As Commander Cody might have said
in “Hot-Rod Lincoln - Went out of San Pedro late last night - with Secret
Skipper and Big Dave, just after the clock turned Thursday. Up until Go-time, we were uncertain as to
whether we would be going to fish White Seabass at I Will kill You If You Tell Canyon at Catalina or make the longer
run down to the Desperation area of Roberto Clemente Island for a shot at a mixed
bag of bluefin and yellowtail, with a puncher’s chance at one of the bigs.
We
opted to swing for the fences and made the nocturnal voyage toward the island
that we almost share with Mexico and sometimes share with the US Navy.
We had
a mixed bag of sardines and mackerel as we ran across really massive bait
clouds outside the corner on the approach to Pyramid. We got outside the lee of the island in the
gray and found somewhat cranky water at Desperation. Our plan was to look around and then head in
toward China to anchor up in yellowtail country. We had credible dope that the bluefin might
join in the fun at that location.
The
Thunderbird set up east of us. We
started chumming in ones and twos. Secret
skipper got picked up on a fly-lined ‘dine
and it was game on. He brought the fish
into Big Dave’s head gaff as the sun started to break the horizon. It was a great start and a decent fish between
15 and 20 pounds.
While
Skipper was on, we saw bluefin start to blow up on bait about 600 yards to the
east under a gathering of pinwheeling terns.
The spouts of mist created by their collisions with the surface started
marching towards us in incremental eruptions.
I changed out my gear to the heavy stuff and got a big mackerel into the
current that was headed in the right direction.
Larry’s fish hit the deck and we prepared for bigger game.
When
all was in place and the fish were about 250 yards away, a Sea Stallion
helicopter suddenly thumped up and over the crest of the island behind
us, like in the Gary Owen scene from “We Were Soldiers.” We knew they were not coming to save us.
Ours
was the first boat over which they hovered.
I looked up and waved, hoping they would just cheerfully wave back
and mosey on. This was not the
case. Instead, the helmeted spokesperson
forcefully and repeatedly pointed toward Mexico, clearly advising us to clear
out.
“But we
are Dreamers and we don’t want to go to Mexico”, We shouted back, knowing that our pleas to
remain would be drowned out by the numbing throb of those huge rotors whipping
up the sea around us.
As he
left to deliver the same news to everyone else in the general area (including
those out on Desperation), the copter dipped and the rotor blast put us in a whirl of mist that
blew Secret Skipper’s lucky hat right off his head and into an oblivion from
which we were unable to retrieve it.
“Well,
you are wet Dreamers now!” was what I thought I heard him say over the deafening
pulse as he headed off to spread the bad news to other anglers.
We
dutifully stopped what we were doing and headed back up the front side as the
rest of the fleet got the news in
seriatum and sullenly fell in behind us.
We watched as two of the sport boats tried to tuck into the corner area
where we had seen big bait marks and birds gathering, but the copter reappeared
to harry them off that mark and drive them in our direction.
We
ultimately set up at Lizard rock in a promising zone and began to flyline baits
towards the beach. It was an instant
bite on both big Calicos and 10 to 15 pound yellows that joined in the
mix. The seals cruised in on our party,
but did little damage to our efforts.
They ultimately moved toward the sport boats that set up a short but
critical distance to the west of us near Purse seine.
After
we put 10 yellowtails in the box, we started releasing fish that your reporter
probably would have been happy to throw on the ice on a leaner day. I felt liberated enough to start
throwing a mint green surface Iron (my
favorite way to fish) and was rewarded with a mix of Old School San Clemente sized calicos and several more yellows, at one point going ten for ten on consecutive
casts. Since so many of the fish got a
catch and release pass at that point, the fish already on ice were pissed about that, as they
no-doubt felt like the people who actually paid to go to Woodstock before it
was declared a free concert.
Secret
Skipper got a big tug from something that behaved abnormally and then mutated
into a giant wad of kelp. As he dragged
the weeds ever closer against fiercely active resistance, I saw a flash of
cream and brown that put my heart into my mouth about the largest calico ever hooked
in the history of humanity. Right about
then, it revealed itself to be a loggerhead turtle. It was snagged in the back
flipper. Big Dave figured he could just grab
it and put it on the deck where it would serenely allow us to operate, but it
proved to be a much heavier and feistier animal than what we had envisioned.
It stayed in the water while we freed it up
and both crew and quarry were equally relieved when it swam back into its
aquarium of origin.
By
12:30, Big Dave and Skipper were ready
to leave, although your narrator could have stayed there and thrown that
wintergreen candy bar until Hell froze over.
Reason prevailed and we headed back into a choppy swell toward San
Pedro.
We are
having a hamachi and calico bass feast for our cronies tonight. I had mostly refrained from keeping calicos
over the past 15 years or so, out of respect for a fish I love and in deference
to one of the Credos of political correctness
within the angling community. My kids,
who have grown up in this regime, recently asked me why we always threw them
back if they tasted as good as I claimed, so we kept a few and had a fish fry. It was a huge hit and my Jewish offspring
suggested we could modify our longstanding practice, so I could go back to
being more Catholic about Calico Fridays, like I will be doing tonight.
So
anyway, I kept this limit and probably will not apologize for it, as they are
quite tasty and I have several good recipes that have mostly been mothballed
for nearly a generation.
The
mint green jig is continuing to beckon and kid-catchable sized yellowfin have
just moved up in force, so I think there is still some gas in this season’s
tank. Perhaps the best is yet to come, but
gentle readers, you all know by now what’s coming next in this narrative.
These Are The Days
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