We pulled to a stop next to the creek, maybe a ¼ mile from the ocean inlet. The creek here paralleled the beach. It's only about 100 feet wide, and the water was brown – tannic. Tim said that was more a product of the wader seeping from the blueberry bogs and alders on the hills above than the rain. I checked the water visibility with the rod tip … about three feet. It seemed good enough for fish to see flies, but not good enough for us to spot the fish. We had to wait and watch for them to roll.

"They're in here," Tim said. "And they're fresh, right in off the last tide, probably."

Finally, we spotted a roller, and I ran up the bank with Doogie, flipped a cast with an 8-weight rod, rigged with a gaudy pink streamer, and bang, we were in business … thank goodness. I handed Doogie the rod. He didn't expect that kind of pull. This flyfishing stuff had some adrenaline factor also … Doogie whooped it up and laughed as a beefy silver first tailwalked, then ripped line across the creek. Doogie landed it.