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 3rd 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.
