Hey man, this report is so late.
Hey man, the fishing wasn’t that great.
Enough of that. To the outing. Hoyo de Monterey double corona on the drive down. Most excellent. Time and tide conspired to create supreme fishiness at dusk. Sadly, the bass did not cooperate. So after an hour of good old-fashioned college trying, I left the windswept rocky shores and rolling breakers for the friendly confines of the inside.
Out of the truck and a walk and wade to spot B. The bad news: weeds. An obscene amount of weeds. Weeds on every cast weeds. The good news: infestation levels of silversides, with bass feeding on them. The challenge: make your fly (or in my case, flies: 2″ super-sparse peanut bunker bucktail on top dropper, a 2.5″ Eelie in the middle, and a 3.5″ September Night [have I mentioned that it is time to tie up some September Nights?] on point) stand out among the thousands of naturals.
On the one cast out of a hundred that I managed to both, I hooked two bass. They weren’t big, but they gave me the illusion that I had triumphed over nature.
Last stop, another spot on the inside. In theory, it was a brilliant move. In practice, it was good for casting. Ten minutes in, I realized that I was tragically flawed as a prognosticator, and I should lick my wounds on the way home. And celebrate my one-in-a-hundred good fortune.
With no listening choices other than AM or FM, I subjected myself to what passes for classic rock, but is in reality dreadful pre-programmed subscription crap for the masses. Seriously, I don’t need to hear “Bohemian Rhapsody” twice in one night. Once every six months would be fine. Ditto anything by Journey or Billy Joel. And I don’t ever need to hear “The Joker” again.
Sorry if you like those artists or songs. Don’t lean on me man.
Here’s a short video of the bait situation. I actually hooked more silversides than stripers tonight.