A few winters ago I called the guide Scott Hamilton, who pioneered offshore fly fishing around Palm Beach, Florida, to set up a trip. He asked me this question: “Want to try for something with the first run of an albie, the leaping ability of a tarpon, and the tenacity of a pit bull?” I did.We made our way out the inlet, stopping to catch one unlucky jack crevalle. We cruised along the beaches looking for signs of our real quarry. When I asked how to find them, he laughed and said, “Oh, you’ll know.”Sure enough, about 300 yards off a public beach, I saw what he meant. Out of nowhere, these five-footers started free-jumping all over the place. They’d launch completely out of the water and spin like tops before crashing back down. Spinner sharks.Scott slit the side of the unfortunate jack and hung it off the transom, and we drited over a reef. Within five minutes, spinner sharks started charging agressively up the bloodline. My job? Cast a large orange chicken feather fly–affixed to the end of a foot-long wire tippet–into the bloodline, twitch it twice, and hang on.I watched one of the most exciting takes I’ve ever seen as a shark raced up the bloodline, spotted my fly, and knifed into it. My 12-weight rod doubled over and the reel hummed with enough rpm to power a Subaru. The spinner made a beeline to the beach and, right in the shore break, launched into the air. Then he jumped again, and again. Then the real battle began.The skill in handling these sharks comes not in the casting–it’s a simple 30-foot flip and they’re not spooky–but in the fighting. These fish do not quit. Time after time I’d make progress and the shark would run back out, spinning the reel so fast I rapped my knuckles. After 35 minutes, I finally boated the spinner. While I recovered, Scott carefully released it, and put me back on the rod again. Every winter now I make the pilgrimage to Palm Beach to stalk these sharks. I’m a glutton for punishment.