Back when I was a kid I remember my dad taking me fishing on opening day in the Eastern Sierras. I can remember heading out well before dawn following his flashlight down the trail to Gull Lake where we would stake our claim and defend our small piece of turf at “the rock”. Soon the onslaught of fishermen who would spend the morning elbow to elbow, lines crossed, cursing quietly into the dawn would come trudging by searching for a break in the tulles and limit of fat trout. (thanks Dad!)
Nowadays it's more like fishing while waiting in line for U2 tickets. But in Southern California, just minutes from my house on any given day you can cruse the Pacific Coast Highway in either direction for hours, and only spot a handful of people fishing. Probably none of them will be fishing with a fly. There are literally 100s of places along our coast that have not even been explored with a fly rod, making this truly a wide open frontier for the fly fisherman.
The more I explore new places, the more I am amazed at the abundance of quality fish that will readily take a fly. I think that’s what draws me most to the surf… the unknown. You really don’t know what you will encounter. The shoreline is in a state of constant change. The tactics that worked yesterday may not work today. The next fish to take my fly may be a pretty little perch or some leviathan that would just as soon spool me as eat me. It is always beautiful, always wild, and so much beyond my comprehension. As time goes by I’ve noticed that I think a little less about far away, trout waters and a little more about the next tide.