Ancient Greek philosophers strived to establish what they called summum bonum, “the greatest good to which all human effort in life should be directed.” I learned this from a 78-year-old angler who described himself as an Epicurean.

My wife, Leigh, and I had arrived in the Florida Keys in February, having made the tedious drive from Colorado for a two-month stay in Marathon. While fly-fishing from foot along a narrow causeway on Middle Torch Key, I saw a guy poling another angler in what appeared to be a small skiff. The seated angler was tangling with a large fish. I had waded out onto a flat on the incoming tide, trying not to stumble on small coral heads or step on sea urchins. The water was clear and knee-deep. I had a shrimp pattern tied to the tippet of my 8-weight fly rod. I wasn’t seeing fish. Meanwhile, over by the mangroves, those anglers were into another tussle.

Several hours (and no bites) later, I began the long trudge back to my truck, where I spotted the other anglers dragging a canoe out of the water. I wandered over and introduced myself. I asked how they fared, remarking that I’d seen them hook a good fish. “Oh, the first one was a lemon shark. We caught a nice barracuda, too, but the flat didn’t hold many fish this morning,” said the fisherman who introduced himself as John Tulp.

Canoe angler John Tulp finds pleasure in catching all species. 

Tall, rawboned and with kindly blue eyes, Tulp was articulate and ebullient; we exchanged emails. Several days later, I emailed Tulp, and he responded: “Though I’ve fly-fished all my life, and have done well with it in fresh and salt water, I’m an equal opportunity employer, both in the tackle I use and the fish I cast to. A typical fishing trip around here for me has a lot to do with spinning rods and fish like ’cudas and sharks, though I see a fair number of reds. I’d be happy to pole you around with just your fly rod and a crab pattern, though fewer shots would be taken that way.”

Tulp was born in New Jersey in 1944. He began teaching the classics (Latin and Greek), history, English and art history in 1966 at boarding schools in Massachusetts. He first ventured to the Keys to fish in 1980, and it became an annual ritual. He retired in 2010 and now divides the year equally between a rental on Cudjoe Key and six months on the road up North, mostly in Maine. He chose a nomadic existence of teaching and travel, much of which entailed camping. He’s fished all over the world — Argentina, Chile, Scotland, Brazil, Mexico, Panama, Belize, the Bahamas, Venezuela, Ireland, England and Canada.

The lemon shark is a blast to tangle with on fly.

An incoming tide poured through the bridge abutments of Route 1, and as the 16-foot canoe drifted into the archway, a mix of vegetation and cobble took on the tone of a trout stream. Tulp poled the canoe onto a wide grass-and-sand-covered flat. I was in the zone, my happy place. Somehow fate had guided me to this fisherman, this elemental setting and this moment.

From his heightened vantage, he was tardy spotting two bonefish, which, alarmed by our presence, bolted. I had my 8-weight fitted with a crab pattern, hoping for a shot at bones, perhaps permit. Behind me were Tulp’s rods. His shark rod was an 8-weight upped with 10-weight line and a 9-foot, 40-pound fluorocarbon leader. A red feather streamer, embellished with a strip of fish fillet, was the lure. His other rod — his ’cuda rod — was a spin rig with a large tube lure. I held to my preferential goals of the big three: bonefish, permit and tarpon. Tulp, however, had other ideas.

“There’s a shark at 2 o’clock. Change rods and be quick about it,” he implored. I got off a clumsy first cast but redeemed myself on the second, and after a couple of short strips, I hooked the shark. It exploded in a frenzy, and line vanished from my reel. After a fight of several minutes, I horsed the 30-incher to the canoe, and Tulp deftly removed the fly from its formidable mouth.

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“We could see a bonefish or redfish out here, and we are armed for that, but we’ll probably see more lemon sharks than anything else,” he said. “I’ve taken some people who will only cast to a bone or a red. While that might happen, it’s not reliable for any steady amount of action. I always sigh when they let a 3- or 4-foot lemon glide by without a cast. They’re missing a lot.

“I take an Epicurean approach to my flats fishing,” he continued. “The central philosophical debate of the ancient Greeks was between the Stoics and Epicureans. The Stoics contend that the greatest good was virtue, to be pursued through a constant upward climb. Over on the other side, the Epicureans said the greatest good was pleasure. While they were judged harshly for this view, they get to be right, and they get to be happy.”

In angler terms, they catch more fish.

“The Stoics believe there’s a hierarchy of fish, the noblest on the saltwater flats being tarpon, bonefish and permit,” Tulp said. “I believe these hierarchies to be fanciful. In the Epicurean calculation of high-pleasure value for low-pain cost, they don’t show up well. The great Epicurean fish needn’t be a silver king on the line, but he should be a very satisfying fighter and show a lot of personality. A worthy trophy with interesting character, exciting to catch, pretty easy to find and not too easy to fool — the lemon shark.”

By now, Tulp had poled us to a mangrove island on the incoming tide. I saw a fin in the distance and scrambled to change rods. It was a better fish. Seated on the canoe bench, I had trouble getting power into my back cast but muscled out another cast, and the shark pounced on the fly. Realizing it was hooked, the fish turned on the jets and headed off into the Gulf of Mexico. I watched fly line disappear into the backing.

With protesting biceps, I battled the shark as it zigzagged around the flat. Tulp estimated it at 4-plus feet and 50 pounds. The fish was a load. I used constant side pressure. There wasn’t anything delicate about it. When I finally brought the shark to the canoe, I was startled by its size. Tulp seemed nonplussed. Using long-nosed pliers, he got a grip on the fly and removed it without losing any flesh. As I watched the apex predator fin away, I saw the logic in Tulp’s philosophy.

An hour later, with the tide flooding the flat, I got a shot at a 7-footer. This one was coming straight at the canoe and closing on the fly when a remora detached itself from the shark and somehow beat the host fish to my lure. Instead of Moby Dick, I was tight to Mickey Mouse. Later, we saw a school of baitfish skipping near shore, and I cast the tube into the melee, only to miss a savage strike from a big ’cuda.

The long tandem paddle back to the put-in was satisfying. We skimmed across a large flooded basin. The perspective of the flats from the canoe struck a deep, vibrant chord within me. I felt primal as we slid silently, propelled by human muscle. Had I insisted on targeting bonefish, I would have caught nothing. Taking Tulp’s cue, I’d had some serious light-tackle action. A glimpse into Poseidon’s secret garden.