At 4am, the air bit at my knuckles as I strapped the kayak to the Yakima LockNLoad racks, rods tucked safely in the Topwater box. The stars were still sharp as I drove over the hill to meet Dan the farmer at 6am, his ute rumbling through the paddocks as I tagged along for access to the coast.

The double bay greeted me with a salty tang and the low growl of waves on the rocky outcrop—a natural breakwall that lets you sneak out on rowdy days. I slid the kayak into the chop, the fibreglass slicing through like a knife. Seals popped up, barking and twirling like ocean clowns, shadowing me out to 50 metres.

Then, in a heartbeat, they scattered—heads bobbing, then gone. My pulse jumped. Shark? Orca? Or just seals being seals? The water felt deeper, darker, and I paddled towards my trusty 25–30m reef, where the cod always lurk.

I dropped a soft bait to the reef’s edge, and the rod bucked hard—a 50cm blue cod, scales glinting like silver coins. Seven more followed, all 40cm-plus, with one 55cm beast that fought like it owned the sea. The swell started rolling heavier, the kayak rocking like a cradle in a storm. Fibreglass and rocks aren’t mates, so I called it—hauling eight cod back to shore.

Packing up, I dropped three fat cod as koha for Dan—his grin said it all. Back home, Tora, my furry fish detector, went nuts, tail thumping as she sniffed the catch. My daughter waved her blank book, eyes wide, ready for another page in Dad’s fishing tales. The five remaining cod became crispy blue cod tacos for the family, with a couple gifted to the in-laws.

Another Tora trip etched in memory, where the ocean’s my church and the fish are the judge. 🌮🎣