Yesterday afternoon must have been one of the most beautiful of the year. Flat freaking calm — just glass — with little three inch, actually not even three inch,  ankle slappers dribbling onto the beach that borders San Clemente and Capistrano Beach. 

Between looking over the sign that reads Poche Beach, and at a sun that still had a ways to go to the west, trying to get out for a few hours started sounding ok. The work day was to the east, and somewhere, just somewhere there had to be a few local exotics to wrap up the month with; it’s been a tough month, locally, but there’s still time to pull a Reggie Jackson. 

Now it was decision time: fish in the backyard, or go trailer down to Mission Bay, where the New Seaforth has been proving that there are big yellowtail, white seabass and halibut swimming through one of the many San Diego County squid grounds. Where there’s one there’s many, and after fishing Del Mar, Torrey Pines, La Jolla, Barn Kelp and other likely locals, I can attest that nobody is trying anywhere but Crystal Pier. 

Then fog scared me. Cancelled trip, just like how flights coming into San Diego were redirected to LAX last night. 

Fast forward to this morning — after watching The Voice with wife and baby (how the hell did we start watching this show, again?) — and there it was. Or there they were: two huge fog banks, one devouring San Mateo Point and the other covering up Dana. 

“I hate (another four letter word was used, actually) fog and screw wind — why has it been so windy this month?” was running through my head and throughout the wife’s Tucson while the Toyota and skiff got left behind on the street.