Fortunately for me, the fishing beach below Punta Colorada is square between the two. Miles of productive lonesome places begging to be walked and fished between the beachside fishing town of LaRibera andPunta Arenas. Sometimes you’ll see another beach caster. It’s not always so spectacularly lonesome Mike Rieser had warned. Nothing else. Hard to believe, but I’m standing on a public beach in Baja, Mexico with a loaded rod, being zoomed by squads of coveted game fish with miles of productive beach to fish and not another angler in sight. I hop the jig and brown plastic tube bait across the sand, sending up spurts of sand, looking, I hope, like an edible crab or squid.Ī trio of brightly-colored kayaks is nosed into the sand and rocks above the tide line to my left, and a couple of quad tracks are etched into the soft sand behind me. I move a few feet out into the water turn and throw a cast parallel the beach landing in the rollers that are surfing onto the beach and collapsing in a musical whooshing sound. This long, lonesome stretch of the Sea of Cortez will have plenty more to offer, and there’s not another fisherman in sight. But if Rieser’s right there’s no need to worry. In just a handful of minutes I’ve been blown away by two schools of feeding roosters. Sorry,” and then with a salutary tip of his salt encrusted glass he disappears behind the brickwork. I’m cranking line like a crazed dervish, when he hollers again-“Ahhhh, they turned back. He’s above and behind me wearing Polaroid glasses with a fish hawk’s overhead view of the breaking surf line. “They’re in the surf,” somebody yells, “Rooster in the surf coming down at you!!” It takes me a second to locate my volunteer advisor-hanging over the brick wall on the patio of our mutual fish camp, Hotel Punta Colorada. It’s a slight movement but enough to flush the flock, leaving only fine white sand swirls to dissolve in the transparent water. Conditioned reflexes drop the rod tip into the retrieve. I’m still staring at them when the lure hits the water. Except for their bandito black stripes and waving tails they are almost invisible, and barely five feet off my big toe. Scrunching sandals and toes deeper into the warm sand of the East Cape beach I gain a little casting leverage pause while an incoming roller pushes a welt of turquoise water up and over my shorts, and then I heave a cast as hard as I can. The faux-mullet lure is still hanging in the air, trailing a long thin tail of monofilament when I spot the small flock of roosterfish ghosting past.
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