Coastal California!

There are three circumstances under which you can sea fish in California:

1. Buy a license (quite expensive for non residents)
2. Fish off a public pier/jetty (no license required)
3. Fish on one of two "free fishing" days/year

(I guess there's also technically a 4th option, to fish without a license- but i'd not risk it as they take fisheries enforcement a whole lot more seriously than in the UK. )

As I was on a family holiday with fishing very much on the back bench, I decided not to spend 130$ on a licence, instead opting for options 2 and 3. 

A few days south from San Francisco we came across a large pier. I thought it was quite an odd location for a pier, it looked rather out of place. Picture a large sandy, shallow bay fringed with eucalyptus and cypress trees, a few small farm buildings and an enormous wooden pier about 250 m long. It really didn't fit the scene.



Considering it was midday, about 30 Celsius and a 25 mph cross-shore wind I didn't really think it would be worth fishing. We'd only really stopped to have lunch as there were plenty of picnic tables and a good view.

I took a walk along the pier regardless and saw two fishermen packing up, they had caught two small pilchards on sabikis but nothing else. The water couldn't have been more than about 10 foot deep even at the end of the pier, so I figured any fish would be in deeper water till the evening. Staring into the slightly murky water I noticed a dark patch, about 20x10m. It looked just like a patch of reef , but this 'patch' moved. Only very slightly, but over 5 minutes it was now about 20m to the left. Baitfish? Or a huge raft of weed? I ran back to the car and grabbed a travel rod to confirm. Casting a metal lure against the stiff wind into the 'patch' soon resulted in catching a small horse mackerel. More fishermen had started setting up- perhaps 10 were now positioned along the pier, all casting downwind. Despite there being a very obvious mass of bait, everyone else was casting out onto barren sand. 

I could feel my metal bump into the baitfish, but nothing larger was having a go. I decided to change to a delalande swat shad and 15g jighead and bump it along the bottom beneath the bait. This turned out to be a great idea, as about 3 casts later I had a take! A big weight pulled back and stripped a fair bit of line from my reel. What had I hooked? It felt big, and also quite like a flatfish. I'd done a little research into potential target species, but was under the impression that it wouldn't be easy to catch a halibut from the shore with no prior knowledge. Sure enough, a California halibut soon surfaced!!

One problem - I didn't have a drop net. Nor did anyone else. This meant I had to walk the fish 240m back to shore, past angled barnacle encrusted pier pilings. It was a heart-in-mouth 10 minutes. I nearly lost the fish multiple times as it made several dives for cover, but by some miracle I landed the fish! Just under 10Lb of prime halibut, well over minimum size. As it's a well managed fishery I decided to keep the fish, which we enjoyed over the next couple of days. Possibly the best fish I've ever eaten?



I didn't have a chance to fish for a couple weeks, until a "free" fishing day came round. To cut a long story short, we walked about 6km to a remote surf beach to try for striped bass. You're probably thinking I'm deluded, people only catch striped bass in the Atlantic, right? Surprisingly, a couple hundred juvenile bass were transported from the East coast to San Francisco bay in the late 1800's and a healthy population soon established. 

The spot was superb, the wind however really wasn't. 30mph cross-shore again... 10ft swell made things interesting too. We fished metals as nothing else could even make it to the shore dump! I blanked over the 5 hrs but my dad managed to catch a beautiful 60cm+ bass and a tiny weever fish. Actually, I did foul hook a crab..!



I was quite impressed with the quality of California's fishing and imagine it's well worth going back to explore the fishing in more depth. There's also stacks of other marine life to keep you interested if the fish aren't biting- saw orcas, elephant seals, sea otters etc..!

When it 'clicks'.

Cheap baked beans are mopped up with crisp hash browns, a large mug of tea washing it down. Thunderstorms have pushed us from slate quarry climbing into the refuge of Llanberis' cult favourite café, Pete's eats. Dawdling in procrastination, a message pings up on my phone. Nick Hart, he's wished us well to give his beat of the Exe a crack later in the week but warns that things won't be easy. Something to be grateful to the rain for at least; it's much needed to bring the water up from the glassy bones that it has been lying in, the fish vulnerable and all too easily spooked.

A short dip in the Dyfi regains some vigour to limbs as we make the pilgrimage south, catching up with Ben on the way- a man of impeccable character but living far too distantly. Without such a welcome distraction, M4 traffic may have later driven me to utter madness. 'Plooosh', a large ring cascades from the pool below the bridge, a solid bar of silver sea trout glimpsed to be responsible. A most welcome sight after such heartache over the struggling migration of salmon on the Exe, a much discussed issue with Stuart and now recounted to Ben.

After many hours, hobnobs and cups of stale instant coffee, we've arrived for our annual pilgrimage at the Exe Valley fishery, dipping into our waders and into the clear river water. Many hours have been spent in this very river over the last month, working with the Westcountry Rivers Trust on their annual fry electrofishing surveys. But today is about fly fishing, no distractions. Loading up my waders for the day, camera, flies, car key, phone... I hesitate. This small device could be a great tool for emergencies and make sure that we stay in touch with what the others are up to in our absence. And yet it is a sucking distraction, available to the whims of everyone and anyone who might want to drag one from the bliss of the river and into the tangled maze of everyday goings on. Anxiety wins out, the phone is packed.

The mist hangs low and, quite pleasantly, there's not a breath of wind as we begin making our first tentative casts. A pool is shared and we both get the day rolling with some naughty escapee rainbows, colours amplified and vivid from the rich taste of wild freedom. A buzz from within my waders. Optimistic and glad, I check to see what the outside world has to say. Just like that, I'm drawn into the void of care as a message knocks me off guard, not knowing how this has come or hoping to know how to respond. The phone weighs tenfold as I trudge now upstream.

A large grayling is spotted just above the riffle I'm standing in, and I fumble to tie the New Zealand dropper shorter below my large buoyant sedge. Dad watches on eagerly, a couple of short false casts to mobilise the package and the three weight line lands just a couple of feet too far, spooking the grayling and blowing my chances. The next few hours pass much the same, few hatches and fewer rises as drizzle kicks in and only the occasional fish on the nymph. Lunch is a despirited affair of hobnobs and three bananas, considering how to make more of the afternoon.

The day passes much the same. 4pm comes around and I'm unpicking the umpteenth knot from my leader, symptomatic of the cares gripping my hands and causing an unsightly tailing loop. Just upstream in a favourite run, a gentle sip with a small bubble is left behind. I don't know what it is, but looking at the grey form responsible belies the character of a beautiful grayling, it just has that spirit about it. Once again, I cover the fish with a simple tungsten nymph, thrice, each time refused.

The grayling keeps rising. Further casts are futile, he'd have taken my sunken offering by now if he had the mind. Care now slips away as I study closely the dancing form in the water. Sat below a bush, it appears to be sipping gently away at tiny falling aphids, hence the ignorance of the large sedge on my duo. A size 18 F fly, a simple yet fittingly delicate presentation, is tied onto some 7X tippet. The first two casts are a foot too far left, the focused fish ignores them and continues to sip at tiny offerings. The third cast is just right; two feet ahead and a few inches to the right. Breath is held, the fly drifts gently along the glide towards its target. Small and hardly perceivable, all intent is fixed in these short seconds on it's meandering dance downstream. The grayling fixes its gaze, clocked on the target. With a lazy lift of the head, the current draws the fish upwards, as it flicks to the right with a gentle sip. I can hardly believe it, but an automatic flick of the wrist sets the hook.

In this moment the world just seems to make sense. A spirited and joyful fight sees an 11'' grayling landed, but truthfully if the hook popped before the net I'd be no worse off. I'd glimpsed, understood and connected with something so beautiful and natural in the river, a validation of my place here. Next time the phone will stay in the car, nothing is really that urgent anyway.