Thirty metres was a brick wall — small tachiuo so dense that even when I tried not to draw strikes, almost no drop came back clean. Drop, hook, release. Drop, hook, release. There were decent fish around 50 metres, but the school at 30 wasn’t letting anything through.
This trip meant more than just the fishing: first time out on a summer night session since becoming a father. Half the night was all I stayed. First credit goes home — this one didn’t happen without my wife.
Find the layer, win half the game
Cutlassfish hold in the water column, and reading the タナ is half the work. About thirty minutes after settling on the mark, the picture was clear: a few better fish around 50 metres, and a near-impenetrable band of small ones at 30. No point forcing past it. The right move was to accept the layer and match its rhythm.
The work is in the lift and fall
Lift, let it fall, read where the strikes come from — that’s how you map the band. Thirty metres was both the floor and the ceiling that night; the jig rarely survived the descent past it untouched. The tachiuo reaction strike is instant, all speed and blade, and with a packed school every drop was a guaranteed hit.
When the small ones won’t leave you alone, the answer is to stop fighting it: no agonising over the bigger fish below, no trying to punch through — just steady drops, get bitten, bring it up, go again. I settled into that rhythm and stayed in it. Pure recreational fishing, and I mean that as a compliment.
Called it early, no regrets
Back in the cabin and flat out a full ninety minutes before schedule. A summer sea with fish on nearly every drop — the right call is to leave before you’re tired of it. A fixed-depth wall of small fish isn’t a problem. It’s a question. Once you decide how to answer it, the night takes care of itself.