Where: The beach

When: Sunday

Species Pursued: Sea-run cutthroat, resident coho

Song of the trip: “One of These Mornings,” Moby

I am at the point of desperation.

Knowing that the forecast called for wind and rain, I plotted a course that I hoped would keep me out of harm and frustration’s way.

But beach after beach presented the same problem.  Though rain was nowhere to be found, wind appeared in abundance.

Too much abundance.

I couldn’t find a shore that faced the right direction, so I settled for a small chunk of beach with a barely tolerable breeze and muscled, cursed and otherwise forced myself into fishing.

Thankfully, the fish gods showed mercy and threw a pair of bones my way…

A little blackmouth isn’t a bad way to start…

…especially if it’s followed by one of these little fellas.

I know, nothing special.  That’s the price I pay for neglecting the salt so long, I guess.

What the fish lacked in size, though, they provided in satisfaction. It may sound dumb, but trust me, after going fishless for so long, it’s the little things that end up counting the most.