The Dogtown Dispatch: Issue #09

Postcards from the Sand — 2025 Season Recap

As the tides shift and summer slips away, it feels right to stop, breathe, and take stock of what the season gave us. The 2025 corbina season is now in the rearview — and like every year, it was equal parts obsession, heartbreak, and the kind of fleeting moments that keep us crawling back to the surf with sore legs and sand in our teeth.

Over the past few months, I logged more miles than I want to admit — over 45 by my rough count. Fourteen fish made it to hand. Nine others ate, fought, and found a way to remind me who really runs the game. And beyond those numbers, there were countless refusals, ghostly shadows, and fish that burned themselves into memory without ever touching the sand.

The numbers were decent, but not what I’d seen in past years. Last summer felt heavier with fish. This season, despite putting in nearly double the hours, I didn’t see as many. Fires up and down the coast? More fishing pressure on certain stretches? One beach in particular had boots on it nearly every tide cycle. Maybe it’s all of that. Maybe it’s just the cycle. Either way, the beans showed, and when they did, they gave us the kind of narrow opportunities that fuel this whole addiction.

The bites. The fly of the season was the natural Merkin. Pink saw its share of eats, but naturals carried the weight. That said, this year reminded me why it pays to mix things up. I tied and tested new patterns — some half-baked, some unpolished — and a few of them stuck. Nothing better than watching a corbina nose down on something you weren’t even sure would swim right. The lesson? Always keep some “weird” in your box.

The lessons. More than anything, 2025 drilled patience into me. The beans forced me to slow down. To hold off. To not blow my shot on the first tail that flickered in the glare. The difference between a refusal and an eat came down to inches and timing — casting where the fish was going, not where it was. Presentation mattered more than the pattern on most days. The fish were stubborn, but they were fair.

The rhythm. This season had its ebbs and flows. Early weeks where the beach felt empty. Midweeks that lit up for an afternoon, only to shut down by morning. Perfect tides ruined by clouded water. Clear lanes that produced nothing but refusals. Then there were the days when everything lined up — tide, light, fly, cast — and a fish ate like it was scripted. Those are the moments you replay all winter.

The community. The fish are what draw us, but the people are what keep it whole. Every season brings new faces into the fold and strengthens the bonds with the regulars. The laughs after missed sets. The long walks swapping stories. The spontaneous plans made for Sierra missions. The “bean heads” are a tribe, stitched together by stubbornness and salt. There’s something raw and honest about a fishery that makes you work this hard, and the community that’s grown around it is just as gritty and good.

Now, there are still beans sliding in the skinny, and there will be chances for those willing to keep grinding through September. But for me, the switch has flipped. My mind has moved to the mountains. I’m already stacking boxes with hundreds of chironomids, balanced leeches, and the gear it takes to play the stillwater game. The Eastern Sierra’s lakes are calling — hungry fall rainbows, cold mornings, and the kind of fishing that soaks into your bones. I’ll be filling every weekend I can chasing that next bend in the rod up high. If you’re curious about stillwater tactics or planning a trip, reach out. Happy to share what I’ve learned.

Acknowledgements

Big thanks to the west side crew — Andy, Bernard, Jason, Bob, and Jeff. The memories, the laughs, the walk-offs, and the blown shots are always better with you guys on the sand. Wouldn’t be the same without it.

Here’s to another corbina season in the books. The ghosts will be waiting for us next summer. Until then, see you in the mountains.

— Dogtown Fly Co.