Greetings from the Pacific coast somewhere near San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua. My friend Charlie and I have been out fishing twice, at dusk, standing on very slippery rocks as large waves crashed around us. Throwing Rapalas into the little amphitheaters of calm water between rock formations, which, as I mentioned, are slippery. You do not want to be wearing Keen sandals on slippery rock. I haven’t fallen, but I’ve come close. I no longer move over slick rock with the assurance of a mountain goat. I take mincing steps. I hesitate. I get down on my butt to spare my knees the jolt of a 2-foot descent, a jump I once wouldn’t have given a second thought. I will be 60 in June. I’m having trouble accepting this gracefully.