Hard, hot light by ten a.m., windows ricocheting sun, concrete incandescent,

even blacktop white. No day to stay in the city.

Tackle chosen, we drive south and west, right angles giving way to round,

to hills that fall away to sea, the highway here a line along a ragged edge,

order eroding into mystery.

A half moon cove no wider than two homes, its tide near flood, sun overhead.

We rig, hoist waders up, read breaks and rips, gauge give and take. The sea

stretches infinitely vast, our casts reach maybe eighty feet, ludicrously short.

Until the first fish hits.

And then another, and another, silver flashing through curling jade,

rods thrilling to energetic life. Its not supposed to be this way, this good,

on a summers day at noon.

Later, home, windows wide to hook the breeze, the heart still echoes ocean.

And towers downtown catch the light, their high, still sides colored of the

beach, glass bright and veiled as the sea.

By Richard Anderson.

Richard Anderson, an angler since age eight is publisher and editor of California Flyfisher magazine.