Fly fishermen have had this almost trite compulsion to compare the rivers they have known to beautifull young women they have known, or hope to know. It is understandable...the clear, moving water in a trout stream is intoxicating. The hemlocks or cottonwoods along the banks are graceful and inviting. And the pools and boulders are sultry, hidden and mysterious. Fishermen are attracted to these places just as men are attracted to beautiful young women and there is a large overlap there, so the overuse of the comparison is understandable. As a man and a fisherman I am no different, but I prefer to compare the waters I have known to older, matriarchal women...both real and imaginary. Especially the homewates I have had in my life. The bass ponds that, like caring mothers reminded me that I was still a clever boy even after a bad day in the confines of a public school house. Or the rivers like strong grandmothers who rein in our sanity when home on leave from the Army. Or the oceans that remind us when we are at or worst that life is not always clear and still has limitless possibilities. Yes, homewaters are like beautiful women...old, wise and there for us.