We were both used to making 60- to 70-foot casts to reach a skittish school of fast-moving “hardtails,” but today, with a 30-foot shoot and three strips of an anchovy fly, I was in. The fish seemed hell-bent on beaching itself somewhere in Connecticut. Luckily, amid the shouting and whooping, I remembered to keep my hand off the reel, because when an albie is running full steam, the handle spins so fast it can, quite literally, break your knuckle. Given the 10- to 15-minute fight times per fish, we managed a half dozen albies apiece before the October sky went dark. The next day, the action was just as fierce, and although our arms ached, we couldn’t stop casting because we knew it could all be over tomorrow. Turned out, thanks to a cold front, it was over for the season three days later, but the satisfaction of knowing I was there to get my piece of the action was exactly the kind of fix that gets a false albacore addict through a long winter.