If there is something I hate more than a combined invasion of tomato (horned) worms and gophers, it's jet skis screaming my boat while I'm drifting over a positioned I've logged as a productive halibut ground.
This morning, chores finished for the day I hauled the boat down to San Diego harbor, launched and motored out near the mouth of the harbor in the hopes I'd catch a couple of nice brown flatties. On my way out, I stopped at the bait barge, petted the barge cat and bought a half scoop of wiggle fresh bait which immediately began to ball up loaded in my live bait tank.
I was prepared today. before i left the launch ramp, I rigged up my pole with a six foot wire leader, a nice sharp live bait hoot and two-ounce pyramid weight on a separate dropper/leader attached to a swivel. I chopped outboard's power as I coasted over my favorite halibut hole. I then boosted the magnification on my fish finder and saw them--four big returns on the display which my finder guessed as halibut. I let my line sink slowly to the bottom and had a hook up within two minutes.
The Halibut wanted to run and dive, which is fine by me since I do this for fun, not meat. By the fish's third run, I could tell it was getting tired, so I started to horse it over to the side of the boat where I could gt it in my net, or hook it with a gaff. Just as I had the fish next to the boat and grabbed the net with my right hand, I heard a big exhale of air and smelled fish.
And in the blink of an eye a bog old harbor seal swam off with what looked o me like a nice 10-12 pound flatty. Like most fishermen on the Southern California coast, I don't think of them as cute sea-going cousins of the dog, but rather as mischievous, cunning, Koresh-be-damned fish thieves.
But what the hell, I sill had a bunch of lively bait, so I put a fresh chovie on the hook and went back down theo the sandy bottom. Th fish finder by now was showing only two decent returns and the clock still had a lot of fishing time on it. I uncapped a cold eight ounce bottle of Coca Cola, put one foot up on the gunwale and waited for another hit.
It was then that two idiots came by on their two-cycle jet skis and quicker than you can yell "holy Sponge Bob," the returns vanished from my fish finder, most likely headed down to Mexican waters around the Coronado Islands. With only six gallons of fuel in my tank, I wasn't going to chase fish all the way to Mexico. Not today, but probably when the yellowtail schools arrive offshore.
I fully understand that I have to share the water with idiots on jet skis as well as young boaters with 200 watt stereos, unmuffled 150 horsepower engines and no clue about polite boating.
So, after drowning and feeding the crabs two more anchovies, I called it a day and cruised back to the ramp at Islandia hotly pursued by a mixed retinue of harbor seals, juvenile gulls and young pelicans. Truth be told, I like feeding the gulls and pelicans almost as much as I like fishing.
It's absolutely true: The Worse Day Fishing is Almost Always Better Than Your Best Day Working.
All I have to do now is wash the petroleum stains off the sides and stern of my boat, rinse the saltwater out of my outboard and clean the bait tank. I'm sure the raccoons will be disappointed when they come to check out my bait tank tonight.
In my old age, I've become a snob of sorts. Two-cycle motors are dirty and they pollute waterways. I'm glad I have an ultra clean emissions ,very reliable, four-stroke outboard. I'm sure the halibut and off shore tuna approve.--jim forbes
Comments