The dim winter sun gave way to a slate-gray shroud and a light rain began to fall. Across the expanse of tungsten-toned water, I could just make out the tops of the dark, verdant hills, then lost them in the lowering sky. I thought I heard a bell ring toward the sea, but then began to doubt myself. Visibility dropped to fifty feet, and I started feeling a little insecure. I knew the shoreline was behind me, at least it was a few minutes ago.

I removed the black leech and tied on an atomic prawn. Rain dripped off the point of my hood, trickling down my nose, around my chin, and losing itself in the neckline of my tee-shirt. Shaking off a chill that burned like fire, I stepped cautiously toward the far bank and pumped a cast that disappeared as it fell into the mists. Bits of wood and leaves slowly floated by, revealing the dropping tide, and the hidden river. The detritus meant heavier rains in the hills; and impending high, muddy flows.

Something heavy hit my line. My damp, creaky joints ached as I set the hook. A stiff resistance bowed the rod, but nothing animate was telegraphed back. The atomic prawn has ten parts and takes fifteen steps to tie. I had one left on my patch and didn’t want to leave one on the bottom, at least not that way. After several long pulls a knot of kelp rose in front of me and I freed the fly.

The rain began to hammer down and visibility dropped to a short cast. I made a valiant effort to punch the fly to the far shore, but couldn’t be certain of the outcome. The pocket on my waders cleared the water now, so I moved further across the flat. The sky lightened a shade or two, revealing the boulders on the other side. Just as I put the power to the rod, the water boiled to my right, a huge black body emerging on the current. I leapt back, and the sea lion, frightened too, dove again. Call it a failure of bladder or nerve, but either way, I slogged back to the beach and curled up under a tent of cypress limbs.

When I woke, the clouds had distinct, separate identities. The rain had stopped, but a fierce, cruel headland wind blew in off the boiling surf. The rhythm of the breakers had an urgency that I hadn’t noticed before, but lots of things have to hit me over the head before I clue-in. The air was heavy with salt and decaying organisms. Decision time, the long walk to the car or one last try in a sharp, stinging gale.

The line stopped abruptly. The rod bobbed and bent awkwardly. My quarry swam in a slow deliberate circle, testing me, shadow boxing. I put the screws to it and line parted the reel hell-bent for the Sea of Japan. Anxiety turned to panic as the backing dwindled. The line went slack. I retrieved furiously, hand stripping to catch up, and the water burst in front of me as I tightened up again. My shoulders ached, my biceps cramped, as once again the fly line vanished into the light brown brew. A lifetime later the magnificent fish turned on its side, just out of arm’s reach. I stretched my right hand out, straining toward the metallic, estuary-blue steelie. A mere thread of cartilage separated despair from ecstasy.

Text and photos Copyright 2003 by Gary Watt