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Strange Allure of Surf Fishing

“Fine by me.” He heads to shore, Noctiluca sparking as he walks.

The ocean starts shoving me around. Flashes of lightning add to the storm’s bombast. Muttering at the stingy sea, I finally get a hard tug. I let the line go, slowly count to 10, and set the hook with a hard yank. My rod is instantly parabolic. The drag whines and my heart races.

But after a few seconds of fury, the line goes slack. An hour later, we exit the water. The howling wind drowns out our voices; we’re reduced to sign language. I arrive home at 2:00 a.m., still without a fish.

My last day is like the day I arrived — unseasonably warm and cloudless. The ocean breathes in gentle swells. For the first time in a week, I see some leaping baitfish.

A good sign? Who knows. You can study the water and the tides and the winds and the water temperature, and probably improve your odds. But the fact remains, we never know when the fish will show up, or if they’ll be hungry when they do.

Ten days of fishing and the only thing I’ve caught is a sinus infection. I have never spent more time fishing with less result.

I can’t wait to come back again.

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