A gentle breeze cooled the left side of my body as I eyed a deep blue hole pressed against the white sand beach. You’d think twice about swimming next to this hole, fearing a monster might emerge from the depths. The darkest of the blue water was far out of casting reach, but if all went right, my cast might have tickled the edge, just where the bottom dropped out of view. I drifted back and hauled with all my might, releasing the cast at a trajectory that looked like it might exit the Earth’s orbit. It sailed far as if it might exit the atmosphere, but instead, the cast unfurled and landed my 3/0 tan LBW in the meat of the hole. Something dark, angular, and significant shot out like a missile from the depths, took my fly, and headed back to the abyss. The line ripped from my hand, then my reel screamed, and in seconds, my backing tugged hard at the knot, which thankfully failed or my whole outfit would be 20 leagues under. Dumbfounded, I was shocked, left looking down at my gear, wondering what could have beat us with such ease. “Sir, SIR? Can you put your seat back up? We are preparing for landing.” I wiped the drool from my face and nodded agreeably.
It was the end of March. I was overworked, stressed out, and, worst of all, steelheadless. The rains never ceased, keeping the river high and muddy and the moss growing. 2024 was the first winter in nearly 20 years that I never felt the smooth tension of my line slice through a tailout, only to go tight and scream to life with long runs, jumps, and cartwheels of chrome winter steelhead. Sure, steelheading is challenging, but as it turns out not steelheading is more so.
April is a shoulder season cramped with spring break and taxes. It is largely unexplored by the working angler, but I was desperate for something to remind me of the forces of kismet and restore my optimism in only the way steelhead or surf fishing can. At home, it was too late for steelhead and too early for striper in the surf. I was desperate for the type of fishing where the stars need to align to have success, where preparation meets opportunity, and when the stars don’t align, it makes you wonder, “Am I bad at fishing?” I researched places where the rain was unlikely to follow me when I read, “The average sliding 31-day rainfall in Cabo in April is constant, remaining about 0.0 inches.” With over 2,000 miles of coastline, Baja California glowed on the map. Julie, my fiancé, was an easy sell once she heard there was a restaurant called “Tacos Y Beer.”
“Experience and self-preservation have taught me to go when you can, and world-class fishing can exist on the fringe of primetime.”
“The first week of April is too early for roosters,” “It’s the windy season,” “It’s spring break,” and countless other baseless pieces of advice were thrown at me by anglers who specialize in primetime angling. Experience and self-preservation have taught me to go when you can, and world-class fishing can exist on the fringe of primetime. I’m not fond of primetime’s congestion and expectations, but the moments before primetime when success is outsized and unexpected. I suppose it’s a little like gambling with time instead of money.
Surf fishing is always a gamble, even during the best of times. On any given cast, there is an infinite number of inconceivable outcomes that could occur. A species of fish you did not know existed could eat your fly and take your whole rig. You can’t get that anywhere else. Much like swinging flies for steelhead, surf expeditions end in the more common outcome of a lovely trip to the beach and nothing to show for it than a dramatic sunset photo and sand in your asscrack. When you set out on something that takes grit, I’ve learned a companion shaman or spiritual guide goes a long way to ensure success.
Our spiritual guide to the Baja surf was Lance Peterson, an American ex-pat fly-fishing guide accustomed to being the director of piscatorial pursuits on the mega yachts of millionaires and billionaires. Lance spent our first call sussing me out, but once our butt-sniffing concluded, it was clear as a perpetual student of fly fishing, I could learn a few things from Lance. He had undeniably spent more time f ishing the surf than I might ever and was decidedly not interested in catching roosterfish from a boat, and neither was I. I didn’t dare ask him how many fish he thought we might catch; I only reiterated that I was there to fish hard.
Julie and I landed in Cabo and headed straight for the supermercado Sorianas, whose only discernible order was that every 4th pallet was a different type of canned tuna. Perplexed, I picked out a woman who looked like a mom shopping for a week’s worth of food and followed her through the store, copying her cart, except for the three cases of Carta Blanca cervesa and a bottle of Tequila I had already added. Loaded with a week’s worth of provisions, we drove up Baja’s East Cape, past thousands of shimmering beer cans to La Ribera in a brand new 4×4 Ford Bronco that screamed “tourist” to anyone within eyeshot. I don’t like to stick out when I travel, but you can’t exactly rent a beat-up 4×4 pickup. Just as I considered this, we caught air through a small town, which had us and all our gear momentarily floating before immediately slamming down—another telltale sign that a gringo was behind the wheel. At that moment, I remembered how severe the speed bumps were and how poor I was at noticing the giant Tope sign. It’s ok, it’s a rental.
By early evening, we had settled into our cozy open-air house near the beach. We hatched a plan to have us fishing the best weather days with Lance, a luxury of early season and lack of bookings. We’d call Lance at 8 a.m. and see if the sun and wind looked good for the day, giving us plenty of time in the morning as chronic early risers. The ideal sun height for spotting fish from the beach was 10 a.m. to 3 p.m. With such a civilized start time, it wasn’t long before we were sipping the native elixir, “margarita, ” which served as a mood booster and muscle relaxer while we watched night descend on the desert.
At 5:45 a.m. like an angry mother rousting a teenager who overslept, the sun burst into our bedroom, followed by squawks, chirps, coos, and most notably, the repetitive slamming of a ladder-backed woodpecker. “I am up, I am up,” I muttered at the unfamiliar desert landscape while the sugar in the margaritas pounded in my head. The sun was up, and the wind was light. According to the forecast, the next two days were supposed to produce windstorms to rival those on planet Arrakis, followed by two perfect days at the end of our week. Windstorm days would be DIY/ exploration days, but with the unexpected light breeze, we immediately shifted plans and called Lance.
Lance, his wife Coleen, and their two dogs live perched on the mountain, with a view of the vast Sea of Cortez—our playground for the next five days. From that vantage point, you can see the wind from whitecaps on the water. That first day, the water was all blue, no white. Game on.
We wound down the mountain, between the massive Elephant Cacti, some weighing up to 10 tons, to an arroyo that led to the most incredible white sand beach. We spent five long minutes stretching the piss out of the fly line, talking about how it’s going to work if we spot a fish. Lance slid a zip lock bag out of his pocket as a drug dealer might, containing two “if told I’d have to kill you flies” and handed one to me. We discussed favorite loop knots as I stroked the special fly that was hot off the press, taking note of proportions, materials, and colors. It felt dirty, almost as if I was looking at his wife. I clicked on my stripping basket and carefully stripped the line into it to guard against tangles. We hopped into Lance’s side-by-side in search of Rooster fish from the beach.
- THERE ARE 103 THINGS, BY MY COUNT, THAT CAN GO WRONG IN SURF FISHING, ONCE THE FISH EATS THE FLY.
- THE TOP 5 ARE:
1. Bad hooksets or “trout sets” (solution: don’t do that)
2. Line tangles (solution: stripping basket and stretching line)
3. Break the fish off in the waves, just as you are trying to land (solution: use the waves to your advantage to help bring the fish in close and ease off when the wave is receding)
4. Knot in your tippet (solution: check your leader after every flurry of casts)
5. Hook bends out (solution: use good hooks like the TMC 600sp or Gamakatsu SC17’s)
In sight-fishing, there is an adage, “No sun, no fun.” ergo ipso facto, “Part sun, part fun.” The first morning was devoid of fish; Lance squinted, looking like a frigate bird, trying to spot any sign of life, regaling us with stories of cool shit that happened in trips past to keep the spirits high. The water was crystal clear and mesmerizing, pelicans waddled on the beach, fat and happy from previous feeding frenzies.
Hours later, rumbling down the beach, Lance told us about taking 55 a fella out for weeks before he got his first Rooster on the beach. Suddenly, he froze like a bird dog on point. He had spotted something. We fishtailed through the sand until we skidded to a stop, my cue to jump out and perform. “Fish!” he yelled. “Big ones!” All day, we had puttered up and down the beach; now, within seconds, it was happening. In one smooth motion, he exited the side-by-side, snagged his plug rod, strode toward the beach, and cast out 100 yards. He began reeling the hookless plug back to the beach to draw the fish into casting range. I could see the plug skitter and scatter like a terrified baitfish when something to the right caught my eye. I spotted several fish five yards off the shore break, jacks cruising like they were hot shit. With a quick f lick, I shot 40 or 50 feet of line out in front of the fish, stripping it immediately when it hit the water. Lance was still to my left, hollering expletives as fish exploded on the plug. I saw the lead jack turn sideways in the skinny water. Just as we made eye contact, he devoured my fly. I strip set hard as he tore his head in the opposite direction, almost in defiance or maybe to eviscerate the bait. He was so shallow that I could hold him in place as the wave receded. I was expecting a quick landing, but the toro charged away. Feeling the strain on the 25-pound tippet, I let the line go and let him run, giving a more exciting chase. A few thrilling minutes later, I landed the fish on the beach. Success, if defined in terms of starvation (I judge a day of fishing by asking if I would have starved?).
It wasn’t a rooster, but we had three days of food to release into the ocean, knowing we had tastier species already expertly made into tacos in town. The Jack Crevalle is an epic gamefish and one of the many pearls in the Sea of Cortez, but our target species, the Pez Gallo, still eluded us.
I was still basking in the success of the interaction with the jacks when Lance yelled, “Get in!” We raced 100 yards down the beach, and in the same practiced motion as before, he slung the hookless Robert’s Ranger on his spinning rod far out of view and began reeling hurriedly. “There! Rooster!” I saw the comb, fully erect, cut through the water with tremendous speed. Quickly, I cast my fly right where the plug had been to replace it in the hot pursuit. I stripped feverishly, and the fish continued to pursue the fly to the beach. My heartbeat quickened knowing that one more strip or wave and it was over, the fish would be gone. In a split second, it inhaled the fly and shot back to deeper water, sending my reel screaming and me smiling. It was a small specimen, but it was my first rooster from the beach. The quest for a “grande” continued.
“In a split second, it inhaled the fly and shot back to deeper water, sending my reel screaming and me smiling. It was a small specimen, but it was my first rooster from the beach.”
Content with putting a couple of fish on the beach, I took a long pull of Carta Blanca. Lance said “Carta Blanca!? I haven’t had that in years.” He held it up to the light, inspecting the small print, saying, “Ahh 4%, that’s why,” remembering it lacked any discernible punch—favoring the 4.5% of Tecate. Drinking on the beach is an Olympic sport practiced expertly by Baja’s residents.
As the sun set below the optimal angle for fish spotting, we drained the cooler of most of its contents, keeping our eyes peeled for the more obvious signs of fish–birds crashing or baitfish boiling. Suddenly, the beach erupted in front of us, and anchovies rained all over the beach, glinting like diamonds as they writhed on the dry sand. Grabbing my rod, I cast frantically, landing as many green jacks as possible in the few short minutes the frenzy lasted. We grinned at the good fortune. Lance smiled and said, “Cool shit happens when you’re out here all day.” We looked over the vast sea, grateful so much activity occurred within a hundred yards of the shore.
The next two days, the winds blew with such ferocity from the north that the whipped-up grains of sand were turned into microscopic projectiles. Julie and I still take advantage of an opportunity to go to the beach. No weather is too harsh for us to go out in. The ocean was blown out and chalky gray, with no clarity. It was hard to imagine it would clear before leaving for home. So, I fished it like my home waters of the San Francisco coastline, walking miles and casting a dark fly around rips, rocks, and troughs. At the end of each day, I had a handful of fish to show for it, the possible need for rotator cuff surgery, and feet raw from walking so many miles on the sand.
Our last two days were perfect blue skies and moderate wind. The water was clear, almost like someone drained the sea and replaced the water overnight. We saw our first school of trevally nonchalantly carving through the waves. I was amazed at the clarity with which I could see every detail of the f ish. As someone who often fishes for fish influenced by the moon and tides, I know sometimes you cannot entice a fish to eat, but I have never actually watched a fish mutter, “meh!” upon seeing a fly. Lighter tippet? Wrong fly? No, the epipelagic angler knows it’s just a matter of time before the fish decide to eat.
Undeterred, we motored down the beach; Lance continued to tell stories of cool shit that had happened just when all hope seemed lost. On cue, a school of ballyhoo, the ultimate baitfish, skipped across the horizon like a skipping stone on a calm lake. I sprinted down the beach until I reached where I thought the baitfish and the beach would converge. Simultaneously, we all did. Over the next hour, we hooked several decent-sized roosters and a few jacks, laughing, as fish were nearly beaching themselves to eat my fly. One jack even tried with all its might to eat Lance’s fly out of the mouth of a rooster. Our entire trip, if not years’ worth of good fortune, was bestowed upon us. The bite was wide open, and we were there.
If I were gluttonous, we could have caught a lot of fish, but I am not a numbers guy. I’m happy to glimpse back into history when wildlife on our land, in our sky, and in our oceans was abundant.
The abundance and decision to quit fishing made me think about the day before when we drove past the skeletons of lodges from the last fishing boom decades ago. Hollywood elites and wealthy Americans flocked to the white sand beaches and incredible fishing only to catch, eat, and kill more fish than any one person should. I wondered how much of the biomass in the Sea of Cortez has burned in American freezers. Now, they are dilapidated shacks and a job or two for a security guard to sit at the grand gates. Fishing is good again in Baja, and I hope greed and gluttony will not ruin it.
Lance made us the most incredible mojitos and continued to share stories of surf fishing in Baja.
Lance’s Mojito Recipe: Muddle a good bit of mint with sugar. I usually add a little water so it turns into a syrup. Add lots of ice and at least one ounce of good white rum. Top with soda water. Stir Like a bastard and drink immediateLy!
We made quick work of a bottle of Havana Club white rum and began to philosophize. Fishing the surf with a fly rod is like taking down a buffalo with a 22-caliber rifle; it can be done, but 5,000 shots will result in you going hungry, and five will land you a buffalo. Low odds. It’s hard. You must have a good relationship with failure, yet there is always hope at the beach.
Great story George! Thanks to you, Tracey, David, Craig and the rest of the crew for bringing us the new California Fly Fisher.