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.