Where: The beach
When: Friday, Saturday and Sunday
Conditions: Friday and Saturday, partly cloudy, fairly calm; Sunday rainy, light wind, cold.
Flies used: Clousers, chum baby, experimental patterns
Species pursued: Resident coho, sea-run cutthroat

Song of the day: "Green Grass and High Tides," The Outlaws

I hope everyone's Easter went well.

This past weekend offered a three-day opportunity to find fish and as soon as the alarm went off at 5AM Friday morning, I wasted no time.

Armed with my ECHO switch rod, I made a mad dash to the beach.

Arriving shortly after the exchange started, I immediately spotted the happy porpoising of feeding fish.

What could I do, except oblige them with a few casts? :)

A handful of fish to hand in a matter of minutes, I followed the jumpers down the beach but soon lost sight of them.

Making my way back to where I started, I met up with Mike. He apparently decided to picked where I left off, hooking fish after fish until, as if by the push of a button, everything shut down.

"Guess we'll just have to start over tomorrow, huh? Can you make it or do you want to e-mail me later?"

"I'll just plan on being here in the morning," he said, smiling.

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Day two could have been a carbon copy of the previous morning, only about an hour later.

With little to do but wait for the exchange to flip the switch, we opted to savor the currently somber, windless morning.

I proffered a quick smoke. The tobacco's aroma filled the air, pausing time in a way that you could feel the seconds counting down to the current's reversal. The usual sense of anticipation was absent, however, replaced with an appreciation for the time afforded us to enjoy the moments before the flurry.

The cigars burnt to their nubs and as if on cue, the first wave arrived.

We tossed our impostors into the seam, just up current of nearby boils.

Tap.

Tap, tap.

Pull.

Another good start.

Mike had one on, too.

"I want to start every morning like this!"

If this was going to be anything like the day before, though, then that meant we were on the clock.

So we got to work. :)

Wave after wave, at least one of us had a fish on.

And then, as expected, it all stopped.

But not before scoring a few more. :)

That night, I asked myself if the fishing would hold up. Out of curiosity, I checked the weather forecast.

Medium winds and an 80% chance of showers.

Sometimes, such days are ideal; sometimes, not so much.

There was only one way to find out which it'd be, of course.

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I decided to start at the same spot the next morning.

The forecast had made good on its promise and within minutes, I was encased in Gore-Tex.

Making my way down to the beach, I recognized a pair of familiar faces.

In the morning drizzle, I quietly flipped my fly into the tide and waited for my swing to start. Drawing tight on the line, I started my retrieve.

Chomp.

A minute later, I had a spunky resident in my hand.

"Would this be the only one?" I thought.

Maybe so--I worked down the beach, only to find unwilling participants along the way.

It would seem that my day would be of the "not so much" category.

I glanced at my watch, realizing it had only been about an hour.

With five hours left in the exchange, I conferred with Mike about a venue change.

Our decision was to relocate to a nearby alternative, one which had been productive for him and reportedly productive to some others, as well.

In the building rain and wind, we pushed our flies to where we thought the fish were.

My mind wandered, thinking about the mild weather I had been enjoying up to this morning.

A cold, wet gust blasted my face. I turned my head to avoid the rest of it and felt resistance.

Thinking it to be grass, I irritatedly bounced my rod tip up and down as if to free the fly from its snag.

Only this "snag" pulled back!

I slid the little blackmouth back into the Sound, still somewhat surprised by its presence.

Shock aside, it begged the question, "What else is lurking around these shores?"

A few coho, apparently. :)

Like the other beach, this one exhibited its own switch.

A circulating reversal had appeared in the cove, working left to right and migrating down shore, only to change direction and move back the other way, all in about 10-minute cycles.

Rips became obvious, and just like that, numerous fish appeared.

Casts produced a mix of coho and blackmouth in a range of sizes.

Our hunt for Easter fish had proven productive and the "not" in "not so much" quickly faded away.

By mid-day, we had our fill of fish and rain.

I parted ways with my friends, waving as I drove by, and cranked the heat up in an effort to warm my bones.

Glad to be out of the wet and cold, my mind wandered off again, recounting the past three days and wishing all weekends were like this.