The morning had all the signs of a great day on the water: the wind was finally gone, the air and water temps were on the rise and , as always, got kicked out of the marina...which is, for me , a good omen.
After covering a mile of beach I stopped at the dolphin pens to rest my arm and to steal a few pics of the poor bastards held captive for the amusement of tourists.
After walking down to the estuary I noticed a huge school of bait fish, a hundred yards long, maybe more.
It was an all you can eat bait buffet for sierras, jacks, roosters, snook and pelicans.
As I approached the water, I saw the "Bad Company" guys hooking up and an old local man loosing a LARGE snook on a jump; good sign! I thought.
Once I zipped up my wading jacket ( a vestige of my PNW steelheader past ) and pulled tight the stripping basket, I walked into the surf up to my waist. Man it was great to be really fishing again..the waves, good long casts, bait jumping all over the place.
As I am trying to write a half decent report, Gfriend keeps showing up with laundry to hang to dry and I am having a true "The Shining" moment...
Anyway... after a few casts with a White&Red Whistler, I got into a couple little tiny baby roosters; I cast flies that are larger than them! This was another good sign, since a couple years ago, the week before Christmas I fished a thirty pounder rooster at Palmilla beach, after running into a bunch of juvies!
Change of fly, maybe something larger and generic : the HI-Tie Mack from last night might do...
Some time later and a few yards down the beach I got almost tipped over by a wave and when I started stripping line back into the basket it felt like it sank into the sandy bottom, until it started zipping through the guides!
In seconds I was into the shock absorber and maybe five seconds later, into the backing and then I saw the big dorsal fin of a large rooster slashing the surface way out there.
I played it for maybe five minutes and then, suddenly, the line went slack and that way too familiar feeling came over me.
The big gallo was gone because, I think, of a way too thick hook I used to tie the Mack fly on.
Oh well, this one would have gone back anyway...
Half bummed out I kept casting, retrieving, bobbing in the rolling waves for another couple hundred yards until my fingers couldn't hold the line anymore and my right wrist kept breaking on the backcast.
Thinking I am geting old for this kind of stuff, I started walking back home, longing for a long hot shower and a huge stack of papaya pancakes soaked with syrup.
Hasta la vista, Señor Gallo.
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