The wind's gone round to the west but it's still blowy and there are rain squalls sailing in from seaward. That means I've got the place almost to myself as the ebb quickens and the creek drops back between the sandbanks.
I wonder if this will put me in reach of a fish, as they must surely find themselves in the confines of the creek as the tide retreats from the beaches on either side. This is the latest of my many bass fishing theories, one of which will hopefully prove to be a goer sooner or later.
I walk downstream with the tide, working my way through my lure box, covering different depths and speeds. Dexter, Toby, J13, Jointed Thunderstick. The latter comes back all the way without catching bottom, as beds of wrack and other green stuff become visible as the sun peeps through the clouds.
I've found my rhythm, casting and retrieving the lure with the rod high, watching it snake into sight, flashing in the sunlight. Roseate terns flit up and down. The first swallows flash past.
What's that..? A dark shape follows the Thunderstick as it snakes into the fast flowing shallows - I nearly jump out of my skin. A fish..! As in your real, actual, genuine, definite, one hundred and one per cent fish, a yard or so behind.
It turns away in a swirl. I think it was a mullet - I reckon a bass would have put its foot down and hit the lure instead of bottling it. I cast again, but it doesn't reappear. Well, at least I've seen a fish. It peps up my interest enough to fish on into the rain as the squall rounds the dunes.
The wind's fierce by the time I reach the shoreline. I turn tail and trudge back towards the car. I've seen a fish - as in your real, actual, genuine etc etc. I've also got my head around the creek a little more, as far as the lie of the land's concerned. Good day all round, really.