Couldn't wish for much more!

The bass fishing has been a little slow for me in the last couple of months, so I have been focusing on mostly the gilthead bream and wrasse. Although this has been great fun, I had hoped I would be able to find a bass or two before leaving the UK for Tasmania for a year. 

My penultimate day failed to produce anything other than a few large mackerel, so I decided to try somewhere totally new for the final session. This spot is somewhere I noticed whilst walking the South West coast path a few weeks ago and made a note to check it out properly in the future. Arriving at the spot I couldn’t yet reach the rock I wanted to stand on, so passed the time searching for a wrasse whilst waiting for the tide to drop some more. About an hour later it was just about possible to get to “my spot”, and once there I eagerly cast out over new water. Having little knowledge of the terrain I was fishing over, I tried a few different lures. I had a couple of nips from wrasse, and a little bump on a metal, but nothing hooked up. With time pressing on I thought I would have one last cast and call it a day.

A couple of “last casts” later I packed up and turned back, but couldn’t bear the thought of ending my Cornish fishing on a low. I thought I would at least explore a little more, so carried on a little further. I soon came to a spot that looked very promising, I could see the kelp bed was not too deep down beneath the water’s surface, and a small gully cut through it running perpendicular to the tide- a perfect ambush spot. With my rod still rigged up I thought I may as well have a cast or two. Lure choice was easy- although many would have been suitable, I was drawn to my battered yellow Xorus Frosty.

I cast out and started working the lure, but once it settled into a wonderful side to side rhythm my eyes drifted away. I suddenly snapped back to the lure as the retrieve had been interrupted by what I can only assume a wonderful take! A good fish was thrashing the surface about 20 yards out, I was completely shocked. After a nice fight, I lifted the fish ashore and removed the frosty from its mouth. There was nowhere flat to lay a ruler so I decided to just release the fish 5 meters away from where I was fishing as there I could easily hold the fish in the water as it recovered. Soon enough, the fish regained strength and swam off strongly. I then returned to my rock to pick up my bag and rod, now totally happy that I could end on a high. You may wonder why I would even start to think about leaving after just landing a decent fish, but I was already well past “last cast”. However, what I saw next was more than enough to convince me to stay another 5 minutes…

As I approached my rock, I saw a large shoal of slow moving grey fish of various sizes in the water below. Mullet? Bass? I was crouching down at this point, behind a rock. They were not doing the mullet’s characteristic side flash, could they be bass? Only one way to find out, so I clipped on a Wagasaki xlayer and flicked it to where I had seen the shoal. 2 twitches later and bang, fish on. A schoolie was quickly brought in and released. Catching this fish had sadly spooked the large shoal of about 30 (visible) fish, there may have been more that I couldn’t see farther out. I cast a bit further this time, but nothing took. I took another cast even further, hoping to intercept the shoal again. This time I had a couple of bumps and then a fish took properly, resulting in another bass landed. By now I really had to leave, so called it a day and felt totally blessed. Bright sunshine, new spot, 3 lovely bass. A perfect end to my Cornish fishing for this year.

Symptoms of an angling addict

Nervous anticipation took hold as I bid my church a farewell on a drizzly Tuesday evening, sweeping through town on my bike to retrieve my prepared minimalistic kit for the evening. Quickly as I could, layers of waterproofs were gained, headtorch slid on, rucksack on and rod and net in hand before once again slipping back out my front door into the night. Falmouth is busy this time of year, with overheard exchanges between folks heading on their way for the night keeping me company for the first part of my walk. I’d invited numerous friends to join me on this foray into unknown territory but none seemed quite mad enough to be willing to join. At last I came out of the bustling town, alone, stood before the black abyss of a gently receding seascape, shrouded in the falling rain. My target, bass.

Such behaviour are sure signs of a loved one struggling with a bass addiction, driving irrational acts of extreme lengths to seek out these legendary fish. I’d spent the early period of my sea fishing endeavours laughing too at these bass obsessives. I would happily catch a bass during trips, but then I would also happily catch mullet, mackerel, pollock, bull huss, wrasse and all other kinds of species. The joy to me of sea fishing is the sheer diversity of species one might find, the habitats to fish for them and the techniques employed. So why a person would get caught up on just one species seemed odd, and perhaps a little unfulfilling.

This all changed last summer, having wondered at seeing a friend catch a 60cm specimen in just a few feet of water and later in September having a juvenile bass take a plug aimed for mackerel. The aggressive character of the take, seen just feet away as I prepared to lift for a recast, combined with an angry thrashing fight could only make me chuckle as I beheld this perfectly silver fish. As I slipped it back it would fair to say that I was hooked.

My first bass!

Back to Tuesday night. It was a good springtide, with low at 2am and gentle winds, offering the best conditions that I could hope for in pursuit of this elusive species. I had tried a couple of sessions in the preceding week fishing in the same spot during the day, without success aside for a much welcomed wrasse taking a Fiiish minnow 90, and so hoped that this move to fishing under darkness would shift the odds in my favour.

A welcome wrasse, always give a good account of themselves.

A previous trip to the same spot yielded success, I hoped that having released fish here some might still be around.

The session started with a frustrating snag up early on, even using a weedless soft plastic lure approach. Being forced to switch my torch on to retie a new leader led to the somewhat eerie discovery: ¼ pint of blood splashed over the rock I was standing on, something that perhaps would have been chuckled off with the good company that these trips normally draw. I fished on through the rain, picking my way across the beach and clambering over rocky ledges, slipping on ubiquitous bladder wrack along the way. In this way for 3 hours I had fished the length of my targeted spot, consoling myself within the confines of my tired mind of the valuable lessons learned on the trip. As I was making my way back along I decided to fish the best looking spots once again, before aiming for a departure time of 2am.

Taking a photo to remember the trip, a sign that I was at this point doubtful of any fish turning up. 

I snapped my rod into a cast, sending my patch 100 (surface lure) disappearing into to gloom. Twitching the rod tip erratically alongside a medium-slow retrieve brought no response from the bay in front of me, leaving me recast into the night, losing hope. The faint splash of the patch landing echoed across the water, and I went through the automatic motions of closing my bail arm and lifting the rod tip ready for a retrieve. However to my utter shock, something was different this time. My drag squealed with line peeling off into the water, a solid thump was felt through the rod. It took me a moment to realise what had happened, but soon I was laughing to myself in sheer relief. After a powerful first run the quarry then all but gave up fight until right at my feet, shooting around the rocky ledge, not content to give me too easy a prize. A perfectly decent pollock slipped into the net to my delight, proving that not all heros wear capes. Some are pollock that save you from blanking!

Pollock saves the day (night), with patch in mouth. 

I continued around the rocks to another likely looking spot, with fish holding islands of rock scattered across the area, peeping through the receding water. I make a point of not making more than 5-10 casts in any one area without changing tact, and as I approached my 5^th cast I readied myself to move along to the next spot. Bass are aggressive fish, and if they’re there then you’ll certainly soon know about it! Mid-way through my retrieve however, all at once there was a crash in the water, my line went tight and then a violent shake was felt through the rod. This fight was altogether different and just screamed bass in its character, every thrash and shake of the head being felt through the hyper-sensitivity seemingly developed in the darkness. After a little hassle hopping around these rocky islands, slipping on the covering of bladder wrack whilst desperately holding the rod aloft, I was able to find a suitable spot to net my prize: a most welcome 41cm bass. By no means a giant, it was wonderful to see these predators were swimming through the marine environment.

Admiring a beautiful bass before slipping it back into the sea.

Cornwall has historically been thought of as the bass capital of the UK, with perfect marine and estuarine habitat. However commercial pressure has seemingly taken a toll, and while increasing measures will perhaps help the situation, this is a slow growing species and few of the good-sized specimens of old seem to lurking along the shore marks. All of this in mind I wholly advocate not keeping bass for the cooking pot, but instead releasing them back to live and fight another day, growing on to larger specimens and securing future populations.

Fishing for bream and bass up Penryn creek, good habitat for juvenile individuals. 

An angry juvenile bass caught fishing up the estuary, could be quite a fine prize in 10 years time. 

After having slipped my obliging bass back into the now low tide, I walked a little further on and tried a few more casts. Before long however my watch struck 2am and I pulled myself away from the sea and thoughts of what else might be out there. Whilst the total catch wasn’t extraordinary by any means, I was pleased to have seen some result and refined my knowledge of where fish would likely be in the future, and how to fish through the challenges presented by an absence of light. Perhaps this is the start of a bass fishing journey, trudging tired through the empty streets of Falmouth.

A week of mixed feelings

The art of angling is an undeniably bizarre phenomenon. Often involving long hikes and treacherous climbs to the best rock marks, gruelling pain carrying kayaks and kit down to the water and skimping spending on essentials for daily life in order to be able to afford the necessary kit. All of this to be able to launch unnatural man-made creations at whatever might dwell below, in the hope that this might tickle their fancy and return a fish to your feet. More puzzling to some is the fact that often after this ordeal the very prize so hard fought for is often returned to the sea, leaving no net gain to the angler but instead physically, financially and mentally exhausted.

Such thoughts have been buzzing around my mind over the past couple of weeks in light recent fishing experiences. This blog has long sat quiet due to myself, Stuart and Matt each facing pressures from our respective university courses, but at last our time was freeing up and we were able to get back out on the water to wet a line.

On the 8^th of June, myself and Matt had a good session fishing for pollock from the rocks in Falmouth. I initially started by fishing the usual range of soft plastics to target pollock and wrasse, but to no avail, not even a pull. Perplexed, I paused to collect some seaweed for dinner- a challenging task involving dodging waves whilst hanging from rough barnacled rocky shelves. To his amusement, Matt arrived during this break of mine. He soon tackled up with a string of feathers and within his first casts was into a string of small pollock. Not only that, but a few more casts and these tiny feathers were returning good sized pollock. Jammy thing! I resolved to try soft plastics over the kelp beds that were treating him so well, but without luck. As I said that I’d give one last cast before giving over to feathers, I launched into a powerful snap of my short rod. What followed I do not fully understand, but what I do know is that my braid snapped near to the leader knot under the force of the cast, leaving my frustratingly pricey black minnow lure flying freely through the air before slipping through the waves, never to be seen again. After being gifted a string of feathers by Matt my success instantly shifted, with at least a single small pollock per cast and several larger individuals between them. Opening up the stomachs of these showed that the fish were feeding hard on sand eels less that 2inches long, perhaps explaining why they weren’t interested in hitting any of my larger offerings. We finished the day both carrying many large pollock well above minimum keep size, having returned many fish, with 9 pollock and a launce to my rod.

Matt with a fine brace of pollock. 

However the more consistent pattern for the coming week was seen on the Sunday of this week. Myself and a friend, Beau, headed from lunch to fish a prolific bay for wrasse. However we were too late in arriving and found our path to this golden spot covered by the tide. Eager to make the most of the afternoon, I soon tied weedless soft plastic presentations onto each of our rods and made a series of casts over the rocky ledges, dragging these plastics back slowly to try to tempt these hard fighting territorial fish. Early in the session I had 2 hits in quick succession, but these were translated into a snag by the fickle wrasse, requiring a frustrating rush to retie leaders and lures. Despite covering every rocky ledge across the headland, we were unable to locate any further fish.

Previous trips to this spot have returned many fine wrasse.

Just a day later, myself, Stuart and Joe headed out to try our luck once again. Stuart had recently returned from the Isles of Scilly and Joe had also just obtained a kayak, so it’d have been rude to ignore the window of calm winds for a night out on the water. After to usual ordeal of carrying the kayaks down to Gylly (Joe is a much more sensible man, having a set of wheels to transport his kayak), we launched into the softly lapping waves, the sun already low in the sky. Once on the water we glided 200m offshore and across the bay to a sandy spot that had proved successful in the previous summer for mackerel. Here we feathered for 15 minutes, paddled a little further on and repeated. We were however disappointed to find that the mackerel had not yet returned from spawning, with not a bite to any of our 3 feathering rods between us! What was apparent however was a change that had occurred in the sea, with masses of small jellies filling the water. This was troubling for 3 ecologists out on the water, with an apparent shift from the small bait fish here not long ago now seemingly replaced by these competing planktivores. As sun set we paddled over a productive area of reef (see November post), where Joe continued feathering, I tried a surface lure for bass and Stuart tried soft plastics with feathers. Joe unfortunately lost a lone mackerel on his feathers, and whilst my patch 100 proved unsuccessful in locating any bass, Stuart managed to winkle out a good sized green and brown ballan wrasse. Pushing a little further on I managed to find 5 small pollock just below minimum size, which were duly slipped back to their kelpy homes below. Paddling back at midnight it was clear that something had changed in the past few days.

The following day Stuart was out on the water with a 4am start with his housemate Tom, paddling across from the centre of Falmouth into the deep channel opposite St Mawes in search of Elasmobranchs. Myself and Matt were set to take the kayaks out afterwards from 12-4 whilst Stuart caught some much needed rest before heading back out in the evening with Baliant and Joe. However, we were disheartened to find that there had been little success in the morning, with just a few dogfish having been caught leading to Stuart and Tom to target some nice sized wrasse in the shelter of the shipyard. Being one to enjoy a challenge, myself and Matt paddled out across the bay while dodging boat traffic. Sadly, our fortunes were much the same and despite using a prime section of half launce I brought up only a lesser spotted dogfish and a poor cod on my feathers.

Out on the water on a beautiful summer day. 

The sad tale of a lack of success was followed the next day with our trip out gilthead bream fishing. It was great to be out on the water with Jen and Stuart and to get a feel for the dynamics of fishing for this elusive species, all for the purposes of Jen’s research. Stuart and Jen both missed hard bites from steamtraining bream, while I was pestered by small bass further up the creek. Despite a lack of fortunes I felt that I learned much that day to improve chances for future trips, and it is never bad to be out on the water. Whilst we paddled back in the middle of the night, lit only by the night sky we all paused to behold the beauty of the environment we were in. The water was perfectly still, acting as a perfectly glassy mirror of the sky above, disturbed only by the occasional stroke of a paddle sliding through the water. The peacefulness hit me, with the absence of any unnatural noise save that of the occasional mullet and seabird, shouting above the usual sounds of everyday life that even here in Cornwall I have become accustomed to.

Peace in the creek.

Thursday was a day off fishing to recover and tend to essentials of ‘life admin’ I had been ignoring, however I was back out again on Friday but this time for a spot of fly fishing at Innis with a good friend, Tony. We decided upon the specimen lake, as this offered greater depth and hence was fishing better in this hot and bright weather. The game started early for me, with a trout smashing my silver humungous fly as a quickly stripped it in after having made a duff cast. Taken by surprise, the trout obligingly eased towards the bank after an initial hard hit. However as it neared the bank it came to life and went on a surging run that stripped my loose retrieved line and started taking more line tirelessly from the drag. I put the brakes on the fish, pushing against my rotating spool in an attempt to slow the fish from reaching an overhanging jetty that it was piling for. This was not appreciated by the fish, which simply pulled harder, forcing me to hold my breath as I prayed that my knots might hold against this tug of war that had formed. Argh! Fish off! My line went slack at this clinch point and my heart sank as I feared the worst. However I soon realised that the fish had instead elected to swim straight towards me, and was still holding my fly. I stripped the line quickly to regain tension and after 10 more minutes of fighting had a fine specimen of 5.5lbs in my net. The rest of the day was hard fishing, with only the occasional pluck of the fly as the sun rose high and warm in the sky. Despite using heavy weighted flies of various patterns on an intermediate line, drawing the fly close across the bottom, I just couldn’t buy a bite. We were most grateful to the fishery owner, who seeing our distress late in the afternoon gave us a selection of booby flies, suggesting that I fish these on the fast sinking line I had brought by chance (being used normally only when saltwater fly fishing from the kayak!). This, though feeling slightly like cheating, certainly worked a treat, with another 2 large rainbows taking the fly in quick succession- first for myself and then for Tony.

A hard fighting specimen, certainly gave a good account of itself!

Once again motivated by this success, the following day I headed out with Beau to a rocky platform on the Lizard peninsula to try for pollock. This was however sadly unsuccessful, landing only a few smaller individuals. This was repeated with an attempt for mullet around Falmouth’s quays as a birthday celebration. There were certainly fish around, though larger individuals were not interested in feeding and the smaller individuals that were feeding lived up to their reputation of being difficult to hook, never fully committing to taking the bait in. Hopes were raised and then fell as I lost a small mullet just over a pound, and the session coming to a conclusive end when a group of builders disturbed the peace by jumping into the water of my fishing spot. Good to see British work ethic at its finest!

A glimpse of the lifeboat launching just next to our spot on the Lizard.

That brings me here (if you’re still reading!) examining the worth of this pursuit, in light of a tough couple of weeks. It might well be that the recent high pressure systems, bringing warm and bright weather has put off predatory fish species from feeding, or that the baitfish they target have pushed further offshore. Or perhaps these are just excuses I make to console myself. I however am adamant that this pursuit is wholly worthwhile, and am set on continuing. Taking these failures into account and having made notes in my fishing log will help to target more effective tactics or times to pursue various species for the rest of this summer and over the coming years. Further, fishing to me is an excuse to immerse myself within the environment and ecosystems that I love and learn about every day through my university education. Some of the best fishing trips are not those with the most fish, but those where a glimpse of glory is seen through the magnificent surroundings, stirring up something of awe within. When fish are caught it is not simply an exercise in feeding oneself, but a chance to admire the beauty of these often unseen and under-appreciated species, before slipping them back to swim another day. Lastly, fishing has a strange ability for a solitary pursuit to draw together companions, sharing their joys and failures together (preferably over a glass of whiskey) or birthing new friendships with the telling of many a fishing tale.

And here I hope that you might share in these experiences with us, through our ambitious tales.

Dan.

February Wrassing

A short video taken in mid February-

Wrasse film on Vimeo

Despite the amazing conditions we struggled to get bites, perhaps the wrasse were a little sluggish due to the cold water. I did see one follow the lure in, and a garfish swiped at my lure as I lifted it out the water. However, a change in spot resulted in 3 in 3 casts!

Lure- Lunkercity Swimming ribster 4" on a Texas rig.

Testing a 3 weight

It was another great looking April day, and I'd done more than enough reading of papers to give the urge to escape. Unfortunately my replacement rod tip section for the predator fly rod hadn't yet arrived, so I decided to shift from my original plan of targeting larger carp at a local water to trying to put a bend in the 3 weight rod. Skirting my way around the main roads, following the back lanes, I made it over to a friend's lake. This water was a regular during my early teen years and I knew that there'd be feeding fish about. I had a great afternoon, landing 4 common carp between 3 and 4lbs which gave me a great fight on the light fly tackle. Individuals could be picked out with a gentle flick of the fly over their nose, before they piled for the lilies in the centre- great fun! A short (poor quality) video of the trip is included below!

Kayaks with Dolphins

Myself and Stuart were neck deep in exams and assignments for our course, I had a week of events to plan for the Falmouth Christian Union, and stress levels were creeping up. So naturally, we thought, we needed a fishing trip to save us going crazy. I’d been in Dartmoor over the weekend, but all the while eying the wind forecast for the week- it looked like we’d have a window between Tuesday and Wednesday. Stuart protested a trip on Tuesday (for the record I still think that a group project is an invalid excuse), so Wednesday it was.

The days running up to the trip were spent in the library studying frantically, interspersed with myself and Stuart hyping each other up for our fishing trip- it had been over a month for me since wetting a line! March had come, and so Stuart had plaice on his mind, having researched where we might find the sandy ground that they favour. Meanwhile I was driven towards the urge of catching a ray, after Stuart’s success during the previous trip. Matt kindly leant me his boat rod (a formidable beast with a solid beech wood handle), which I balanced with the a suitably beefy baitcasting reel and 40lb mono line. This ran down to a 2-hook flapper rig and 6oz lead. I felt suitably equipped to bring any monster of the deep up on this set up!

I awoke on Wednesday and crammed as much toast as I could down my gullet, washed down with a cup of black filter coffee. Rucksack shouldered, boots on and rod in hand; I headed over to Stuart’s. For the very first time when I reached Stuart’s door he wasn’t eating his breakfast- something was up! Eventually Stuart came down, sporting a hilarious combination of clothing- though perfectly functional for the trip ahead. We went through plans for the morning ahead, either to head over to Gylly and fish the sand patches just off the beaches, or to head out into the Fal. Given the strong tide we decided upon fishing the Fal, where we could later drift with the tide down to St Anthony’s head. Stuart then produced a well-illustrated guide of the benthic structure of the area of the Fal we were to fish, along with sight markers to position ourselves and the location of the deep channel. It transpired that Stuart had only slept a pitiful couple of hours, being restless for the trip ahead, giving him plenty of time to draw out this map and prepare himself for the trip.

Suitable attire for the water

We carried the kayaks down by the usual route through Falmouth to launch them, only stopping to lift them over inconveniently placed barriers and to stop Stuart’s rodtip from snapping (having got caught on some ivy in an alleyway and bending to a most alarming angle). The tide was right up at the quay, posing a slightly more challenging launch than usual- but launch we did! We headed out into the main channel of the Fal, optimistic of our chances after seeing garfish and mackerel at the surface. After we had just passed the naval ship Stuart shouted over that he had just seen a Dolphin. I scanned the horizon of the water with as much focus as my tired eyes could muster, returning nothing. But we continued to paddle ahead and eventually there it was- dolphin! This was soon followed by another, and more, until we couldn’t look far in the bay without seeing a breaching fin. It’s fair to say that at this point we were reasonably excited; our chances seemed to be fair at the least!

We followed the pod of common dolphins north up Carrick Roads past the green marker buoy, knowing that we’d drift rapidly with the strong spring tide. At this point the dolphins were all around the kayaks, and close too! Harry had kindly left his GoPro for us to use during the trip with a set of instructions, though we still fumbled the controls (probably due to tiredness and dolphin adrenaline) as we were transfixed with wonder at the sight around us. I saw one come up to breathe about 30 metres away from the side of me, heading straight for the kayak. Again, it surfaced: 20m. Then 5m. My breath was taken away as it swam right under the front end of the kayak, moving with such sinuous fluidity and grace through its aquatic habitat. We soon saw why there was such a number around us as we were both quick into mackerel, and all of this before most of Falmouth had awoken!

A selection of Stuart's catch later being prepared

We continued to drift South down the Fal, and were soon getting tired with the unavoidable mackerel- they were even taking large fillets of mackerel on the flapper rig intended for rays! I tied up to the West-Narrows buoy with the intention of getting my ray fix, being able to fish a static bait out of the tidal drift. However, the sea around this spot seemed dead and whilst I could see Stuart still pulling up mackerel on his feathers, neither my baited feathers nor mackerel fillet and sandeel on the flapper had any luck. I gave it 45 minutes and then untied, joining Stuart at his productive mackerel patch. Lowering my feathers over the side of the kayak into to still water below, I tried to catch up with Stuart’s lead, whilst he paddled over to a pair of hand liners. They marvelled at the standard of the size of mackerel Stuart had piled into his hold, and with information on the best spots for mackerel and plaice exchanged, they headed back up the Fal.

Tying up to the buoy on a glassy calm sea.

After 20 minutes, we paddled over to St Anthony’s head in search of plaice, following Stuart’s detailed diagram to the point. However, time passed without any joy, and after a few drifts and repositionings we decided to head back up the Fal. We battled against the tide flooding out of the bay, to reach the deep channel just outside of St Mawes. Here I embarrassed myself, being most excited to finally hook into something on the bottom that put a bend into the beefy boat rod- could it be something significant? What greeted me in the net however was instead the biggest mackerel I think I have ever seen. Hence I named him Cthulhu, christened with a bash from the priest. After pulling up complete strings of mackerel that left the feathers in an utter tangle, and a surprise pair of whiting to each of us, we decided to head on home to Falmouth.

St Anthony's head looms ahead

The paddle home was painful, excruciating at points. I cursed my lack of strength against the tide, and despaired of the numbness that stretched uncomfortably from my buttocks to lower back. As we finally landed at the quay, the falling tide had left the beach exposed for us to land on, and the kayaks blissfully kissed the sand below as the glided to a halt. We finished our paddle that day at a total of 15km, and proceeded to pee in celebration, before cramming down some much needed malt loaf. We gutted our catch, with myself ending the day on 19 mackerel and 2 whiting, Stuart on 25 mackerel and a single whiting. However, I won the prize for biggest mackerel, with Cthulhu tipping the scales at 1lb 7oz.

Never has a person looked upon fish with such adoration

An early November morning

A crisp November morning

2nd of March 2017 (a recollection of an earlier time).

For the briefest of moments my mind raced in confusion- why on earth would my alarm be going off at 4am? Then I remembered, fishing was once again on the mind. Weary, I fumbled into my thermals and staggered down the stairs. Coffee on and Porridge in I was feeling a bit more ready to go, and prepared the last few bits of kit.

Pack shouldered, boots on and rods in hand I set off to meet Stuart. The crisp November air was punishingly biting my hands as I clutched my rods, I should have put the gloves on earlier. Stuart seemed to be equally tired, but had just finished off some edible fuel for the task ahead. We loaded the kayaks with all the gear and set down for Gylly Beach. The pain of carrying the kayaks (we really must get some wheels) was offset with the amusing thought of how absurd we must have looked to any bypassers. Or perhaps the bypassers would be correct.

We reached Gylly Beach on time: before 6am. We’d chosen this trip based on the perfect conditions and a hope at one good last trip on the kayaks before the year was up. The swell however was not on our side, roaring ominously as we approached. Stuart was out like a rocket, and I soon followed on my 3^rd attempt of launching  (having bailed the kayak twice). We paddled out across the water in the dark, with Pennance point looming just visible against the gloom. Time and distance seemed to be arbitrary in this seemingly mystical state, and though I could not tell if hours or minutes had gone by, Stuart helpfully plotted our course via his mobile. 

We arrived eventually to a cove on the approach to Maenporth, and it was here that we decided we might try our luck. To the right a large shelf of jagged rocks tumbled from a platform into the water, hiding all kind of unknown snags. Directly ahead of us was a smooth bay, where the tide had worn gently away at the Cliffside. And to the right islands of glistening black rock jutted up out of the water. As we made our first few casts the sun rose glorious behind us; the day had begun.

I clipped on a white shad onto my make-shift lure set up. This composes of 9 weight fly rod with a replacement tip eye attached at the point of breaking, a foot below its original length, a Shimano Exage 2500 rear drag reel and (at the time) a dwindling amount of Japanese braid from Stuart. My body went through the motions of casting the shad a little way ahead of the kayak, as best as my cold and nervous muscles could. Ten… Eleven… Twelve… I counted the lure down to the stirring water below, trying to get it down to the features before my haste brought it in too quickly. Finally I lifted and began to pump the lure in: Snagged.

The aforementioned make shift lure rod. Does the job on a student's budget, though requires an interesting casting technique!

Try as I might I couldn’t retrieve the lure from the thick kelp bed below me, and my stomach sank as with a twang the shad disappeared into the abyss. My urgency to set up my fly rod was only added to as I saw Stuart’s rod with a heathy bend, soon transpiring into a thick slate grey pollock brought up from the tackle-snatching depths. Rod together, leader attached and a sandeel fly tied onto the leader; I was ready once again to go. The empty expanse of the sea gave me a joyful freedom to hold the line into the backcast without fear of any snagging on trees, loading the rod with a satisfying push. I counted down 30 seconds with the intermediate line, and gave two long strips of the line before beginning a rapid figure of 8 retrieve, pausing occasionally to allow the fly to sink. Lo and behold, the man himself Stuart was into another fish, making me doubt my approach. Surely fly fishing at sea is a fool’s errand!

I glued some split shot to back of the shank of my hook in attempt to get it down to the fish. But despite my efforts still no joy. I swallowed my pride and looked to my last resort, hooking a sandeel onto the fly (no judgement please). I twitched this along 25 yards of line, feeling occasional tugs of resistance. Fish or weed? At last something solid gave was on and I quickly had to try to remember how to use a fly reel! After stripping some line I was able to hold my quarry as it pulled down and could reel in the slack fly line. At last I could play it on the drag, more comforting and familiar territory for me! Tentatively I worked in each yard of line, eventually revealing a gleam of silver and grey; a pollock having engulfed the fly greedily.

A Fulling Mill livebait sandeel, my favourite choice of fly for targeting saltwater predators. Whilst I could have switched to a heavier clouser pattern, I prefer the fluidity of the streaming fibres, mimicking the sinuous movements of the sandeel that it imitates.

Having netted and quickly dispatched my first pollock of the session, I quickly hooked on my second (and last) last resort sandeel. Realising that I’d drifted away from the rocks and further out, I switched my fly rod for the paddle and made my way over towards Stuart, in front of the platform of rock on the right. The morning sun had began to take hold, revealing the surging tide colliding with these rocks and spraying the land with a crash. It was too good a spot not to cast into, though Stuart seemed concerned at my proximity to this hazard. As we drifted along this wall of rock I made a series of casts into the white water, slowly twitching the bait backwards. As I was nearing the point, desperately hoping for a hit of resistance, Stuart paddled further back along. Another cast was made, the fly line counted down. As soon as I started a retrieve I felt something solid: snagged. But no, the snag was thumping. The rod was lifted high as I realised that something down there had grabbed the bait and I desperately tried to lift it up off of the snags below. The fish however was not keen on this idea of mine, and held itself solidly to the bottom, curving my carbon until the rod tip just kissed the surface of the sea.

Gradually however it gave way, reluctantly allowing me to take around 15 yards of line in. Reluctant to allow me such a stress-free fight, it then made a powerful dive for the bottom once again, raking my knuckles as I tried to slow the drag of the reel and keep it from the snags below. The strength of this fish was acutely evident, not simply making fast rushes this way and that but throwing its weight and power into long thundering runs that left me questioning the strength of my snowbee’s rod tip (now well submerged below the surface) and the strength of my leader knots. Trust I had to though, as I tightened down and held the rod up with both arms. Something would have to give way at this point; be it the tackle or the fish. Happily I felt a thump through the line and the pressure gradually lift. I managed once again to lift the fish from the depths and after 5 more minutes of it holding depth I saw a bright red fish at the surface. My first wrasse, and on the fly gear no less!

Unhooking the wrasse in the net, with the rod and paddle also balanced the legs.

A very happy angler with a very thick wrasse, awesome stuff!

I paddled excitedly over to Stuart to gloat in my capture, and to concede in needing some help in getting the fly out. Measured at 45cm and posing for a quick photo, it was soon returned to its domain below. We then headed back towards the cove and casted into the bay, as we were reluctantly aware of the need to return soon. However Stuart joyfully shouted over that he’d had a bass, and our reluctance to leave grew further. In a blinding streak Stuart not only brought his tally of species up to four (pollock, garfish, bass and a mackerel on his trusty patchinko) but also had 4 bass in quick succession. Not being one to give up, I switched over to the floating line and tied on a slow sinking sandeel fly.

A pristine bass from Stuart, soon returned after the photo.

The short head of the Rio line quickly loaded the road and gave sufficient energy to send the line surging across the water with just 2 false casts. The first 3 retrieves returned only the occasional, but heart racing, pluck of the fly. Finally as the fly hit the water for a fourth time I immediately felt the line behaving strangely. Feeling a slight resistance, I decided to hold my nerve, gently counting down to 20. At last a began my retrieve, and initial disappointment at the lack of tension was soon swept off as something smashed the fly hard and was now racing away. I shouted over to Stuart in a state of utter elation, could it be that I’d finally get a bass on the fly? I tried not to rush my quarry as it fought its way on several runs from every side of the kayak. My excitement grew as I brought it towards the surface, towards my waiting net.

What then entered my mind or left my lips cannot be proudly repeated, as to my horror a pollock slid into my net. Having caused me such grief earlier in the session in getting the fly deep enough to get down to them, this deceptive individual must have taken the fly in no more than three feet below the surface. Stuart paddled over and shared my shock at this devious pollock, that had left my feelings in a mess. It was decided in the end however that it was actually quite funny, and I laughed away the disappointment realising that I’d had my new best pollock and that it had given me a rather good fight on the fly tackle, even if it wasn’t the species I had hoped for.

Alas our time was up and we headed back across the bay and towards Gylly, passing a paddleboarder on our way. Final count for the day was 4 pollock and a wrasse, all before most of Falmouth had woken. Kayaks stored and having cleaned up, we headed into campus for lectures filled with a sense of satisfaction at the shared experience of the session.

And I will yet have a bass on the fly, it’s only a matter of time.

Dan.