Forecast:
Partly cloudy with chance of storms. Barometer: 1018. Wind: SW, 9 gusting to 15 knots.
Moon: waning crescent. Temperature: 18 – 26. Tide: Low 13:12, High 19:08.

The day dawned fine but I knew it was but a cruel taunt from the weather Gods. After all, this was “The Entrance at Night”, A.K.A. the Central Coast Fly Rodders annual donation to our dams storage. We fish The Entrance, it rains; this is as it was and always will be. The forecast early in the week would have curdled Captain Ahab’s blood. Massive thunderstorms threatened to turn us into ‘crispy critters’ via our carbon fibre lightning rods, excuse me, fishing rods while the predicted levels of rain would have seen us in danger of drowning as soon as we left our cars.

However we are made of sterner stuff and those who laughed in the face of such meteorological mayhem were Dave Witham, Ivan Malby, Murray Keating, Steve Tizard, Joel Norman, John Roberts, Ken Colmer, Mitch Colmer, Mac Lyall, Jeff Medhurst, Chris Bannerman, Rod Dillon, Peter Frere, Roy Browne, Richard Hassel, Andrew Waters, Craig Parker, and Len Verrenkamp.

I turned up at the boat ramp to find Muzza ready to roll. We yarned for a couple of minutes before his “deckie” Rod arrived. However the trickle soon turned to a flood and before long the ramp and foreshore was lined with the pride of the CCFR fleet. Unca Ken had kindly asked for me to crew his new and oh so shiny u-beaut boat and I would have but for 2 things. Firstly Ken’s Grandson Mitch had signed himself up for this voyage meaning I would be the 3rd angler on board. Second, Joel’s “Skeeter” style weapon was lacking a swab. I made an executive decision in favour of the Skeeter. Well it seemed mean to make Joel fish alone.

We headed up the channel. Joel plumbed the depths of my Entrance knowledge with one question; where’s a good spot to start? As a terrestrial angler I said ‘I usually fish the flats’. So that’s where we went, east of the bridge. We drifted down almost to the mouth of the estuary then proceeded to cast. The first thing we noticed was there were no fish. The second was the rate the water was leaving the channel. We would soon be high and dry so we started to cast about in a different way as we searched to find a way out of our very own version of ‘The Riddle of the Sands’. It’s a classic, do yourself a favour and read it.

It was inevitable that even with a draught of about one foot we touched then stopped. I volunteered to walk the plank but it was Joel who hopped out and pushed us out of trouble. We then decided to try the channel to the west. Passing the raft of boats at the bridge again Joel elected to try a drift. I was rewarded with a nudge then a good hit but failed to hook up while Joel thought he felt something worry his line. We were thinking of a change of venue when Steve and Brownie turned up with dinner; KFC delivered to our boat if you please. Bugger me but this fly fishing caper is bloody civilised.

We were joined in our repast by Mac, Jeff and Ivan. Mac had been fishing the small island due west of the bridge with some success as had Jeff and Ivan. However Mac’s area had been luckier. So in the ancient tradition of our noble club Joel and I immediately resolved to ‘blowfly’ Mac. This apparently didn’t upset Mr Lyall so with dinner done it was off to the island.

Once in place the first thing we noticed was the odd boil here and there. Sweeet. Mac then landed a Bream, bringing his species total to 3. This provoked much casting which unfortunately went unrewarded. Not quite true, the sky was bruised to the west yet still bathed the scene in a golden light worthy of Rembrandt or Michelangelo. The scene was beautiful, the wind had dropped, why oh why weren’t they biting?

We tried the drifting thing. I got a hit that stayed connected for about 3 seconds then Joel broke our duck with a chopper Tailor. We reset our drift then I connected to a 6”chopper myself. Things were looking up but the boils diminished as the sun set lower. A quick poll was taken and it was thought the best place to be would be back at the bridge. At this point the motor spat its dummy but after much coaxing we eventually set sail for our mates, albeit on 2 of 3 cylinders.

Once more we passed the merry throng, pausing only long enough for me to cop a serve from Ken re my jumping ship. As he had bagged many more fish and, for that matter, species of fish I figured I had done him a favour. Plus it would have been really mean for Joel to fish alone etc…..

The J-man and I settled on the eastern side. By now it was dark but once more there were boils aplenty. More boils than on a red-neck’s butt so to speak. However every offering presented was spurned. Joel thought outside the square and abandoned his minnow for something much more shrimp-like and bagged his first flattie on fly. As he had told me that this was a personal goal I was really pleased for him. He was chuffed and certainly looked so in the happy snap I took. Two casts later he thought he had a hit, struck, thought he missed. Then he felt weight, struck again only this time he was definitely on as a hapless Whiting came surfing across the waves. Make that 2 new species out of 3 fish boated for Joel.

As Joel still had a fair drive ahead of him to reach home we decided to pull the pin and limped back to the ramp. There we met Bob who had fished the northern channel to some effect. It was interesting to see the amount of fishy activity around the ramp, I even spotted a Long Tom. It had been a good day, maybe not as successful as others had experienced but we’d covered a lot of water and had fun doing it. We even escaped the fury of the heavens. So here’s to our annual Entrance pilgrimage; long may it continue, continue to be rain and lightning free that is.

By Pete Frere