A Game of Numbers. 6/20/2020

We continue down the beach, Cush now in the prime position the for the first shot. I have caught my first fish in a month, despite weekly efforts. I my nagging spirit finally leaves me free to enjoy the day. We reach a stretch of sand where the followed trough dumps into a shallow point, extending out from the beach. Given the direction the snook have been swimming, they should have to cross some skinny sand to get back out to a comfortable depth. Cush occupies the ideal spot at the mouth of the trough. I walk down a little ways and set up deeper, hoping for big female cruisers who may bypass the trough altogether.

When Cush and I fish the beach together, we rarely communicate verbally more the 10 feet away. So if one of hears a yip, the other knows it is something worthy. I hear the aforementioned yip after only scanning for a few minutes, before I can even look back at him, I see it. A migratory tarpon cruising the edge of the makeshift flat, the black torpedo is certainly out of comfort range, but doable.

I strip out more line and wade into the water like a soldier in the mikong delta. Meanwhile the tarpon meanders along his predictable edge. After a few unruly false casts, I manage to lay the fly line in front of her. Short strips flutter raccoon fibers inches from her prehistoric face. She never looked at the fly, and I felt strongly that she had seen my entire torso down to my ankles. The whole experience feels like a dream, a dream where you end up naked in front of the class. This is the first tarpon I have been able to give a good presentation to from the sand.

Before I can gather my thoughts and fouled fly, another yip. I rush back to my original post as quickly as abdomen-deep water will allow. Cush signals: “large fish,” And then: “rollers.” Signs that neither of us had spoken of before. A large string of 20-30 migratory tarpon, using the same bank as a guide, zigzag from shelf to sea. They flirt with the line between casting range, and untouchable.

I wade out even deeper, more nervous than the first time. I feel my backpack floating. The thought of my waterlogged DSLR tries to enter the back of my brain, but is blotted out by an unknown evolutionary adrenal response to large fish. I start to false cast, loop and fly smack chest high water behind me, sapping line speed. The string make the predicted angle towards the beach and slide onto the shelf. I lay the fly line out 6 feet in front of the lead fish. She pays no mind. Pruned fingers and nervous hands strip in the fly. I make the same presentation to the 6th or 7th fish as well as the 20th or 21st. The same response down the line. Likely due to my inadequate fly slapping the water as I flailed like a toddler seized by the armpits.

In time the tarpon sightings subside inversely with small schools of healthy male snook. Cush feeds a healthy specimen. We admire tenacity and attitude, and get a few photos before a healthy release. I have never been a big numbers guy, but I can’t seem to enjoy the day to the fullest until the first fish is caught. The pressure is off of both of us. We fill the walk with bullshit and a few more shots a feisty fish. We finish the walk with a beer back at the tailgate.

Black and Tan. 6/20/2020

The beach has been unseasonably blown out this spring, with exception of a few sporadic days. As someone who has tied too much of my identity to fly fishing for beach snook, The result is frustration with the universe. In my opinion, the beach is the best local sight fishing opportunity I have. The spawn just so happens to not require the use of a skiff and coincides with my seasonal work’s slow season. I view beach snook as my bread and butter. As I am able to fit in multiple sessions per week. Beach season pulls me through harvesting season when days are long and daylight is short.

I still check the surf for myself weekly, despite the forecast of revolving swells. rapping the coast like brushes in a car wash. I went twice last week, armed with my 9wt and little hope. It seemed like it was getting slightly better, as clear blue water fights off chalky opacity and rotting sargassum. I even saw a few fish, after staring longer than any reasonable angler would. Saturday's forecast looks favorable, so my buddy Cush and I plan to drive south to a stretch of sand near the St Lucie inlet. Praying that the barrier of the Bahamas will increase our chances.

I am giddy as we rig up in the parking lot. Winds are light and I can hear the Atlantic gently lapping against the coast. Surely a good sign, an hour north looked almost doable a few days ago, maybe we will have a chance.

Dreams are promptly squashed by the army core of engineers, or maybe population explosion, or maybe the sugar industry, or maybe God. We both stare at the insidious line in the ocean. Gooey discharge from the inlet rides the tide down the coast, pushing God’s blue water down the beach and away from the ant pile made in his image. Despite disappointed on lookers, we make our way down to the part of the beach yet to be infected. Visibility proves to be hopeless all the same, maybe from recent swells, or maybe from man’s tampering with natural order. I reason we should go back north, further away from the invasive waters of lake Okeechobee.

Although behind schedule, we break through the sea grapes to cleaner water kissing the coast and blue bird skies. I can’t even find it in myself to blame the endless beach goers, especially knowing the chaos that lurks to the south.

The tide is low and tourists are thick, we spread out and walk onto the modest sandbar to wait for cruisers. We give it a few minutes before deciding to make tracks, the snook will sometimes lay up in a slack tide. I study the beach to try and determine the most likely areas to find fish according to my ever-changing theories.

As we walk, the sandbar we once stood on gradually falls away from the beach, the waves dissipate and trickle over and the growing trough. I stare at two dark cylindrical shapes on the bottom. My brain tries to convince my arms that the shapes are not fish, as I begin to false cast. My favorite fly plops down in between the two shapes, bisecting Them by 2.5ft. Cush watches from sandy bleachers opposite my casting arm. The shape to the right springs to life in the form of a healthy snook and inhales the yellow eyed offering with a graceful swipe. I come tight, letting fly line out and dopamine in. I cant hold back the grin in the midst of validation. My brain switched from the universe is out to get me, to thankful I ever have the opportunity to pursue fish in this way, 30 minutes from my home.