Huntington Harbor: First Contact
Mission Briefing
People always ask me what I think about while spending ten or twelve hours alone in a float tube.
The truth?
What does a bird dog think about the moment it gets out of the crate and into the field?
Once I launch, my brain has exactly one job:
Find bass.
(Maybe drink water if I remember.)
Apparently the hunt also shuts off every other biological function, because after countless marathon sessions kicking around Southern California harbors, I’d never once had to take a dump. Until Huntington.
The day started exactly how I’d hoped. I wasn’t really there to catch fish. I was there to answer questions.
How different is Huntington Harbor from The Unnamed Marina? Do spotted bass relate to the same structure? Is my “closer to the ocean equals bigger fish” theory complete nonsense? How does a more natural estuary fish compared to a uniform basin?
First Contact
About five minutes after launching, I drifted past the first dock off the main channel and caught myself thinking,
“If this were The Unnamed Marina…there’d be a fish riiiiight there.”
I fired a cast. Shit cast. No where close to where I I fired a cast.
Terrible cast.
Not even close.
One foot further back would’ve been perfect.
I fired another.
The Jigpara Spin smacked the back of the wooden dock with a satisfying thunk. It sank for two seconds before I got exactly two winds in.
WHACK.
Fish on.
Well…
Maybe my theories of outside docks weren’t completely full of shit.
I ignored the urge to fish every dock I saw and headed toward the biggest tidal choke point I’d found on Google Earth the night before during the usual scouting session. Funny thing about satellite imagery; sometimes your brain imagines the Panama Canal. Reality gives you a bridge about as wide as your driveway. What Google forgot to mention was the current.
Holy Venturi effect.
Water ripped through that bridge like someone had their thumb over the end of a garden hose.
Now we’re talking.
Instead of fishing the middle of the torrent, which would’ve sent me floating down to Newport, I worked the seams where bass could sit without burning calories. It worked immediately. Unfortunately, every fish appeared to still be in elementary school.
Testing Theories
My next move would’ve required kicking across the main channel.
Normally? No problem! Yesterday? Chale. The current was ripping, boaters were waking up, and getting run over before breakfast didn’t seem like a productive use of my Saturday. So I drifted back into the harbor letting the current dictate the pace.
The fuel dock immediately caught my eye. Then I remembered I hadn’t caught a damn thing around the fuel dock at The Unnamed Marina either, and much like that one, this one looked like Costco on a Saturday. Boats pulling in every few minutes. Engines idling. Guys yelling. Kids running around. People trying to remember which side their gas cap was on. People trying to remember if their engines took diesel or not. Navy sailors posing for pictures.
There was no way in hell a sizable fish would hunker down there for an extended period of time.
So, let’s see if Theory #2 pans out.
Sure enough. One cast to the dock next to it with the free-rigged Rock Claw.
Thunk.
Fish.
I’d now made exactly two casts to places I was convinced should hold bass. Two casts. Two fish. High percentage approach. Excellent ROI.
That’s something I always wonder when I watch other anglers.
Some paddle into an area and immediately start fan-casting every direction like they’re watering the lawn. Every cast I make is an answer to a question. Where’s the current? Where’s the ambush point? Which way are they facing? Is there bait? Wind? Nervous water? Depth?
If I can’t answer at least one of those…that cast was probably not worth it.
Mission Abort
It was right about then, thinking about wasted casts, that my colon sent my brain a text message.
“WYA?’
I ignored it.
It sent another. “WYD?”
Now, most of us have experienced the joy of pooping outdoors. Birds chirp. Leaves rustle. I once had a deer pass by. Life makes sense for once.
Unfortunately, the closest “nature” within kicking distance here happened to be the harbor’s federally protected ecological reserve. Of all the places in California to suddenly develop a moral compass. For one brief moment I considered pulling ashore and laying a turd on an endangered tern. Then I pictured trying to explain myself to a federal ranger.
“Sir…”
“Yes?”
“…you leave something?”
Nope. Hard pass.
So I spun the float tube around and started kicking toward the launch, and because Mother Nature has an outstanding sense of humor, the current seemingly decided to change. Every kick felt like I was trying to swim up a salmon ladder. The shoreline refused to get any closer. My panic level, however, was making excellent progress.
Eventually I hit the beach like the first wave at Normandy. I abandoned ship and sprinted toward the restroom in one fell swoop, like an Olympic sprinter. Dignity suffered minor emotional damage after I nearly ate pavement because I’d forgotten to remove my fins before sprinting a hundred yards, all while two young women watched the show.
One stall. No door. I’d be lucky to find toilet paper here. And inside, carved into the wall by Huntington Harbor’s resident philosopher with a Sharpie, were the immortal words:
Here I sit,
Upon the potty.
Didn’t catch shit—
Not even a Spottie.
Apparently Shakespeare was a spotted bass fisherman.
Soon after, a lost child wandered past the stall asking if I’d seen his dad.
Thankfully…
My float tube was still where I’d left it.
Back on Patrol
Time for Part Two!
The bathroom detour sent me into water I’d never planned to fish that day. Quiet canals. Million-dollar homes. Kids jumping off bridges. Almost no current. A few fish. Nothing memorable. Pretty neighborhood for living. Wrong neighborhood for fishing.
So I kicked back toward the main channel, and that’s when Huntington Harbor finally started showing me who it really was.
Unlike The Unnamed Marina, nothing here repeats. Every dock points a different direction. Some have pilings. Some don’t.
And early on, my tungsten pea weight started providing recon as it trudged the bottom. Grass. Sand. More Grass. Rock. Grass.
THUNK. FISH ON
I picked apart the docks until I noticed a buoy sitting smack in what seemed to be the middle of the channel. It had a white and orange diamond on it.
SHOAL
Bingo.
The Pattern Emerges
I slid over, dodged a couple Navy ships because apparently that was on today’s bingo card, and found exactly what I’d been hoping for.
Rocks. Current. Scattered eelgrass. All in an expansive area that covered almost 100 yards.
This screamed for the JigPara Spin. I’d swapped the factory trebles for a single Owner hook. Best modification I’d made all month.
Tick.
Tick.
Across the rocks.
Into the grass.
No snag.
Pop it free.
WHACK.
Fish.
Again. Over and over.
The single hook stayed out of the grass.
Stayed out of the rocks.
Most importantly…
It stayed debris free in the strike zone.
Sometimes the best lure modification isn’t the one that catches more bass.
It’s the one that lets you spend less time cussing. A lure in the water doing what its intended purpose is catches infinitely more fish than one dangling in front of your face while you’re picking grass off trebles.
Once the aggressive fish were out of the way, the less aggressive ones were picked off using the Free Rig, this time with a Keitech Crazy Flapper 2.8.” It was a steady pick until my body was done.
Mission Debrief
By the time I kicked the final stretch back to the launch, my legs were cooked. Four and a half miles. Not in a kayak. Not in a bass boat. A float tube.
I’d launched that morning looking for answers.
How different was Huntington Harbor?
Did bigger fish really position closer to the ocean?
Did they use current the same way?
Turns out…
I found most of my answers before lunch.
Somewhere between the current seams, the eelgrass, the shoals, and the least dignified sprint of my adult life, my recon mission quietly turned into one hell of a fishing trip.
