Where: The beach
When: Sunday
Conditions: Sunny warm, medium to heavy wind
Flies used: Clousers
Species pursued: Resident coho, sea-run cutthroat

Song of the day: "Disturbia," Rihanna

"I've been meaning to check this place out for a while now."

I had gotten word that the latest productive beach had slowed down, so Mike and I opted to do some exploring, hoping to find a few fresh shores.

A handful of beaches were on the docket. We selected our starting point based on the wind's direction.

Seemingly promising from the aerial photos, our first location proved to be a bust, save for a few dinkers.

We couldn't complain--exploring has its risks and the biggest one is the reality of a skunking.

But we had the majority of the day and other places to scout.

Moving from spot to spot, we found ourselves walking down one particular stretch more in an effort to enjoy the sun than to locate a willing pod.

Ironically, it's usually during these moments that the fish decide to reveal themselves.

This instance was no exception.

My interest piqued, I surmised the reason why this fish had decided to take me up on my offer--a better-than-average rip lay in front of me, stretching downtide for at least two hundred yards.

He had bitten on the inside edge of the current, about 3 seconds after I had lost interest in my retrieve and was ready to pick up and throw another cast.

Figuring that my disinterest had slowed my retrieve enough to convince the fish to strike, I incorporated that into my following casts and proceeded working down the beach.

A few minutes later, a similar reward came to hand.

Not bad for such a lackadaisical approach.

It wasn't to last, however, as the wind simply made things too unbearable for even my fast 5 weight.

Rather than stoke my frustration, I opted to retire for the moment and leave the beach for stronger rods (and arms)to ply...

Minutes later, breeze pounding our eardrums, I half-shouted to Mike.

"We're done here. Let's get out of the wind."

"Man, I can't get skunked...it's been since July."

"Then maybe you're due--that's a pretty long stretch, you know."

"Agh! Don't say that, I can't hear that kind of talk."

But our timeline was running tight--we had an hour and half left, maybe less.

"One last beach, then."

He nodded and we took off to a calmer shore.

"C'mon, just one sign, one jump."

I'd been here before; holding out, hoping, waiting for that hail mary jumper before you had to reel it in.

Ten minutes.

Fifteen.

We sat on a log, gazing at the lazy current, discussing the difference between the flavors of Dominican and Nicaraguan cigars, an inch away from calling it a day.

And just like the previous spot, our apathy triggered the desired response.

"There you go, dude!" I exclaimed, pointing at a very obvious rise.

"No way, are you messing with me?"

"Nope, fish away, the clock's ticking."

A fishless angler running out of time is a study in both dogged perseverance and desperation. From what I've observed, luck and skill no longer play contributing factors to success.

It sounds stupid, but if anything, it's about willpower.

The will to deny doubt, improbability and, on occasion, the passage of time.

It's like what that guy said in Happy Gilmore: "Harness in the good energy, block out the bad." Heh.

For our last twenty minutes on the beach, that's what Mike was all about.

And rightfully so:

"Doin' the Bull Dance. Feelin' the flow." :)