Living so close to the ocean is a blessing, but it’s also a curse. You might be thinking that I’m going to make some painful complaint about fishing too much, “every day it’s another can’t-miss tide or another blitz, poor me,” but I’m not, because it’s not like that. The curse comes in the form of unintentionally boxing myself in. There’s enough good water within 30 minutes on backroads that, sometimes, I forget that there’s a whole universe of fishing spots outside of my little bubble.
The other night though, I was suddenly struck with the thought that I had to go to a surf spot I hadn’t fished in over a year. It was an 80-minute drive and often looked over in favor of a closer option, but something made me want to take the drive. It’s hard to quantify exactly what inspired me, I think it stemmed from knowing there were bunker in the area, and seeing that the wind would be blowing off the beach, which might be enough to draw the bunker in tight.
This spot is no picnic either, it’s a long drive with many turns, and once you arrive there, you have to bike in another mile and a half over private roads. I pulled into the closest legal parking spot and hurriedly packed my bike and jumped into my waders. Then I biked to the private entrance and in past the guard shack, this is one of those rare exclusive neighborhoods where the security guards look the other way for fishermen.
By the time I reached my destination, I was already questioning the amount of effort it had taken, just to stand at the edge of the water, having not even made a cast! I paused for a moment and looked up into the new moon darkness. A meteor streaked across the sky, one of the many I would see that night thanks to a strong showing of the perseids. I waded into the water and didn’t even consider what I would throw, I had a slim metal lip on from last trip and decided I’d stick with that. I let the bone-colored swimmer fly into the night. Still gauging the depth of the water in front of me, still feeling for the strength and direction of the current, the swimmer thumped toward me, I felt impact. It seemed like a hit but there was no weight. “I must have ticked bottom,” I whispered out loud to myself. Two, maybe three more cranks and I felt an undeniable and crushing hit, the rod bucked over, line began to peel off my spool. This was a good fish!
She ran hard with the tide and then stopped and shook her head, she held position, shaking, shaking… and then, I lost her. As much as I would have loved to see that fish, I was excited now and fully focused on what I was doing. Over the next several minutes I confirmed that there was a good amount fish in the area. It wasn’t “every cast” fishing, but it was a fish every two to three casts and there was no one on the beach but me. When I was landing another 20-pounder, I looked back to see a light speeding along the road, which ended up being the friend I had asked to join me. “They’re everywhere!” I told him, “Not every cast, but every three!”
He dropped two, landed one and the bite vanished. We covered a ton of water after that, trying to get back in front of those fish, and only had a couple hits over the next three hours. It was around 1 a.m. when we made the call to head for home.
Riding out, two headlamps appeared on the road, it was two surfcasters on foot. Initially I thought, “You’re only four hours late,” but then I thought, “Maybe these guys know something I don’t. Maybe they live down the street and fish here three nights a week. Maybe we’re leaving right when something changes; a rip sets up, or current funnels.”
That’s the curse of NOT living close to the water you’re fishing, it’s infinitely more difficult to hone in on optimal tide windows, because it’s just not possible to be there enough to check all the boxes, try every tide, and fish through every variable of wind, waves and moon. I’m going back tonight to fish the same tide window, but if I see those same guys walking in when I’m riding out… you can bet I’ll be coming back soon to investigate.
