The crest of the bluff overlooks the beach, the tao world
unfolding in frames to create the whole.
Sea
Long, long sky
A seal rolls out beyond the breakers sending up a white confetti
burst of gulls.
Up from the beach the breeze smells of kelp-iodine and fish.
The brown rug of California
It’s a small crescent of a beach. No more than half a mile long.
On the north end, a tilted headland projects to block the prevailing
northwesterly. To the south, long ago, beyond memory, an earthquake brought
down a portion of cliff to create a barrier point of jumbled boulders.
Sheltered from the wind it is a good casting beach. A secret beach. I have it
to myself.
I look for structure. Gravel spots. Humps. Current rips moving
straight out from the beach indicating deeper water. Convergences where
intersecting waves indicate a trough. Patches of nervous water. I watch the
waves rise, claw up the beach, recede.
The beach currents converge to a strong rip flowing out from the
center of the crescent. Most outstanding structure of the beach. That’s the
bucket. Fish’ll gather there on the tide. If there are any. Plenty of time, the
tide peaking in two and a half hours, at 10:30 AM. Morning tides are best.
Today is a 5.2 high tide, a moderate swell at a fair interval. I watch the rows
of swells line up and come in. Good. Not too energetic. The sea beyond the
swells spreads out like milk to the horizon. Hint of an offshore breeze. Nearly
perfect conditions today. That’s rare. This is a windy coast. Why I like the
big rod here. One reason.
I’m out for barred surfperch – on this same beach I’ve caught
starry flounder, lemon sole, halibut, steelhead, striped bass, leopard sharks
and guitarfish – but perch are the most common game. Good fly-eaters and good
brawlers. Poor man’s trevally. The world record at close to five pounds came
from around here, though most are one and a half to two and a half pound
models. Some bigger fish in the mix. A three pound barred perch will convert
you. They’re good eating and I’m after a few for the table.
The rip is out in front of a gravel hump. I start
there, dumping line for a long cast. The two-hander is a cannon in the surf. A
two-handed overhead cast launches the whole line and sink tip.
Not long into it comes a tapping grab, and the first
fish succumbs quick. A shiner perch, about the size of my hand, round and
hubcap-bright. Good
sign.
There’s life.
A set comes in, the water on the inside rises and
holds, pregnant, I am there stripping, and something that is definitely not a
perch assaults the Crazy Charlie. This one has weight. I check its run and the rod
strains into the butt. Can’t stop it yet. Think it’s a leopard shark. Halfway
into the backing the spool slows, I check the fish again and it arcs from the
surf and shows itself to be a steelhead. A nice one, about eight pounds I
figure. It goes bananas ripping off some more line then jumps again out in
heavy surf and throws the hook.
Shaken, I moonwalk back through the skim and up the
wet sand.
A triad of vultures ride a thermal above the tortured
cypress lining the top of the bluff. There will probably be wind, arriving with
the tide.
Possibly, the little trace from the hills emptying
to the cove, now a streak of dry gravel, was the natal stream of the long
distance released steelhead. I wonder if the rains will come. I’m secretly glad
the steelhead got away without me stressing it further. Steelhead, here, are
mainly ghosts.
Another half dozen casts to the shoulder
of the rip and another fish grabs – feels
like a good one – but the fish doesn’t run or jump, it bulldogs with
determination, briefly, then succumbs . I work it up into the skim. A striped
bass – about a three pounder. I admire it for a moment and slip the hook. Hope
there’s more. I fish fast, expectant, yet a dozen casts both sides of the rip,
and nothing.
Shoulder’s starting to bug. I wind in,
retreat to a driftwood log up against the bluff and eat an apple.
The Big Sur
highlands rise abrupt and desolate from the brightening sea, close, to the
north. It is as wild and lonesome as any place I’ve fished.
Almost peak high tide. Time to get back
to it.
Things look right. I let a cast go and
by the time I’ve gathered the slack the fly has reached bottom and the first
barred perch of the day finds it. Then the perch are there, and fairly steady,
a good grade, high shouldered, bronzed, mature fish. They blitz my fly nearly
every cast and for an hour we raise a ruckus down the skim line, me and the
perch. And then they are gone. All but the three nice ones in my pack.
The wind comes in with the tide. It’s
already white-capping on the outside.
Climbing the bluff toward the coast road,
a young woman on her way down to the beach greets me on the trail. She is
lovely, feral, sun streaked and browned, accompanied by a friendly Lab. She
smiles, stops, looks out to the sea, rises onto her tiptoes, says, “Isn’t it
the best day ever!”
She seems confidant in that. Without
reservation. Her words a statement not a question. And though, I guess, in some
circumstances her greeting might be considered odd, in the moment it makes
perfect sense. We are in accord.
“Yes,” I say, “I’d consider this one of
the best.” ~
