I think what impresses me most about the saltwater captain’s endeavor — understanding and interacting with the ocean — not only is its scale, but the often bald and unforgiving character of this scale. Conway Bowman, a shark captain from San Diego, once remarked as we chummed along California’s submerged continental shelf, “The ocean can be a very wicked place, and working here isn’t a game. Part of understanding this world is understanding that it isn’t for everyone.”

So, what kind of individual decides to become a saltwater captain? It’s an interesting question, and probably best answered by a few young turks, cutting their teeth on the beautifully diverse and technically challenging tarpon, bonefish and permit flats of the Florida Keys. Old curmudgeons might be great copy, but when’s the last time they actually thought about why they do, what they do?

This would be a story about a new generation of flats guides, with the guts and skill to break in on the most competitive fly-fishing landscape on the planet. Regardless of what I found, I was sure of one thing: These guys would be pretty damn good. During three consecutive days in late August, I wasn’t disappointed.

Based on recommendations from a few trusted fly shops and sales representatives, Aaron is the youngest captain I’ve ever fished with. The word is that he’s good, but green, and I’ll take that over “old and shitty” any day. When he jumps the interstate guardrail (barefoot) somewhere between Surgarloaf and Big Coppit Key, helping my pregnant sister (the photographer) ferry some equipment to a nondescript boat ramp, I think I am looking at a professional surfer, instead of our fly-fishing guide. I’m not completely wrong.

After loading rods and cameras into his weathered Hewes skiff, then donating a few Red Bulls to a homeless man camped under a giant palm, Aaron informs us that his second great obsession is indeed surfing. He favors the break south of Boca Grande when the water is cool and muddy, though at times, it can be a shark haven. I ask him if he ever surfs when sharks are present, and he responds, “Yeah, it can get a little dicey when they start to bait, but I haven’t been bitten yet.”

He also takes time off during the hurricane season to travel to Costa Rica, where he surfs, chases roosterfish and visits his father, and has spent a few winters on Midway Island guiding for giant trevally. When I mention the surfing must have been excellent on Midway, the first serious expression, like an incoming squall, overtakes his otherwise jovial face. “There’s not a lot of surfing going on there — way too many big sharks,” he notes with a worldliness beyond his years. Before I have a chance to ply a bit deeper, he finishes the thought: “Galapagos and big tigers, and no, I didn’t fish for them. There’s a limit to what’s sane with a rod in your hand, and a fifteen-foot tiger qualifies.”

We slowly motor along a shoreline littered with hurricane aftermath: Piles of garbage, discarded buoys and the carcasses of countless boats, before planing out into a vast, mottled expanse of sand and turtle grass flats, scattered seabirds and towering thunderheads. Aaron wants to make a productive bayside flat near the eastern point of the Snipe Keys (Snipe Point), before the heat turns our fishing grounds into a lifeless blast furnace. We should see some bonefish, scattered baby tarpon, possibly a permit and, of course, we can throw poppers at sharks if everything else grinds to a halt.

Around the north end of the point, Aaron cuts the engine and poles a few hundred yards through the falling tide onto a long sliver of sand abutting an aquamarine channel. I strip out some line, notice a shadow quartering across the bow and point to the movement with my rod. The only thing I hear Aaron say is: “Go,” and I do, dropping his motley, hand-tied shrimp fifty feet in front of the cruising fish. The bonefish picks up the fly, then proceeds to haul ass across the flat, the channel and another flat, until he burns himself out. Aaron returns the small, silvery fish back to the water and says, “One cast, one bonefish.” When I tell him it’s my first, he responds, “Was it as hard as you thought?”

Before anyone has a minute to celebrate, Aaron has grabbed a 10-weight, armed with a large, dark green popper, and is quietly, but furiously, stripping line off the reel. I look down the flat and see a decent sized lemon shark meandering our direction. He hands me the rod, and I drop the popper somewhere in the shark’s sightline and start chugging. The shark motors over to inspect the concoction, promptly rolls its eyes and takes a chomp. Somehow in the theatrics, the fly manages to avoid the shark’s maw, flopping onto its dark snout, spooking it across the shallows. From his perch, Aaron says, “If she wanted it, she would’ve taken it. They don’t make many mistakes.”

Truth be told, Aaron would fish for tarpon most days of the year. He hooked his first in a roadside channel as a kid, and began pursuing them in earnest during high school years in Key West. He’s even known to chase them below bridges at night with hand-held lights when most other captains are “tucked in.” We have a shot at a small pod in the forty to fifty-pound range cruising into some mangroves, but they don’t seem willing to eat. The heat shuts the fishing down — even the sharks — and we spend the rest of the afternoon wandering barefoot through tidal outflow, teasing houndfish and looking for barracuda.

On the ride back, I ask Aaron about attending college, and he says he’s decided to “study the ocean” instead. Then I ask him if he’s ever had any mentors, people willing to offer wisdom and encouragement around this challenging sport, and he responds: “Besides a few buddies and my family, I’ve mostly done this alone. Maybe when I’m older, or bored, I’ll have more time to socialize, but right now, my focus is the water. That challenge is big enough.” We shake hands at the nondescript boat ramp, exchange business cards and, before heading our separate ways, say we hope to see him again. Aaron cracks a big smile and says, “You know where to find me.”