Ling cod were plenty, the salmon few, but the Pacific was calm, my fishermates enthusiastic, and a shroud of fog inhibited skin-searing sun and stomach-churning winds.
“Men go fishing all of their lives without knowing that it is not fish they are after.” -Henry David Thoreau
#california #fishing #bodega (at Bodega Bay, CA)
Calf-deep in surf salt spray licking lips fluttering on eyelashes like the many monarch butterflies gleefully blanketing the purple phalluses of Pride of Madiera plants rooting the cliffs. Perfidious swells crash on rocky outcroppings bigger than this small-town’s city hall. Arms aching with pleasure feet dug into a black pebble beach littered with gangly strands of sun-dried seaweed rough against bare skin. Casting a long rod into far pools where fish feed. Dinner dreams of Perch poached en brodo old wine and mushrooms black trumpets, chanterelles, morels, hedgehogs harvested nearby in winter woods and dried on screens by an old hippy. Nature continues unabated July moon waxing behind mountains covered in conifer and cow. Colors of frothy water blue green turquoise aquamarine like veined stones in a ring from Arizona. Black ducks flying against the glare of setting sun wings just scraping waves glittering with diamonds. Pelicans soar in formation an army of bills riding thermals. Thunderous white noise. There is no silence screams the wind slaps the tide. Peace abounds. #california #mendocino #fishing (at Mendocino, California)