IAN "SANDY" FRAZIER is not only a great writer; he also happens to be my best fishing buddy in the whole world. Even though his real name is Ian, he sometimes lets me call him "Sandy," which is his nickname. That's how close we are.

Our latest fishing adventure would take us out into New York Harbor, which has become a surprisingly good sport fishery. We were to fish with Captain Frank Crescitelli, probably the top guide in all of New York. Sandy picked me up bright and early in his SUV, and even let me sit up front with him. Usually he wants me to sit back in the cargo area with the fishing gear, to make sure it doesn't roll around.

Driving to the Staten Island marina, Sandy suddenly swerved into the parking lot of a convenience store. "Give me 20 dollars," he said. I quickly complied, and Sandy was soon emerging from the store with a big doughnut, a cup of coffee, and an adult magazine. It's weird how well Sandy and I read each other; he seemed to know instinctively that I had already eaten breakfast. And that I wanted him to keep the change.

If you have any doubts about the fly-fishing dexterity of Sandy Frazier, you should see him balancing a coffee and a doughnut, and reading an adult magazine, all the while driving at excessive speeds. That's the kind of talent you don't see much anymore. He even managed to field a cell-phone call from his wife, who, incidentally, used to be my wife. (Who could blame her?)

After we stowed our gear aboard Captain Frank's boat, Sandy asked me to go back to the car and see if he'd forgotten something. "What did you forget?" I asked. "Oh, I dunno, something," he said. I didn't see anything in the car, and when I got back to the dock the boat was gone. I can't really fault Sandy for taking off without me. I'd spent maybe five minutes looking through the car, and when you're ready to fish, five minutes is an eternity.

I sat on the dock for most of the day. I enjoy being outdoors, even when I'm not fishing. I just wish I'd gotten my hat off the boat, because it was pretty hot and bright. And my sunglasses. I thought about going inside someplace to wait, but Sandy doesn't like it if he has to look for you when he comes back. Trust me.

It's amazing how many ants there are on a boat dock. Once your eyes get trained to them, you see them everywhere. And, unfortunately, they bite. They seem to bite you more if you try to lie down and rest, or sit down, or stand on two feet. But if you stand on one foot and then the other, they don't bother you as much. And you can't blame them for biting. It's we humans who are in their territory.

I could have tried fishing from the dock if I'd had my rod, but that too was on the boat. I'm ashamed to admit it, but I was hoping Sandy was not using my rod. Dexterous as he is, he has broken about seven or eight of my fly rods. At least it always makes him laugh when he tells me how he broke a particular one. It's too bad that some rods are irreplaceable, like the bamboo fly rod given to me by my grandfather. When I got it back from Sandy, he had tried to tape it back together with a piece of black electrical tape. The tape didn't hold, but just making the gesture was so Sandy.

When Sandy and Captain Frank pulled back into the marina, they were happy. Sandy had caught a big striped bass and a couple of nice bluefish, all on a fly. Just hearing Sandy describe the fight those big fish put up made my day. It didn't even matter that Sandy had, it turns out, broken my rod. And my sunglasses.

Captain Frank asked me why I had decided to stay on the dock instead of fishing. Sandy quickly jumped in, to keep me from being embarrassed. "He just likes it on the dock," he said, then shrugged and twisted up his face in bewilderment. "Go figure."

I've been on a couple of dozen fishing trips with Sandy. Technically, so far, I have not actually "fished." Once, on the Beaverhead River in Montana, I floated in a driftboat with Sandy for a little while before I somehow fell overboard and spent the rest of the day drying my clothes on the bank.

But fishing is all in your mind, anyway, and Sandy will weave a good yarn about the day, if you buy him dinner and drinks. If he has too many drinks, he can get kind of angry, but I'd say that only happens about half the time. Maybe a little more than that. Sandy can make you feel like you were right there with him, fishing away. You almost want to ask, "Did I catch a fish? Did I?" He makes you feel like you were a part of it. He's that good of a storyteller. And that good of a fishing buddy.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Since learning I was writing an article about us, Ian Frazier has asked me not to refer to him as "Sandy" in the piece. Or as his friend. Unfortunately, I have been told by the editors it's too late to change anything. After much pleading, I have at least been granted this extra space to apologize. All I can say, Mister Frazier, is how sorry I am. I will make it up to you on our next fishing trip.