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Wednesday Night After my wife came home from work, I watched a little tube with her until around 9. The tide I wanted to fish would be turning around at 11, and the wind was perfect for the place I wanted to go, according to the weather man.
The Jeep was already packed, and will probably stay the way until November, so as soon as I heard the first snore from my wifes nose, I stepped out.
The drive was about 45 minutes, and I hit an occasional drizzle and gust of wind on the way, kinda what I was hoping for, as the front would be running through and I wanted to be ahead or under it. As I drove into the park road I noticed the wind wasn't quite what I had hoped for but this spot can allow for that. I followed the road around the lighthouse, and parked at a different spot than originally planned for.. I geared up, checked the batteries in the head lamp, and flashlight and headed down a path I hadn't been down in years. When I reached the end of the path, I noticed how an easily reachable, beautiful place can be utterly destroyed by today's youth, and lost generation, with a can of spray paint , and lack of adult supervision. Why is it they can't just enjoy the splendor of nature, without having to proclaim their sexual desires on every flat surface they can paint on?
It wasn't long before travel became difficult, and my Korkers clawed the rock for traction. The spray painted proclamations also disappeared. I continued Traversing, climbing, and clawing my way to a location I haven't been to for quite a while, that would be right in the face of the wind. When I reached it, I knew I made the right choice. I lit a smoke, turned off the head lamp, and allowed my eyes to adjust. Constantly watching the surf for it's surge pattern, I started to notice the way the rips were forming as the outrushing water was channeled by the caverns and valleys of the reefs cut by millenia of surging waves. I watched for the low spots in the climbing waves, as that also indicated where my deeper water would hold feeding fish.
I selected the first plug to throw into the wash, and slowly made my way down to the edge, under the red lense of my head lamp. I stood on the end of a reef about half way up my thighs in surging water, and watched the plug land in the rip, right where I wanted it. Off in the distance I could see the lights of downtown Newport, the nightclub district, and thought about how fortunate I was to have this quiet place all to myself. I reeled the plug as slow as the Zee would allow and the metal lip took hold and I could feel the plug begin to impart it's action with a slow enticing wobble. 15 or so cranks into the retrieve I was rewarded by a crushing hit from a small but fiesty Bass. The fight was short, as the fish was only around 22 inches. I let him go into a wave surge and was rewarded with a face full of water from the slap of his tail. I told him to get his Grand Mother, and took another cast.
The wind continued to spray with water lifted from the curling waves, and the fish continued to keep me interested. When the tide reached dead low, the fish moved on. I returned to the rock I sat on ealier, lit another smoke, and thought about the 11 fish I released, none to be considered huge, but all healthy and strong. The best was around 40 inches, the smallest and only "non" keeper was the first one. The cloud cover was starting to thin, and I could see a hint of the sunrise only an hour or so away. It was a faint glow of purples and reds, and I could see far more stars than I could see when I arrived. It was truly a surf casters morning.
I slung my plug bag over my shoulder, picked up my rod and headed back to the truck.
45 minutes later I walked in the back door of my house, made a fresh pot of coffee just in time for my wife to wake up.
She asked how the fishing was, as until her back injury 6 years ago she would have been there with me, I said, "One of the best mornings I can remember".
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