After fishing a couple of seasons with Jose Silva Iâ€™ve learned quite a few things. Aside from new angles on holding water, fish behavior, tidal influence, and an ancient recipe used by the Peruvians to prepare a fine carp for the dinner table, the one thing thatâ€™s been drilled home time and time again, through experience, is this: Out-fishing the guy is simply impossible.
Our last 2 trips out together had left us driving home with MY side of the truck encompassed in an unsavory odor, suspiciously resembling that of a certain small mammal (black with a white stripe down the back).
But this was a new morning and a new beachâ€¦ and finally, a barred little beauty to handâ€¦ make that MY hand!
Fully aware of the fact that these â€œhigh-rodâ€ honors would be short lived I pulled out the camera and shouted â€œHey Joseâ€!
At the edge of the next hole I got into another, and he was even bigger!
This is when I made the mistake of taking note to myself, “Doug: 2 , Jose: zilch”, and then, as if on cue, while I was looking down attempting to compose the picture I hear Jose yelp, â€œHey Doug-a-rooâ€!
I look up to see Joseâ€™s 6 weight buckled over, with line headed for the horizon, straight through a set of oncoming surf bores!
I excitedly yelled back to him in question, â€œStriperâ€?
And over the crusty complaint of a corroded surf perch reel I thought Iâ€™d heard him reply back something that sounded a lot like â€˜STEELHEADâ€!
â€œWhateverâ€, I remember thinking, dismissing my inability to decipher his, â€œbla bla blaâ€, over the noisy surf and that skin-crawling grinding sound of that poor sand embedded fly reel.
Then I saw it jump! It didnâ€™t just jump, it cart-wheeled through the surf! Stripers definitely donâ€™t jump, and they surely do not cartwheel!
A few minutes later, and sure enough, Jose was posing with an 8 -10 pound steelhead, caught from the beach, on a fly rod!
The rest of the morning was a bit of a blur as far as Iâ€™m concerned. We continued fishing, and even caught a few more perch, but my heart just wasnâ€™t in it. Instead, all I could do was check my cell phone every minute or two to see if I had enough â€œbarsâ€ to squeeze out a text msg.
Over celebration Ribeyes off the BBQ that night (washed down with a cold corona, or possibly two) I finally broke, â€œHey Jose, who holds a wild steelhead by its gill-plate anywayâ€?