By , June 13, 2009 2:28 am

The June gloom over the Basin broke about 11:00 am on Sunday and I knew that when we walked out of church the weather would fairly scream “let’s go fishin”.  Sure enough, when the last notes of music team finished and the ushers threw up the double doors, sunlight and warm air streamed in to the building.

Somewhere somebody had fired up a backyard grill and we knew that we would have to hit the local burger joint before we so much as touched a fly line.

After a pleasant lunch with our wives, we jumped into the car and headed south. I don’t remember actually planning to head south but there must have been a sentence uttered at some point in time that registered in both of our heads and without any real conversation we found ourselves pointed toward Costa Mesa.

Since neither one of us had been that way in a while we decided, rather impromptu, to swing by His & Her Fly Fishing for a little info-gathering reconnaissance and the obligatory purchase of a couple of saltwater flies. If you’ve never b een there, it is worth the trouble of finding it on Old Newport Blvd. — you won’t be disappointed.  

Minutes later armed with a half dozen “salty flies” and some hand-written marks on a chamber of commerce map we pulled into a parking lot down on Balboa Peninsula. The irony of Balboa is that we were parked near a gleaming Ferrari, next to a mobile home park, fishing the end of a storm drain outlet while multi-million dollar yachts cruised by just a few dozen yards from where we were laying down our new bugs. We chose to add to the heightened sense of the surreal and the adventure of a new fishin’ spot by not paying the quarter/15 minutes to the flashing meter at the front bumper of my car (I know, I know,  brownliners are such hooligans). I figured, since I had parked in the middle of the pack of cars I would see the meter reader in time to stuff the meter before the ticket could be written.

Besides, I think that there is some unwritten rule between Sean & I that paying for parking to fish is…just wrong. Less cash spent in parking fees equals more fliesand gear …or something like that.

Anyway, the only thing biting that day were the sand lice which snacked heartily in our bare feet and legs as we wet-waded. In retrospect, I’m glad I had forgotten my quick drying wading shorts or who knows what else I might be dabbing Calamine lotion on this morning.

Foot-long Mullet jumped constantly and infuriatingly just past where we could reach from shore and despite our best efforts and some pretty awesome long casts by Sean, we just could not entice a bite.

We packed up and headed over to spot number two on the map, which is a tale that will have to wait for another day. However the upshot is that we flailed a lot of air this Sunday but came up empty netted.

Funny thing is, we both were still smiling when we met up with our wives that evening for dinner. I love this sport.



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