This morning I went fishing at Crissy Field, one of my favorite things to do during the season from April to August. I try to go once a week. It’s the best when there’s almost no breeze and the water is glassy. I usually get there just before the sun rises over the Berkeley Hills. To the east the San Francisco skyline starts to glow. To the west the Golden Gate Bridge might be shrouded in fog or standing clear against the sky. It’s different every time.

I have a simple setup: a 9-foot spinning rod with a swimbait. I scent the lure with anchovy Pro-Cure gel. My tackle bag is tiny. Just a few extra baits, pliers, a couple swivels, and a small tape measure. I wade in knee-deep to get past the splash zone and give the dogs some space.

When I’m fishing, I’m mostly focused. I feel for the swimbait ticking along the bottom and think about how to vary the retrieve. Sometimes I drift into a meditative state. Sometimes I just stop and take in the view. But mostly, I’m fishing.

I don’t usually catch anything. A good season is one to five keepers. Still, every trip is a success. I got outside. I went fishing. That’s enough.

I keep a fishing journal. Each trip gets a grade: 0 for no bites, 1 for a nibble, 2 for a hookup that got away, 3 for a catch. I also note the weather, tide, water clarity, diving birds, and jumping baitfish. Seeing baitfish is a good sign. It means halibut might be nearby.

Afterward, I walk back to the car feeling grateful. The rest of the day always feels easier, lighter somehow. Fishing resets me.