I knew from experience that rockfish would stage just below that jetty to pick off baitfish swept along and disoriented by the swirling waters cresting the rocks below. It rose up to about three feet under the surface, creating a nice rip occasionally but barely visible in the meager light. Surrounding depths reached five to six feet in most places, but I had chosen a shallow-running lure because I intended to target another inundated jetty well down current. I was anchored in four feet of water over the remnants of a jetty reduced by years of relentless storms and currents that swept by the prominent point. But I had fished here often and knew exactly where I was located. Carefully, I made my way to the bow.Īt 10pm, the waning quarter moon threw little light.
As my skiff swung stern to on the freshening tidal current, I relaxed, reached for my casting rod and fingered the swimming plug rigged earlier that evening.
I motored slowly into position and lowered my Power Pole anchor firmly into the bottom on the spot I had marked on my GPS. I had the spot to myself, a rather surreal feeling in the silence and darkness. The multitudes of motorized craft churning the waters had long ago headed for home. The temperature in the low 70s seemed cool after the scorching sun, just a few hours ago, had sent the mercury into the high 90s.
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