Where: The beach
When: Last Sunday, New Year's Day, Friday, Saturday
Conditions: Windy--REALLY windy
Flies used: Clousers, Dave's Frank's fly
Species pursued: Resident coho

Song of the day: "All These Things That I've Done," The Killers

It had been too long since I'd fished.

After three consecutive weekends without wetting a line, the corrosion of cabin fever on my sanity had begun to show at home. I was crabbier than ever.

At my wit's end, the proverbial silver lining finally revealed itself: temps in the low to mid forties and clearing roads foreshadowed a positive change in my attitude.

"Are you excited? You get to go fishing this weekend."

Excited? More like desperate.

And in times of desperation, I've learned that you tend to forget things.

So it was last Sunday as I suited up.

"That's not the right reel, where's the other one?"

In my haste, I had forgotten a critical item.

Great.

"Where's my good spool of tippet?"

Forgotten.

"A spare leader?"

Uh, nope, just the overly long sinking one I had stuffed into my jacked pocket.

From bad to worse...

Fortunately, or at least I thought at the moment, I had brought a single hand rod with me and figured that, in a pinch, the other reel would work.

At this point, turning back was NOT an option.

So I cobbled everything together and, with the best of intentions, advanced into the next horrible setback: harsh, on-shoulder winds at high tide.

"Time to make some lemonade," I thought, gritting my teeth and cursing my stupidity.

At first, it wasn't so bad. I maneuvered casts between the trees and managed to hook three in the first twenty minutes.

But hooking was the closest I was getting--each one of them popped off. To add to it, the fish began drifting out farther.

My lemonade was in dire need of some sugar.

With the wind picking up and no visible let up in the tide, the tiniest of windows opened up in a sea of frustration.

One splash, well within reach, so long as it was between gusts.

A cast, a few strips and a tug, followed be a suspiciously easy landing, placed a nice bar of silver into my hand.

Reaching for my camera, it wriggled to life, relieving itself from my grip and the hook I presumed to be secured in the corner of its mouth. This guy had saved all of his energy for the getaway.

That was enough. I realized that if I kept going, I'd more than likely end up engaging in senseless Homer Simpson-like mumbling and screaming until my head burst.

Who wants their last outing of the year to be like that?

I had hooked fish and even landed one with poorly paired equipment during pretty horrid conditions, so I really had nothing to complain about.

Besides, the New Year, and more opportunities, would be here soon enough...

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In less time than I thought it'd take, my shot at redemption arrived.

This time, I made sure to check and re-check my belongings before leaving.

With everything in order, I set out for the beach.

Happy to be at the beach and not work, I shrugged off the wind and high tide--nothing was going to spoil my morning.

Despite considerable swells and a strong quartering wind, fish were within a reasonable distance of the beach.

Not knowing if things would get better or worse, I decided to make an earnest effort in starting the New Year off on the right foot.

Thankfully, my efforts did not go unnoticed and soon, I was rewarded with the first fish of 2009.

For a short time longer, I stayed with the pod, picking off a few more before the wind asserted itself, overpowering any inclination to continue.

Satisfied with the small window the conditions afforded me, I packed up, happy in the knowledge that I'd be back the next day.

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The following morning was a struggle, however.

With increased winds and a substantial to-do list looming overhead, I flip-flopped between choosing to spite the challenging conditions or spend the day more "productively."

Rather than decide to do one or the other, I opted for compromise: I'd take care of a few things on my checklist and then "reward" myself for my good behavior. ;)

Of course, it also helped that the tidal exchange didn't really get going until later in the morning. Heh.

With a few errands out of the way, it was back to the beach.

Though the conditions hadn't improved by much, it was enough to squeeze an hour or so out of an otherwise gorgeous, sunny day with relatively few people to share the water with.

Betting against my ability to manage the gusty onslaught with a two-hander, I opted for my five weight.

A series of rips migrated downtide, each one hosting its own pod of fish.

Little coho played in the chop, their splashing pacing the current. All I had to do was let the conveyor belt bring them closer.

Within minutes, things quickly heated up.

The rip gave up a handful more fish before dissipating, only to be replaced by another, equally productive one.

At least four separate currents came and went, each one providing a steady, but not overly generous bite as was the case in weeks past.

Based on the number of anglers seen recently, I suspected that the pressure was finally getting to the fish.

I would have to put that theory to the test another day, however, as I still had one last chore to address.

Lucky for me, that other day was the tomorrow.

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Judging by the crowded parking lot, it was easy to conclude that the fish had seen plenty of steel in the past weeks and were getting wise to it.

Either way, we were here and there was no sense running from the challenge of picky fish.

If anything, I was more concerned with the heavier winds ruining any attempt to throw a double hander during the morning's extra high tide.

As with the day before, fish splashed everywhere. Yet few anglers were hooking fish.

It was time to test the pressure theory.

Cast after cast, my offering failed to produce a strike--the wind wasn't exactly helping me out, either.

After about an hour of flailing against the wind, I finally threw a cast to the right of a nice splash.

Letting the fly drift for a few seconds, I started my retrieve, only to be met by the relief of a familiar resistance.

The little coho's head shook as he turned away and in my excitement, I pulled a bit too hard in the opposite direction, wrenching the fly from his mouth.

Frustrated, I ran back to the car for my 5 weight--there was enough room to haul by now.

Of course, just to show me up, Don stuck with his 2-hander and brought this one to hand...

Thankfully, I wasn't far behind.

It was time to take a break and evaluate things.

Were the fish indeed getting picky?

Was it the fly?

The weather?

Or was it just in my head?

It must have been, because the rest of the day turned out like this:

A newcomer to the salt with his first resident. Nice job, Mike!

And his cousin, with his first, as well.

One of several doubles.

This guy ate about 20 feet away!

These guys are getting fat!

Given how things are turning out, maybe the fish aren't getting that pressured, after all. :)