Where: The beach
When: Sunday
Conditions: Overcast, light wind
Flies used: Clousers, chum baby
Species pursued: Resident coho, sea-run cutthroat

Song of the day: "Real Estate," Cypress Hill

The screen read, "10 AM Wind WSW 9mph."

Current conditions were calm to 3 mph winds.

It was clear that today would be a race against time.

Within that window I would have to find a significant amount of fish on a beach big enough for a class.

Drawing from journal entries and reports, I selected a likely spot.

Grabbing my new switch rod off the rack, I loaded up and drove--probably faster than I should have--to ride out the remainder of the outgoing tide.

An hour later, I pulled up to the water, mulling over what fly to use.

Trusting my gut, I tied my old standby on and scrambled down to the shore, hurriedly scanning for activity.

I recognized a pair of figures in the distance but rather than walk all the way down and throw in, I continued panning the water, trying to discern which rip would be productive.

Finding the right blend of slow and fast water for my tastes, I unhooked my fly from its hanging place and worked out my line.

As if to tell me I'd made the right choice, a familiar shape burst through the seam.

"Looks like I'm breaking you in today," I said to my new acquisition.

Sweeping around and back, I loaded the Scandi head into the rod and fired away.

Catching the far edge of the current, the clouser began a slow swing before meeting the center of the rip.

I started my retrieve and paused after a few seconds.

Nothing.

A few more strips.

Nada.

Strange--I thought I was in their range.

I worked the line back to the head, getting ready to start a new cast.

Bam.

As surprised as I was, the silver attempted to flee, upset by the sting of the plated hook in its jaw.

But to no avail.

Easing it to hand, I immediately noticed its size compared to last week's fish.

A little longer and a little thicker, this guy had obviously been chowing down over the winter.

Curious if this fish was alone, I studied the rip, watching for signs of additional targets.

It didn't take long to get an answer.

Another jumper erupted near where the first had, and I reacted accordingly.

This time, the strike came immediately.

As I landed this one, another fish revealed its presence.

Popping the fly out of the corner of its mouth, I rushed to release this fish and moved to the next--I wasn't sure how long the either the conditions or the fishing would last.

Cast, strip, strip, set.

Another.

Soon, another.

Followed by another.

Carelessly, they continued to hold in the same rip, almost happy to be picked off.

I wrung as many fish out of that rip as I could before they switched off.

When they did, I pushed back my cuff to see how long I'd been standing there.

Fifteen minutes.

That left about 45 minutes before the wind rolled in--one of those rare times the clock slows down in an angler's favor.

Opting for a break, I checked in with my friends.

The day before had been good and this morning had produced bites on a chum baby.

All good news.

Followed by a bit of bad news.

Starting its bid to ruin the rest of my day a little early, a light breeze pushed against my face.

I looked at my watch--a little over half an hour remaining.

Jumping back, I worked a nearby rip, hoping to see a few more signs of life, desperate to hook something else before I'd have to call it.

As the tide started to slow down, I threw into a current reversal and let the fly sit a moment.

At first I thought I let it sit too long--it felt more like the barnacle-encrusted rocks so common to this beach--so I lowered the rod tip and pulled.

The rock pulled back and I found myself connected to the biggest fish that morning.

Just in time, too. Soon after, the tide petered out and, as predicted, the wind arrived.

"Not a bad morning, though," I thought.

With most of the day left, I bade my friends goodbye and headed for other possibilities, preferably those sheltered from the wind.

Unfortunately, like that first coho's struggle, my efforts were futile.

At least the view was nice!

Resident coho fishing is still consistent and we are on the verge of the chum fry "hatch," meaning sea-run cutthroat will be joining the saltwater mix soon.

If you're new to the beach game and the idea of catching either of these species appeals to you, Puget Sound Fly Co. is holding another Beach Class/Clinic on Friday, March 27th, taught by yours truly.

We'll split instruction into two parts: a couple of hours of class time going over the basics--equipment, finding fish, technique, conditions, etc., followed by a day on the water.

Class will start at 6PM at the shop with fishing scheduled for the next morning at a local beach.

Interested? Call the shop at 253-839-4119 to sign up.

Where: The beach
When: Saturday
Conditions: Mostly overcast, extremely windy and rainy
Flies used: Clousers, chum baby
Species pursued: Resident coho, sea-run cutthroat

Song of the day: "Testify," Rage Against The Machine

For those who actually braved the snow, pounding rain and insane wind on Sunday, I salute you.

I, on the other hand, turned around somewhere after the tenth mile of accumulating flakes and hydroplaning, not to mention the wide assortment of loonies out there that were obviously not concerned with their safety, much less anyone else's.

Sure, it doesn't look too bad at 25 mph, but add a 1/2 inch and about 40 to your speed and it's not such a cake walk...at least not in a little Scion!

Normally, I'd be disappointed but this weekend was an exception.

Trusting the meteorologist's forecast, I chose to get ahead of the incoming front and fish on Saturday--I needed to scope out a few beaches in preparation for my upcoming class.

With the day all to myself, I hopped from beach to beach, at first looking for chum fry and the cutthroat they eventually attract and then later switching to coho.

While I wasn't able to find any sea-runs (it's still a little early)...

I did find a few coho!

Where: The beach
When: Saturday
Conditions: Mostly overcast, gusty
Flies used: Shock & Awe, Clousers
Species pursued: Resident coho

Song of the day: "Save Yourself," Stabbing Westward

"I'll see you at noon."

I knew it was futile from the get go, though. Wind at 23 miles per hour and limited time, not to mention the wind chill bearing down on us, would all be factors in making what would be a miserable day.

But that's beach fishing and given that I was only afforded one day out of the past week to fish, I was going in spite of it all.

I hopped from beach to beach, trying in vain to escape the howling gusts. It was a miracle to get even 50 feet out.

Three hours later, I was done. As the clouds cleared and the sun coruscated off the bay, I released my grip around frustration's throat and took solace in the fact that I wasn't at work.

Sometimes it's better to be happy with what you've got instead of what you could have.

Where: The beach
When: Sunday
Conditions: Sunny then overcast with wind, then rainy and calm
Flies used: Shock & Awe, Clousers, Mike's Bug
Species pursued: Resident coho

Song of the day: "Shooting Star," Bad Company

Fresh, salty air.

I inhaled, holding it in, doing what I could to savor being able to fish again.

Looking down from the parking lot, I pointed out several rips to Bob and Julian, noting how they'd shift down the beach, undulating to match the shoreline's curve.

"Any one of them could hold fish. Are you ready to go?"

They nodded and I sent them on their way, moving onto the others to herd them similarly in the same direction.

After suiting up, George, Roger, Ron, Bob and John followed their fellow anglers and started a day that would test my patience, provide ample opportunity to second guess myself and ultimately re-focus my perspective of fishing.

As we gathered on the shore, I scanned for signs of life.

Nada.

Unfortunately, I couldn't hope for much--the February closure has had inconsistent effects on March's fishing in the Narrows.

"It's still early in the exchange," I thought.

"I'll try to stick with it for a few hours."

Everyone spread out and I instructed them to cover the migrating currents, coaching here and there on ways to get extra distance or keep their flies off the rocks.

Twenty minutes passed, then forty-five.

Nothing.

For those who fish with me often, you'll probably agree that I'm an impatient fisherman--always in a hurry to catch a fish.

A class only magnifies that impatience--
let's just say I really, REALLY want to spread the happiness. :)

This morning's happiness, however, was in short supply.

Looking for some signal that hope was near I saw a familiar figure approach.

Hoping Mike would have good news, I was disappointed to hear he'd been having the same luck.

Mentally, I reached for my Plan B.

"What should I do?" I asked myself.

I may have been imagining their waning interest, but I decided to pick up and go, gathering all but one of them together and letting them know the plan.

One guy, Bob, was farther down the beach and as I started to walk his way, Mike stopped me.

"I'll get him," he said.

Ron and the other Bob stayed behind and kept me company.

A few minutes passed after Mike got down there. Then a few more.

"They better not be doing what I think they're doing," I said.

I booked down to the point and confirmed my suspicion.

"They're everywhere!"

Our luck had turned and I hurried back up the beach, rushing to gather everyone else while the fishing was still good.

Fifteen minutes later, everyone was spread out, trying to piggyback off of Bob's success.

But to no avail.

Like the past two hours, it had turned into casting practice.

Go figure.

Frustration crept back in and I struggled to beat it back.

"They're here, we just--I just--have to be patient."

Rather than sit and wait, though, I estimated where the fish might be heading moved the group to where I hoped they'd get a shot at intercepting them.

Just as we reached the rip I had been eyeing to set up on, a coho jumped.

I motioned for them to spread out.

With the picket line formed, it was just a matter of time. Photo credit: Bob J.

More jumpers, some close, some not so.

Everyone's body language changed. Their intent was instantly recognizable, fueled by the same excitement we all share when feeding fish are nearby.

With just an hour left in the exchange, it was no or never.

Ron would be the one to kick off the party.

After his hookup, others revealed their presence.

Patience brought reward.

Downtide, I saw George hook up. The coho charged him and I watched him struggle to keep the line tight. From 50 yards away, I saw the chunky coho fight desperately to avoid George's grasp.

But it was futile--the hook was too well set.

A minute later, he slid the fish back into the salt, pausing long enough to show appreciation for the dance before resuming the day.

"It never gets old," I thought.

"To the right!" Mike pointed to a small group.

Before I could get a cast going, I saw his rod tip raise, bowed by the resistance of a rudely surprised silver.

Mike wasn't so surprised, though.

Things were in full swing, every few minutes a new batch of coho would meander through and at least one of us would get a bite.

Case in point with this guy again.

Despite the exchange winding down, fish continued to show and before we realized it, it was 3:30.

I was starting to feel beat, but figured a few more minutes wouldn't hurt--I'd waited more than three weeks for this, after all.

And I needed to get my fix!

Bob, Ron, Bob, Julian, George, Roger and John--thanks for sticking it out with me Sunday. I'll hopefully see you out there soon.