns over beautifully and drops, at full extension, the battered Adams squarely in the middle of that hydraulic hell (I was going to do my damndest to avoid), and now all I can do is watch helplessly as this hydraulic hell makes a macrame' project out of what had started with such great possibilities. I probably had a good shot at fooling that Brown. At least that's what I like to think, like now, after I've botched some part of the process involved with getting the fly delivered to the proper spot.
It's`all about just that. Probability. The probability that I'm going to fool that fish; the probability that this cast will deliver this fly to the spot that will fool that fish, or the overwhelming probability that I am indeed only fooling myself into thinking there is any probability ...
... hardly matters as I hurriedly strip back 70-odd feet or so of fly line to give it another shot because he's still there, still feeding, and there's a good chance that this cast will turn over beautifully and drop, at full extension, my battered Adams...