Got out and fished yesterday. Yeah, it was one of those outings. The tongue where Shrewsbury River really has become Sandy Hook Bay beyond the bridge, inhabited by five fly casters, offered nothing but bone numbing cold water (they wore waders, smart), brant to look at, a flying pod of black skimmers, and two sea robins on one of the guy's flies.
With my two-ounce weight and chunk of bunker I looked crude, but wasn't excluded from talk. I'm glad they were there. I put two and two together to realize the fly casting outfits I have in mind to buy for my son and I to use on the Salmon River in seasons ahead should work well here and in the surf, too. Fly casting blues looks interesting.
Drifted bunker 45 minutes, then headed north. Decided to choose North Beach. The walk is long, but I flowed with it. I casted and hopped the bait in, multiple times--no blues were around, that's for certain.
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