The Romance of Sunset Tuna

     Kurt , his son Scott, my son Isaac and his girl Sera agreed to go out for what has become the usual siege of fuel and bait against the shoals  of tuna that have invaded our very backyard to the sea.  Isaac heads off to Berkeley next week, so this was the last chance in this exceptional summer for me to fish with my favorite and most-helpful  fishing companion.  Isaac has grown into an accomplished waterman who can do everything on the boat and help less experienced anglers find success.

     We were about 20^th in line for bait at 3:30 am at the Dana bait barge, where we got about a 70/30 mix of big sardine and bigger mackerel.  We got an extra ½ scoop for chop and chum, in case the bait tank mortality was too thin.  No worries about that.  Like most of this year’s fast turn-around bait, the sardines succumbed to the mackerel’s fullback style orbit.  They were too numerous and we were too lazy in the choppy ride to try and separate them.

We decided to avoid the masses heading toward the spots off the county border.  We punched out into radar driving and chop during the last hour of a pretty great meteor shower.   Sea temps outside the harbor  started at 68 and got warmer as we made our way out.   It was 71 when we started fishing in the early light at the 267.  We trolled around for nothing and none of the paddies we stopped on to chum and drift were marking fish.  Channel 72 was filled non-stop with the usual howling, begging and vulgarity that characterizes  weekend Piscatoria.

We hit the 209 for much the same thing as the wind on the lumpy seas freshened.  We found more promising and numerous paddies, but none produced.  We hit the 277 and found 71-72.4 water, no birds and lots of nice kelps that consumed our bait and chum.  We trolled back towards San Clemente and decided at 1:40 to beat it Back to Dana to get more dines and we moved the mackerel to the center tank.  We re-baited with the dine/mackerel  party mix and headed out to a blue whale we marked, along with some fish below.  These were the first fish we had marked all day.

Within a mile of the harbor entrance, we had a marlin swim by and then pop up again right under our bow when we stopped to try and locate it.  We cast a mackerel in the direction we last saw it and trolled around without raising it.  We found the whale and a huge kelp nearby, but it was only 2.5 miles out.  We baited/chummed the spot and had our backs turned when the whale came up less than twenty yards from our shut down boat.  It came right over to us and swept virtually under our pulpit to huff some big mist out of its salad-bowl sized blowhole.  We got nothing, but  were not discouraged, as almost all of our tuna this year have come near sunset after a hard day of fishing for little or nothing.

We zig-zagged all over the off shore lane running from Dana to Carlsbad, looking for paddies, birds and marks.  At Carlsbad, in 72 degree water at about 6 pm, we headed in from about 13 miles out and saw a tern ahead flutter the right way.  We headed towards it and watched as a storm of birds began to form at the spot and then race to the northwest at more than 10 knots.  We banged into the swell  and setting sun to give chase and head off what looked like a pod of miniature dolphins and turned out to be tuna acting the same way.  We got into their paths and threw chopped chum and either almost dead, or dead sardines.  We got hooked up  times three and landed two. 

 Anglers prepare for charging school of tuna splashing toward Fishfinder

 Isaac hangs one while wearing his "Friends of the Sea Lions" T shirt

 Tuna meets the steel

 By then, the tuna were gone and were probably several miles away.  We rode straight into the sunset in pursuit and found them on the same course.  We got in front, but they turned left and we had to wind in and chase, dragster style, as the sun got low. 

Scott poses for Glamour Shot as anglers go bendo behind him

We found them again and had more chop to feed them.  We hung another three and got them into the boat.  These were 35 pound models.  Sera made her fishing debut with a quality yellowfin.  We headed back into a jarring chop and butchered our catch on the new table I built to save my wretched back from the crappy cutting board and wet towel combination with which I have been getting by.

We lost a couple large tuna that ended up virtually spooling us and then grinding back through the desperation drag we pressured up to stop from getting spooled.  We should have backed down on the drags once we got back enough line to calm down, but nobody’s perfect.

Father and SUN on a double

Kurt strains to elevate his fish while Scott is more casual with that task

This is almost exactly the same thing we did last week when we got 3 yellow fin and one big dorado in the morning and then went back for bait to take advantage of a sunset bite down south that got us 2 more dorado and 6 more yellowfin.  We chummed furiously to bring the tuna to a paddy isaac found that was initially holding a few dorado.

Isaac reaps it on the paddy he found and chummed up last week

Rob and Erik on last week's evening bite, when we got 9 tuna and 3 dorado

We were offloaded and driving for more ice and home before 11pm.  19  hours;  106 gallons of fuel; and 2 ½ scoops of  bait for five 30 plus pound tuna we got lucky enough to find again with the people we love.

Time is the stream we all go fishing in, and these times are as spectacular as the meteors that greeted us when this trip started. 

  These Are The Days.

AUGUST STARTS WITH A BANG

On August 1, 2015 Tommy and David joined their older set of  twins, Isaac and Lizzy, for a crack at bending the new rods I just built for them on some local pelagics.  The rods were mated to Torium 16s, spooled with 65 spectra and 100 yard top shots of 25# P-line.  The fish have been cooperating, so we did not bother with fluorocarbon.

We decided to skip the Saturday morning predawn line up at Everinghams and took a nice late start, arriving at the bait barge in the daylight at 7:30 am.  There were only a couple of boats ahead of us.  Jeff the baitmaster hooked us up with trout sized sardines and a few mackerel.

We headed south and put out the trollers.  We occasionally stopped on some marks to chop and chum the casualties from the bait tanks while drifting live baits, which has been the primary technique this year. The marks were mostly below 100 feet and they would not rise to our offerings or hit the iron we dropped down on whatever was down there.  We kept going.  The seas were light, temps ranged between 72 and 74 and we mostly stayed between 8 to 12 miles from shore.

We dragged in with some dolphin pods, but got no action.  We stopped on a few pieces of hard to find kelp and mostly stayed away from the big crowds of boats down by the domes and off Oceanside.  The boys consumed snacks and took several lengthy naps on top of the jumble of equipment and lifejackets below.

The radio was filled with particularly hate-filled epithets, even for a weekend, as vulgarities were exchanged among the rude, lines were crossed and worlds collided in the areas of heavy boat traffic where fish had been reported.  We stayed away from the big crowds, but still encountered day boater dirt bikers that raced up on us when we were drifting and chumming above sonar marks, as they must have thought we were on fish that they were entitled to intercept at close range.

In the mid afternoon we got a blind strike on a yellowfin that hit a purple catchee behind a daisy chain of black and green hootchies.  We cleared the trollers and threw baits as Isaac dragged the fish to the gaff.  We stopped, chummed  and drifted without follow up from any of his friends, but the ocean was getting livelier.  Water temps were closer to 74 and the wind started up.

We started heading out from Carlsbad where there was not much traffic.  We turned toward Dana at 4 pm, still confident that we could take advantage of a bite that has mostly been late in the day for our crew, no matter how early we seem to get out there.  We had the trollers out when we saw a driveway sized paddy down swell.  As we pointed toward it, we got a jig strike on a purple halco trolled on the short corner.

David endeavours to persevere

David was elected to turn the handle as we finally got on the board with the smallest yellowfin we have boated this year, but it was perfect for David’s first tuna. 

The fish still muscled David around a bit, so that by the time we had cleared the trollers and boated his fish, we were drifting down directly on that massive kelp hotel.  We started chopping and chumming with the abundant dead bait that the afternoon generally provides.  When we got even with the paddy we could see action on the surface and Tommy got lit up on his new bait stick ( it was actually David’s, but he graciously allowed Tommy to take on the fish, since he had just boated the first one on the troller).

Tommy endeavours to persevere.

Tommy’s fish took him around the boat several times, but he gamely hung in there and did all of the climbing around he needed to do to get the fish within gaff range.  During the fight, we saw free-swimming dorado flashing in the clear blue water below the boat. 

Tommy got his fish to gaff and was so exhausted that he had to  go below and eat virtually an entire box of powdered donuts before rejoining us. 

We kept up a regular cadence of chopped sardine and fresh baits in the water.  Surprisingly, we had the paddy all to ourselves.  A couple of sport boats came closer from the distance, including a couple of long range boats out of San Diego.  They kept at binocular distance and seemed to have their own action further outside.

Lizzy hung a tuna and leaned back to stroke it to the surface as Dad and David watched with concern.

David got lit up again and enjoyed the same multiple orbits around the boat as these 20 pound plus yellowfin screamed line off of his rig.

Dad clears lines as David comes up the rail

Lizzy got lit up by a dorado and it dragged her around the boat a few times and got into the air before she subdued it. 

Proud Daddio hoists Lizzy's first dorado

 The boys each hooked up on dorado as heart-pounding mayhem overtook our immediate environment. Everyone concentrated and nobody came unbuttoned during long bouts of rod bending excitement.  The bite just kept getting better and free swimmers began crashing around us.

With everyone else a bit tuckered from these strong fish on light gear, Isaac put the wood to a quality yellowfin as we watched the sun get low. 

 Happy to be here

Dad gaffs the final fish of the day before we fled for home

We had gone eight for eight on hooked fish and it was time to leave them biting.

 Dontcha wish it could always be like this?

 There was no way we were going to be able to cut up all of these fish and be back before dark.  We were planning on taking the kids’ high school teacher, MR. BAKER, out the next morning, so there would be no rest for the weary. Thankfully, Wendy was not waiting for us to bring her little boys back home, as she was spending the night in Long Beach.  The boys and Lizzy hit the rack below; as Isaac took the wheel and I started to cut fish on our crappy fish board in a sideways swell.  I got the five tuna butchered first and the dorado were all cut in the cloudy darkness at 8 miles an hour.

The fish box is a  great place to cool off on a day like this

By the time the fish were cut and we could start going faster, we were still 18 miles out.  We came home on the radar at a speed that was a little uncomfortable for nocturnal maritime travel, but we just wanted to get in.  The blue moon rose above the coastal clouds right as we got to Dana Harbor after 10 pm.  Folks were still partying on their boats in the marina as we pulled in and gave some of our bagged fish to our friend JT, who helped us offload our gear and drag our stuff up to the truck.

Sarah, who was going with us the next day, was stoked about our news.  The little boys, though they probably got eight hours sleep out there, were destined for their swim award BBQ and got to sleep in.

SUNDAY

Wendy arrived home at 7 am the next day (Sunday), shortly before Connor Devaney and Baker, the youngest looking high school teacher in America, joined Isaac, Lizzy, Sarah and I for an even later start.  When we got to the boat around 8:30 am, our main bait tank had failed and we were stocked with plenty of dead for chum, with one big mackerel that survived the die-off.  We filled our two remaining auxiliary bait tanks with a nice scoop of bait (a bit smaller than yesterday’s) from Jeff at the barge.

We engaged in much the same pattern and trolled toward our numbers from the previous bonanza.  There was no way we were going to be first on that huge paddy and we stopped on a few marks and applied our chum liberally for nothing.

When we were about five miles short of “the spot”, we saw a mako finning and quickly hooked up the mackerel to a shark rig.  The shark sunk out and we scanned the horizon.  The kids spotted a fin, but it was moving much faster.  This time, it was a hammerhead, harbinger of pelagic game fish.  We headed it off and began to fling our chopped bait to start a chum line.  We got marks at a little over a hundred feet as our fly-lined baits trailed up swell.  We dropped a sinkered bait just to keep the fish honest.  We yo-yoed the flat fall jig.  Then we got a solid mark 35 feet directly below the boat.

“I’m on!”  Lizzy said from the bow, as the line began screaming off her spinner, which was loaded with 250 yards of 30#.  She handed off the fish to Connor, who watched his first tuna strip his line dangerously close to the spool.

Connor endeavours to persevere

 I put the boat in gear as we chased it about twenty yards as Connor made back some of the line.  The fish took him to the stern, where I tightened up the drag a few notches.  For the next half hour, Connor was taken in a continuous orbit around the boat and we all had to clear a path for him.  The fish finally came awkwardly to gaff under the bow of the boat, as we were just glad to get in on the boat.  We had a solid 35 pounder over the rail and were on a 14 for 14 streak of no fish lost.

Connor takes jackpot honors on Day 2

Connor got a take and handed off to Baker, their beloved teacher, who is also a very experienced angler with cool equipment. 

Baker comin' down the rail

Baker went round in much the same fashion with a hybrid bait/jig stick that is a little stiff and less forgiving than most of the noodlier rods we were employing on these fish.  Dorado began jumping in our chum slick. A tin boat with two desperados noticed our hookup  and shot over from seemingly out of nowhere (we had been miles from any other boat) to park on our slick and the fish that had previously been boiling up swell.  We shook our heads at them, but they stayed barnacled to our efforts.  Baker’s fish came unbuttoned to howls of disappointment. 

Shortly after that, I got picked up on my Truline “Excalibur” and I handed off to Sarah, who started another exhausting exhibition in rod arcing and grunt-emitting action at the rail. 

Sarah's tuna comes up to sample the gaff

She was as spent as that fish when we finally got the steel into it and hoisted it over the rail. 

One for the Fatherland

We worked the spot for a while longer, but it seemed our promising window at that location had dissipated.  We pushed on toward our magic paddy.  When we got to the area, it was later in the afternoon and the spot was crowded with angry and manner-less anglers, some of whom could be heard expressing their frustration on the radio.  We turned away and headed out.  We found a small paddy and stayed about 40 yards off as we started chumming.  We got no marks but decided to fish it before heading back north.  I was yo-yoing a jig and must have looked like I was hooked up.  A 50 foot plus yacht turned toward us and squatted down as its skipper hit the throttle for flank speed and began bearing down on us.  He drove right up over the top of the paddy we were fishing as his crew began to cast lines like they were in a calf roping contest.  They dragged Isaac’s fly-lined bait in and made no effort to back off or apologize.  They were clearly rich, but honor-less retards of the sea, so we just kept the .45 below and left without saying a word.

On the way back up, with the sun getting low, we approached a small paddy with the trollers out. There were no other boats visible. We got a jig strike before we got there and pulled in a yellowfin on a dorado-pattern cedar plug behind a yellow and orange pattern hootchie daisy-chain.

Sarah muscles up final fish of the day

We slid toward the paddy and started chumming cut bait with our fly lines in good position.  From what I am convinced was a wormhole from Arkansas, a speeding day boater occupied by cartoonishly obese shirtless dorks, came roaring out of nowhere to pull a sliding brodie right on top of the kelp we were drifting from 30 yards away.  “Having any luck around here?” one of them yelled at us in a voice loud enough to make his big fat tits bounce in rhythm to his stupid salutation.  We just stared at them and said “Apparently, this is not our day” as they dropped their baits on the bits of the paddy they had just blended up with their prop.  They bounced around for a few minutes before putting the throttle down to virtually pop a wheelie as they roared away toward another episode of “Whale Wars”

We turned in disgust for Dana and put out the trollers.  We stopped on some marks below San Mateo, but got no love as the sun began settling.  We hit cruising speed and were about a mile from the harbor entrance after sunset, when we encountered an extraordinary performance by a juvenile humpback whale that put on the greatest breaching show I have ever seen in these waters.  We cut the motor and drifted next to it as it seemed to be showing off for us.  We could hear it breathing and slapping the water with its huge pectoral fins.  We were transfixed by this display for about 40 minutes and left in wonder, as we once again made landfall in the darkness.  It was a fantastic end to a great weekend spent almost entirely on the water.

Hammerheads, tuna, dorado, jumping whales, and a big fat El Nino that still has a lot of gas in the piscatorial tank.

 This may go on for a long time, but get out there while you can, because 

These are the days.

Big Weather and Five for Five On Evening Tuna

 
             On Saturday, July 18, Isaac and I took Jade and Shane, two of our summer clerks, out for an electrifying day of thunder and lightning on the high seas below Dana point.

               We got into line for bait by 4:30 am and were headed toward the area below the domes by day break. We dragged lures on a few dolphin pods outside the harbor, but did not fart around for long. We got into a drift and started our chum line, while everyone started up with the early morning chatter on the radio.

  After while, Jade got bit on a fly-lined sardine and we belted her up for the siege that fish put on.

Jade pulled for a while before calling in for relief pitching from Shane.

             Shane took over as the fish continued to make runs and orbit our little vessel

The clouds are building on the horizon as Shane turned the handle.
           
             This tuna, after forcing us through a series of ballet dancing, rod handoff moves around the boat, managed to get away at the point where it had begun to circle to color.  We then took notice of one of fly-lined rods getting spooled to the knot and we lost another tuna after we managed to wind about ten yards of line back on with heavy pressure.

           We fished the area for a while before heading out in to ominous clouds to the south.  We dragged our jigs steadily off shore as huge thunderheads and lighting flashes beckoned us.  We looked for better weather and birds outside, as the lighting and cracking thunder enveloped us.  Jade asked me to promise her that she would not get killed, but I demurred, saying that our summer clerkship program involved a certain amount of lowering  of their expectations.  I advised her to eat some more chips and sandwiches and look a the dolphins and whales we were seeing.  That way her final memory of the sea would be more positive and sublime.

             We found a few pockets of  decent weather, but the worst was still out there.  After burning fuel trying to get electrocuted further offshore, we decided to  become chickens of the sea and head toward terrestria.  At least we were not burdened by a fish cleaning chore.  While we were still ten miles out, the rain became torrential, yet warm. We all crowded inside the enclosure and consumed tall Stellas to maintain personal ballast.  By the time we got into the harbor, the downpour onshore was in full swing.  We stashed the rods and hauled ass for beers and burgers at Hennessey's, as I had vaguely promised our concerned young anglers that I would at least bring them back alive for hot food if they did not land their fish.  It was a decent venue to decompress.  The storm continued into the next day, as afternoon cells swept in from the south and caused flash floods further inland.

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             On July 21, Isaac and I headed down to the Finder to clean up our gear and wash the boat down after two days of heavy rain on the water. We had been on a scouting trip on the 20th and found some giant tuna milling around about 35 miles off shore, but these majestic creatures did not want to die for us and we fled home at 30 knots as the afternoon storms without lightning caught us about 20 miles out.  It was raining so hard that the fuel dock would not pump gas.  The next day, we could not get the girls or Tommy and David to join us, as it was a trip that only promised chores and a probable boat ride.  The weather had changed to just plain hot, so was a good day to hit the surf and that’s what the other kids elected to pursue.

                Isaac called up Matt when we decided that we would poke out to take a look around in the balmy, clearing weather at 11 am. We headed southeast toward the domes at trolling speed, about 8 miles off shore.  There was a smattering of boats off San Onofre, and another group down by Las Pulgas.  We made a couple of drifts, but decided to keep rolling.  We trolled outside into increasingly warming water.  At about 12 miles out, we peaked out at 76 degrees..  We fished a couple of dolphin pods without drawing strikes.  We stopped on a couple of paddies and chopped and chummed while drifting baits before putting the trollers out and moving on.  We bent back to the west toward the 267 in water that was consistently above 73 degrees.  We found a few spots of puddling fish that would not go our way off San Clemente and the overall activity of the ocean seemed to increase, with white terns much more active and a general feeling of building “fishiness.”  

                We found a real nice paddy about 11.5 miles off Dana and shut off the motor.  We still had  most of our bait and chopped and chummed the recently departed back into the food chain.  We drifted for nothing, but marked fish 75 to 100 feet down.  Another boat, the Steadfast, came over to our paddy.  This always raises the potential for territoriality, but we decided to take a cooperative approach and remained in radio communication with their crew as we each drifted down a side of the paddy.  We ran uphill, cut the motor and drifted by for a second d pass.  I was instantly rewarded with a take within five seconds of throwing a pretty big fly-lined sardine on a 2/0 owner circle hook and 25 pound line.

             The fish quickly took my fluro/mono  down to the spectra backing and it felt like a tuna.  After a few minutes I had him close and Isaac sank a nice gaff shot to the head.  We were on the board.

                Isaac, noting the meter marks, decided to drop down on our power jigging rig, which is a 8 ½ foot Calstar stick with a Torsa 20 spooled with 80 spectra and a top shot of 40 pound. He let a flat fall jig flutter down and was picked up close to 100 feet down. He wound down and was wired on another 30 pound yellowfin that he dispatched with brutal efficiency on that powerful combo.

                We went up for another pass and Matt got lit up on the power spinner rig, with spectra and a short fluro top shot.  Although he did not want to be seen turning the handle on a spinner, he did anyway and started power pumping his fish to the boat, where Isaac introduced it to the gaff.  In the meantime, I had hooked up again on a fish that ended up towing our boat around on 25 pound line for over 20 minutes.  This was despite the fact that I tightened down the drag to a dangerous level once I got back all of the spectra line and was down to 100 yards of mono.  Although it turned out to be our biggest fish by a couple of pounds, it was under 35 pounds and resulted in a certain amount of criticism for taking so long, even after my orthopedic limitations were considered.  The Steadfast crew was also wired and the action was just getting hotter.  While my fish took me around the boat several times (I tried to stay in the bow as much as possible), Isaac got lit up again. 

         

             

               Another six pack boat, a 34 foot Radovich with a crew of anglers, some of whom had clearly been well fed by their mothers and wore baseball hats on backwards, cruised right in on the paddy.  At least they were chumming the area to get some meat for their customers after putting themselves between us and the paddy we were working.  In the meantime, with my fish straight up and down and Isaac’s fresh one still quite active, we encountered a tangle that cause us to think that we would lose both fish to line-wrap.   We went tip-to-tip several times to try and figure out which way to rotate our rods as the fish continued to circle each other and make things worse.  We eventually guessed right and, after an excitable exercise in rod twirling, I was back in the bow with mine and Isaac's began the death spiral to the gaff than Matt had waiting in the stern.

                We got both fish in the locker and were five-for five on that spot.  Meanwhile, the Radovich hooked a 10 pound dorado that flopped all over their deck when they finally got it aboard.  One of the crew grabbed a baseball bat and began pounding it into fish meal on the deck.  We could hear the impact and watch the blood splatter from our spot by the kelp when we ran up for one final pass.  In the meantime, another six pack boat, the 44 foot Pacifica “Comanche,”  rolled up on all of the excitement and  parked on the kelp  to drift for its customers.

             
                It was getting late in the afternoon when Steadfast and our crew said our goodbyes to each other as we left the area in the hands of the professional skippers who had barged in late.  We dragged our lures and fished a couple of paddies in the sunset, but really were out of time.  The water was extremely fishy within a mile of the headlands as we used up the last of our light.

               We were able to gas up after dark because the Fury was there adding 900 gallons to its tanks.  We had a chance to chat with Rick Doesburg, one of my favorite skippers in the world, about how this season was shaping up and discuss our mutual hatred of seals.  We did not get the boat cleaned up until nearly ten pm and then spent a couple more hours processing 150 pounds  (about 80 pounds of fillet) of tuna at home.  I fell into an exhausted sleep well after midnight, but it ended up being a pretty good day.

             Isaac went back out on Wednesday with our partner David and got another yellowfin that towed him around like mine had, so he is a bit more sympathetic to the elderly now.  When my kids turn ten, I generally make them fishing poles that are distinctly their own.  I just finished the rods I was wrapping for Tommy and Davey.

         The lads, who are roughly the size of chimpanzees (I always wanted one), are being shanghaied into the current offshore scenario that may be a bit above their current weight class, as this season is a remarkable one that may not come our way in the foreseeable future.


        These Mexican pelagics that are such a rare treat may stay for a few months, but they are within 5 miles from home port as I type this.  This is a ridiculously proximity for something that is mostly never around, so get at it while you can, because

These are the Days.

SPIN DOCTORS 7/11

     On Friday, July 10, my boat partner, Dr. Dave Mann, Isaac and I took the Finder out in search of the pelagics that have been all over our local waters.  We were loaded up with glistening gear and 60 pounds of ice at 5:30 am when we arrived at Everingham's bait barge to pick up a scoop of pretty big sardines and a few small mackerel.  We distributed them in our main and transom tanks, saving the port transom tank for bleeding out fish.  We made our way out into the calm waters of a breaking dawn that revealed lots of life in the form of birds and  seagoing mammals just off the headlands.    

   We had heard the reports of tuna down off the domes, but once again decided to arc a bit to the outside to get into the kelp lanes.  When we were trolling jigs on a 180 course we saw the Dana Pride fall in behind us a few miles back.  He made an abrupt left turn and headed toward the water outside the Domes.  The water was clean, the birds were flying and we saw several whales.  We kept rolling to the outside. We found several pods of dolphin and tried trolling and bait fishing them for nothing.  We trolled past and stopped on paddies with only a few boats on the horizon.  Most of the fleet had bee-lined it down the southeast.

    The weather outside was bright and calm, with very rich looking water and dolphins working through the area. We got into the kelp lanes about 13 miles out amidst 68-70 degree water and got a double jig strike on the hex head anchovy and six shooter dorado pattern, both with chrome heads.  Dave landed his very first yellow tail and we swung back to throw baits.  I got a little bigger grade of not-so big fish on bait and we managed to farm a few more.  We slow trolled an area that was rich in kelp and saw several areas of boiling fish that seemed to come up in the wrong places for us.  The area was fishy and we stayed on it, with trolled baits, as well as drifting fly-lined and deep baits, to no avail. 

            The yellows we boated had graduated from “rat” school and might have even qualified for the Western Outdoor News “fifteen pound class” description, which is used to describe a fish that reads at a much higher level than their actual dimension or age level would suggest.  If our fish had gone on living, they surely would have reached this weight, even if they were mentally retarded.

     We left the area and swung our trollers in an inside arc that took us past San Onofre and along the coast about 8 miles out.  We hit the hottest water (over 70) on the outside of this pattern and saw many whales.   We heard of some good radio fish (a few tuna and yellows on the inside), as well as open water jig strikes on Dorado outside.  We had planned to get off the water early in the afternoon, so we did, after we decided that we would get back out on the water even earlier the next day with a different plan.  We only burned a little over 20 gallons of fuel, so our 177 gallon capacity left plenty for as long a day as we could put together on a Saturday that we knew would be a zoo out there.  We left the starboard tank running with half a scoop, knowing that it probably would not survive until we got back in the morning

     Isaac and I grabbed ice and coffee at Circle K and mused about the possibility of Dave hooking up a big fish on his newly acquired medium sized saltwater spinning reel as we drove down to the harbor.  We met Dave at 4:30 and we were in the line-up for bait by 4:45 am.  Our leftover bait had rolled, so we had a bucketful to use for chop and chum duty.  We were probably 20 back in the total darkness of the line up for bait, as the news was clearly out.  The skippers in front of us all behaved admirably in close-quarters maneuvering as the line rapidly grew larger behind us. We were motoring out before sunrise with a scoop of trout-sized sardines and a smattering of bigger mackerel.

   Right outside the harbor we found 68 degree water and major bird action in the gray-light shadow of the headlands.  Several whales spouted around us and we heard some of them before we visually acquired their spouts.  A pod of at least a thousand dolphin were moving up the beach toward Newport and I resisted the temptation to head that way.  We kept the trollers out of the water and ran a line to the southeast about 7 miles out.

     There was creeping daylight on the water when we reached the domes.  There were only a few boats in the general area at this point and we went just past them to start metering.  Within a few minutes, we saw birds and breaking fish.  We shut off the motor and started throwing bait.  We sent one down with a sliding sinker.  Isaac cast out fly-lined bait with a Trinidad reel and Dave and I grabbed our spinners to fling sardines as far away from the boat as we could.  I had my tuna-proven Okuma Cedros spooled up with 80 pound spectra and mated to a cool Calstar rod I got used at the Jigstop for 30 bucks.   Dave had his new medium sized Penn spinner on a Shimano rod rated for 30 to 80 pound braid.  It looked pretty questionable for what we were after, but these new spinners are a different breed from what they used to be. I clicked my reel in ”baitfeeder” mode in the portside stern rod holder and began to chop up and chum our dead bait from the day before.

     The bird piles and tuna foaming beneath them began to move up current toward us.  We had a great slick going toward their advance.  Suddenly my reel began screaming as I wiped the gore off my hands and reached for my stick.  Dave lunged ahead of me and snatched my rod before waving it in all directions to set my fish free as his own reel began to scream.  Dave gave my  unburdened rod back to me and grabbed his own rod, which was loaded up on a fish that began to empty his spool.  After I begged him to get up into the bow several times, Dave looked at his reel and recognized the need to get up there.  He started to get back some line before the fish took off on a mightier run, which took the reel down to less than 100 yards of braid.  With Dave in the bow, we were able to follow the fish a short distance and blunt the effect of the run.  Dave began to make back some line by pumping his somewhat noodley rod and winding down.  For a while, he was standing.  Isaac hooked up and then had a line fatigue failure in his fluro leader below the connection.  We kept our  bait lines trailing, as several other boats hooked up as the approaching fleet swarmed the waters immediately around us.  The shearwater gulls began to swarm our chum and hook baits in the same way.  Isaac and I each caught and successfully released  several birds as we kept an eye on Dave and continued to offer our encouragement.  We put sinkers on our baits in an effort to cut down on the poultry harvest.

 Dave endeavours to persevere

     Meanwhile, Dave was remarking on how powerful his fish seemed to be as he eventually sat down on the bow seat to continue his give and take from a more relaxed position. The fish began coming toward us and Dave was furiously reeling to try and keep some arc in his rod and maintain a tight line.  The fish came to the surface about 20 yards downswell and I grabbed the gaff, thinking the moment of truth was at hand.  The fish had other ideas and began to take back all of the line that Dave had worked so hard to collect.  Dave was already  puffing and completely railed at the point where the fish began to make the predictable circles of defeat.  It came to color and remained about 6 to 10 feet below the bow for the next fifteen minutes.  The exhaustion  at either end of the rod and line was apparent, as neither the angler nor the fish seemed to have the strength to break the stalemate.  The fish circled on its side as I stood by with the gaff that I was concerned might rust apart before Dave summoned the will to bring the fish  up the last few feet and into range.  

     We stopped trying to gently encourage him and began to yell at him like drill seargents  to reach down and find the gas to kill this fish.  I was using our longest gaff and managed a head shot as the fish and Dave finally gave me the opening.  We got it into the bleed tank and turned to celebrate.  Dave could barely raise his arm for the high five, as we cracked the first of our “Simpler Times” discount beers from the cooler.  Dave announced that he was done fishing, as his arms had become as useless as those of an Irish river dancer.  No matter how good you are, taking a fish like that on a little spinner is a feat of skill and endurance. He richly earned his relaxed brew consumption as the fish cooled in the locker after we bled it out. The radio howled with inquiries from boats descending on the area like approaching Huns.  We were asked what kind of tuna it was.  At first, we said bluefin, but the other radio fish seemed to be straight yellowfin, so we decided our must be as well.

    Dave's unclassified tuna gets some cryotherapy in the hold.


     We fished the spot for a while longer, until the encroaching fleet pressed us to the point where we were just looking for a way out.  We found a path by going in and toward Oceanside, where we stumbled into a finning mako in the calm water.  We put out a live mackerel on our biggest rig, which we affectionately call the “pig.”  It is a 50 wide Tiagra spooled with 200 pound spectra below 130 pound mono.  It is a no-nonsense rig.  We kept trying to swing the bait into its path and each time we saw the shark, it looked bigger.  We were glad to have the pig on our team.

  We slow trolled the mackerel and the shark angled sharply into our wake and threw off a wake of its own as it zeroed in on the mackerel before it inexplicably sunk out.  We stopped the boat and began to rig another mackerel, slab-style, to a second shark rig as it seemed this mako was refusing our live offering.  As soon as we had it ready to go, the clicker on the pig began to growl as the shark decided to eat.  Isaac got on it right away and began to turn the handle as the rod arced over and the line started leaving more rapidly.  Suddenly the rig went slack.  Isaac reeled in and we observed that the shark had bit clean through our heavy single strand wire leader.  We put out the other rig for a few minutes before we admitted our loss and continued to find our way out of the fleet to make our way to the kelp lanes we had charted to the outside the day before.

     We put out the trollers and began to rotate jigs as we found 69 to 70 degree water below the 267.  We stopped to drift baits and chum on several paddies that were not holding and dragged by several more without drawing strikes.  Isaac was glassing the horizon from the roof as we spotted whales and dolphins to key on. Dave began to regain strength through beer rehydration and got fire up for the hunt again.  As we swung by another paddy,  Isaac came off the roof like a monkey, telling us there was a big school of dorado swimming by the paddy, which was one of several in the immediate area. 

     We got the trollers stowed and crept on the paddy from up swell.  I shut the engine down and  pinned on a huge sardine that seemed pretty lively.  I made a long, spinner-enhanced cast that landed three feet to the left of the paddy and was almost instantly rewarded by a big take that screamed line off my reel.  I let the rod load up and pulled back to a solid hookset.  The fish went uphill and I was able to walk to the bow and get out of the way.  To our surprise, no other hook ups followed.  My fish showed us some big shoulders as it began a vertical dive that betrayed the head shakes of a yellowtail.  After about ten minutes, I had him flattened out on the top and Isaac sunk the gaff for a bloodless head shot.  It was a fish worth celebrating.  We made a few more drifts through the kelps in the area before heading toward Dana.  We switched all our trollers out to Rapalas in an effort to drag up the dorado that had breezed through ahead of that  big yellow, but we got no more love.  We had two big fish, so the troll home was not so desperate.  We saw many more whales and several small pods of dolphin.

  Happiness is a loaded rod and a singing reel   

      
     As we were on our way in, I decided to get a head start on the clean up by soaping up and scrubbing  down the cockpit. The angle of the deck to the stern would be ideal with the raw water hose down to follow my brushwork.  That way, the final freshwater rinse at the slip would be brief and easy.  Dave was driving and Isaac was on the bow, getting some much needed sun.  Isaac generally refuses this open water washdown task, as he claims it increases the risk of slipping on a soapy and moving deck.  I might have been thinking that this picky attitude is just a rationalization for laziness, when the boat rolled in the swell and I suddenly encountered the starboard gunwhale with my ribs as my soapy shoes went the other way.  I almost went in, but managed to grab one of the trollers and briefly lingered in virtual man-overboard scenario with very little air in my lungs.  The crew, whose attention was drawn by the sound of my impact, stopped the boat and sought assurance that I was undamaged.  I was a bit shocky for about a minute and pissed at myself for a lot longer.  I saw a doctor yesterday and he ruled out any damage to my lung.  I have cracked my ribs on a couple of prior occasions, so I know that the next few weeks will involve trouble sleeping, laughing, or my customary heavy breathing at Wendy.

     We got back to the house to drink some well-earned scotch before we cut up and divided the fish. Even with half of the catch, we had many people over for BBQs and sashimi fests over the next two days, with some still going into the freezer.

  Our skipper contemplates the wet work ahead    


     These fish are certainly starting to show up, even as I continue to give myself setbacks.  While a cracked rib may be a drag, I have not taken enough damage to keep me off the water.

     These fish are here and the bite is getting stronger, so I am like the Yorktown in getting back into the action, celebrating the time we get to have, and the natural fact that ….

These are the Days.