The Float Tube
The Swimbaiter kept firing a glide — looked like a DRT Klash — into a field of drifting grass at Probation Pond, harvesting weeds more efficiently than fish. It’s a familiar kind of optimism — equal part confidence and equal part denial. Between casts, talk drifted to one of my side projects: the shin scars from the MDR jetty and the occasional respectable spotted bay bass.
“Now, if I only had a float tube,…” I dreamed, like the Scarecrow asking for a brain.
There had been one, once. It had gone on to a better life, which is more than can be said for most fishing gear. An old ODC 420 had already been rehomed — gifted to Lunchbox after too many months serving as a throw pillow in a basement. I think one of the feral cats had her litter in it. It now sees better days in the Colorado backwaters. Adopt, don’t shop.
“I’ve got a brand-new Fish Cat 5 Max. Two-fifty,” the Swimbaiter mentioned.
Little did he know that a little birdie had already told me he had one for sale, and a trade had already been scripted in my head. No way I was paying cash.
“How about an OG wooden Lunker Punker? Little hook rash, and some teeth marks. Rare.”
Rare enough to say out loud. Truth is, there are a few sitting at home collecting value. This wasn’t a trade — it was unloading not used inventory.
Didn’t matter. Deal got done.
Few hours later, big Fish Cat box shoved into the back of a Toyota.
Maiden voyage came after getting absolutely worked at Havasu in a two-day club tournament the weekend before. Humbling in all the right ways. There was supposed to be another tournament at DVL that following week, but let’s be realistic — one ass kicking per calendar week is plenty.
It had been years since I float tubed. Since the second Bush administration, if counting. Back when late-night launches in Newport Harbor passed for dates with the girlfriend at the time, who was a big float tuber — 2 a.m. kick-outs, sunrise returns, thumbs taped and shredded. First lesson came quick back then:
“Don’t lip a halibut.”
“Why not?”
Lessons are learned the hard way.
This time launch was at dusk. The kick out was a long, hypnotic grind across black water. When I finally got to the spot, I soon realized that my fins were my Spot Lock. Subtle current and constant adjustment.
The first fish, a sub legal calico detonated the bait like a small explosive. Instant clarity. No more drift into sleep. Better than the canned caffeine on the drive in. A mile-long kick nearly put the body to sleep; that strike erased it. There was never really any ‘fishing’ involved. This is ‘catching.’
Two-pound “spots” fight like you owe their MOTHER money. No polite surrender like largemouth — no half-hearted jumps, no apologies. These fish scrap like debts are owed. Pure tug-of-war. They fight like hired muscle. No finesse, no sportsmanship — just raw, irritated aggression. Largemouth quit. Shake your hand afterwards. These things escalate.
Mike Tyson energy. Compact. Furious. Instead of ears, they bite thumbs.
And speaking of the bite? As subtle as a kick to the nuts. Anyone calling it a “pressure bite” is either lying or asleep. Perhaps the dock dwellers have a different approach to life than those suburbanites living in the plush eel grass. These are city bass. A few classes short of anger management completion.
Dusk slipped into dark. The marina quieted. Silence crept in. Just fins pushing water like a slow metronome.
The thumb took the damage.
Fair trade.
