Guest Post by Joe Walker, Orvis Saltwater Fly Fishing Festival Guide
The thing about fly fishing is it’s portable nature, which means that it’s just as easy to pose the question: “I’m going to ‘X’… now how can I get some fly fishing in there?’ as it is to say “I’m going to a specific fly fishing venue expressly to fish”. And probably the former is going to be a lot cheaper too.
So when I finally got round to booking a bucket-list trip to Japan, my thoughts eventually, inevitably, got around to “Hmmm… I wonder what the fishing opportunities might be?”.
Tenkara fishing had a certain appeal; Japan’s exquisite mountain streams are stunningly beautiful for sure, and that small-water environment is something I’m quite at home in. But that would dictate quite a deviation in the usual Honshu island tourist trail that generally runs down the coast from Tokyo to Hiroshima. And in any case, a memory was quietly jangling in the hind-quarters of my brain: Hadn’t I seen something somewhere about fishing in Tokyo Bay?
Cue Google and YouTube.
There wasn’t a lot of info, but what there was hinted at a remarkable urban-adjacent fishery that hosts an aggressive predator, one that loves structure, topwater feeding, the cover of darkness, and is a highly viable target on the fly: The Japanese Sea Bass, aka the ‘Suzuki’.
Sold, to the man doesn’t need any persuading to get salt on his rods!
I reached out to a small number of guide operators and eventually settled on an outfit called ‘Bassinheaven’. Sounded promising.
I rattled through some Q&A exchanges about gear, flies and the general approach, and quickly established that getting afloat was hands-down the best way to go. Given the hectic schedule for our trip, the proposed 4 to 10.30pm timing for the session out in Tokyo bay was perfect too. So I booked.
Fast forward to the end of May. After a crash course in navigating the bewilderingly vast city of Tokyo, the day arrived. My wife Diana (who regularly accompanies me on my trips) and I walked out of our hotel and were immediately almost knocked sideways by the wind. I was genuinely worried. Bassinheaven assured me the trip would go ahead, despite my concerns, but this felt ridiculous.
Despite the nerves, the afternoon wound around and I scooped up the trusty 8wt Helios and Mirage combo, stuffed some interesting Japanese snacks and my bass-fly box into my PRO Waterproof Backpack, and we set off through on some of the world’s busiest (and most amazing) rail network towards Yokohama to meet our guide, Ryu Masuda.
Masuda-San was waiting at the station exit and his body language was a worry.
“Today, er, very difficult. Lot of wind. Water very cloudy. Not so many fish” explained Ryu as we walked to the small marina tucked beneath the concrete flyovers. Where have I heard that before, I thought. But when you’ve come that far, it’s a case of ‘he who dares’…
Wearing a shirt emblazoned with the words “I love flyfishing!”, Ryu clearly knew his fly fishing stuff, and cooed appreciatively over my gear. “Oooh, nice rod, nice rod!” he beamed.
He examined my fly box next, taking a few out in turn before selecting an all-white clouser and passing it to me with an affirmative nod.
Rigged up, we pottered down the sheltered waterway and out into the wider expanse of the inner harbour. Mirrored glass, concrete and steel towered impressively overhead. Ryu shifted the engine into neutral and motioned me onto the bow.
Here? Really? We were all of 10 metres from a sea wall in the heart of Yokohama, surround by all the pristine construct of this Japanese mega-metropolis.
Ryu explained that Suzuki love structure and feed hard up against it. Really hard up against it. He positioned to boat so that the bow was at roughly a 20% angle to the wall and instructed me to cast at the wall in such a way that the line actually made contact mid-cast and deflected along it, unfurling literally in contact with it, and delivering the fly into the water mere millimetres from the concrete. The fly was then retrieved in a very long, steady strip.
It took a bit of getting used to, but this unique approach made sense. But didn’t yield any fish.
What followed was a three-hour search for our elusive Suzuki quarry. And with each mark explored, we got further and further away from the shelter of the inner bay, and more and more exposed to a brutal wind that was tearing up the water and throwing the little centre-console boat around with increasing ferocity. It was becoming increasingly difficulty to even stand up, let alone perch on the violently pitching bow platform to cast a flyrod in the howling breeze.
Some of the stops were truly awesome though. It’s a unique experience casting immediately below the towering, sheer, red-steel cliff of the hull of an oil tanker anchored out in the bay, feet furiously dancing like Gene Kelly to avoid getting pitched head-first into the foam flecked sea, whilst desperately trying to double haul. I found myself literally laughing manically at the absurdity of the conditions. But it was kind of cool!
As the sun got close to the horizon we found ourselves way out in the bay. By now I was soaked with spray, shivering with cold in the relentless wind (despite the cloying Japanese heat), and fervently wishing I’d brought my Ultralight Wading Jacket with me. At least the waterproof backpack had proved a good idea.
We approached a complex looking yellow steel gantry with a floating platform attached to it. Gritting my teeth, I staggered onto the bow again and tried to steady myself as Ryu manoeuvred the erratically lurching boat to give me the best chance of a shot. He’d complimented me a few times on my casting in such difficult conditions. To be fair, I had the best tools possible for the job and was grateful that at least the Helios was playing by the rules.
Tap-dancing across the bow, I managed to punch a cast across the wind and deliver the fly a few feet up-current of the platform. The clouser sank and was swept under the leading edge – a perfect delivery. I gave it a few seconds to get right underneath and started to strip.
Two pulls in, it met solid resistance and line was immediately yanked through my fingers as the fish dived, hard, for the bottom. I heard Ryu yell “Hai! Hai!” behind me, over the noise of the wind, and I experienced the robust tussle of a fight with my first Japanese Sea Bass!
The fish felt strong. I couldn’t gauge it’s size, but it was pulling surprisingly hard, and went deep from the surface several times before I was finally able to get it into Ryu’s waiting net.
A Suzuki is most definitely a bass. There’s no mistaking that…but there are subtle differences with our native species; a deep olive colour along the back, an oddly pollack-like lower jaw (slightly protruding) and a larger eye. And definitely more powerful size for size! The fish coughed-up several small, pale anchovies. It wasn’t hard to see why Ryu had selected my fly.
My first Suzuki was briefly admired and swiftly returned, swimming away strongly. The boat was repositioned and (cold and discomfort entirely forgotten) we went again.
And the next fish that slammed the fly was bigger!
For the next hour we battled the increasingly severe elements and took fish after fish, including a hard-fighting bonus Japanese Sea Bream too, something else to add to the species tally! The sun slunk below the choppy horizon, and the lights on the platform blinked away the seconds and minutes. As darkness truly fell, we had to concede it was no longer safe to remain, and hunkered-down to make the slow, rough, spray-soaked journey back into the labyrinth of docks and jetties in the endless industrial harbour.
But we weren’t finished. Suzuki hunt in the pools of illumination cast down from the dock-side gantries, lurking in the darkness to ambush baitfish straying out into the light. Once again, in this extraordinary man-made jungle and reef system (but mercifully this time in calm water and sheltered from the scudding wind), I put forth the fly and thrilled at the violent takes in the darkness.
Eventually, Ryu signalled it was time to head for home, and as we cruised back towards the neon glow of the Yokohama cityscape, I couldn’t get the smile off my face. It was a truly unique fishing experience, which the brutal conditions only served to enhance. It did mean an extremely self-conscious 45 minute train ride on a packed commuter service back into the heart of Tokyo, smelling like a plate of sashimi that someone had left in the sun for two days… but it was worth it. And what’s more, I was then able to write about it for Sea Angler magazine on my return, and (fulfilling a boyhood ambition) grace the cover with a shot of me and my biggest Suzuki. Which hit the supermarket shelves on my birthday!
I’d say that all worked out pretty well - Arigato gozaimasu, Tokyo!