A private sketch · October 2026
This page is a sketch, not the app — nothing here is live, and none of it is linked from the journal. It is what I believe Catchline becomes after a year of your own pages: the capture is done, and what grows is everything your record can quietly tell you.
One · The Trace, matured
Today the Trace lists four tallies side by side. Fully grown, it connects the columns — drawn only from your own fish, read back as your own pattern. Never a forecast, never anyone else's data.
What your red drum have in common
14 reds in your journal · 2021–2026
9 of 14 came on a falling tidemost within two hours of low water
Pressure steady or fallingonly one red on a fast-rising barometer
Three days either side of the full moonyour best reds, five years running
Water cooling past 68°the fall run shows in your own dates, every year
Your pattern, read back. The judgment about your next outing stays yours.
Each line only appears once your own record can honestly support it — with fewer fish, the page simply stays quiet.
Two · Your records
Anglers keep mental tallies anyway: biggest trout, first of the year, the slam. Catchline holds them quietly — personal, private, no badges, no comparison to anyone.
Speckled trout — your best
27 in · April 12, 2025
Best
Red drum — your best
46 in · September 2024
Best
First of the season
The slam
Trout, red and flounder in one season — 2025, and again this fall.
This is also why old photos matter: every back-filled catch might hold a record.
Three · Between trips
Once a month, one quiet page: what your month of fishing looked like, in your own numbers. A reason to open Catchline in the off-season that isn't conditions.
October in your journal
Fourteen reds, your best week the week before the full moon.
You fished six days. Eleven of fourteen fish came within two hours of low water. Your October now holds 38 reds over four years — the run arrives a little later each year in your dates.
One page, once a month. Yours alone; it never leaves the app.
Four · Off the screen
The journal's final form is paper. From any catch: a gyotaku plate over the chart of your home waters — abstracted, never exact. And once a year, the Field Book gathers every page into a linen hardback.
Order a print · from any catch
The chart shows the water, never the spot. Exact locations stay private even in print.
Five · The promise, kept
For the angler who trusts slowly: one clear moment in Settings that proves the promise.
Everything in your journal — every catch, photo and note — exports in one file.
Not even the maker can read it. If you ever leave, your record leaves with you.
The whole of it
Today
Water, home port, gauge map — unchanged
My Catches
The journal, plus Order a print
The Trace
Tallies grow into your connected patterns
Seasons
Adds records, the slam, the monthly letter
Settings
The export — the promise, kept in one tap
If I were choosing the order: the connected Trace first — it is the moment the journal becomes something an angler would pay for. Then records, then the letter, then the print shop, then the export.
A sketch only — nothing here is built yet