I went surf fishing for the first time in 2020 this morning.  The weather report promised very mild conditions, temp rising to around 80, with a light wind out of the southwest, and on our morning walk it appeared to be holding true.  Skies were clear, and the sun rose unimpeded.  I decided to take the stuff down to the beach and try my luck, and as I was carrying the last of it, the clouds moved in.  I set the rod holders in the sand, set up chairs to stake out my place, and went back for breakfast at The Little Hacienda.

A little background.  I like to fish alone.  It’s a meditation for me; the sky, the waves, the sun.  There are quite a few old fishermen living nearby, some of whom have been at it for years, and they tend to form little groups of two or three or four on the beach, and talk.  They talk a lot.  I’m not much of a talker; the less said the better.  Silence, long spaces between words, don’t make me uncomfortable.  For them it’s a social event, and that’s fine.  For me it’s a meditation, if I catch something, all the better.  This is going to sound sexist, and I mean no disrespect, but I find those of my gender who talk a lot to be an affront to decorum.

When I took the rods and bait down to the beach after breakfast there were guys camped on either side of my space.  I’m usually able to maintain a safe distance, and send no signals that I’d like to interact, but with their proximity, I was trapped.  Right away, one of them approached as I was baiting up.  I’ve seen him down there for years, and knew he was a seasonal resident from Canada, but I’ve never really talked to him.  Turns out he is an Irishman named Leslie living in Toronto, blessed, of course, with the Gift of Gab. And, a more pleasant fellow you couldn’t find.  We were soon joined by Jerry from Jersey, and he and Leslie fell into a jocular banter full of good-natured ribbing that comes from familiarity.  I held up my end as best I could.  Unfortunately, it appears all fish have left town for the New Year, so there wasn’t even the interruption of a strike to draw me away.

An aside, I guess, is necessary here, because it informs the social nature, in a way, of fishing on Skinny Island.  Contrary to how I grew up fishing, which is to stand with rod in hand, index finger on the line, ready to jerk at the slightest twitch, I discovered several years ago that surf fishing nowadays is done from a comfortable chair, with an occasional glance to your rods set into PVC pipe stuck in the sand.  Because of the freedom this affords, you can set out as many rods as you can carry to the beach, that itself enhanced by gorgeous, fat-tired carts most of these chaps own.  The standard rod array is four, though there is one fellow, a Frenchman, who only appears in summer, who sets out six!  I stick to two.  I can’t keep track of more than that, and it doesn’t seem fair to the fish anyway to wield an arsenal.  Not having to pay actual attention to your rod allows you to sit with your likewise equipped buddies, and chat.  The major drawback to my self-imposed isolation, of course, occurs when I actually have hook-ups on both rods simultaneously.  It’s happened, and requires a singular dexterity to land either, or both, fish.  Since we all use two-hook surf rigs, the problem can be happily compounded.  If the other guys have a multiple hook-up, one of their compatriots springs  into action to save the day.  So there you have it.  Safety in numbers, plus all the latest news and opinion.

But I digress.  I’m not saying I can contemplate a fish onto the hook, but distractions certainly minimize my chances, to say nothing of the wonderful immersion in the experience I seek and enjoy.  That said, none of the six fishermen (16 rods) caught anything during the two hours I was down there, and I must admit to enjoying the conversation with the Irishman.

And while we’re at it, how about visiting my bookshelf @ amazon.com/author/sharrison.