Three Weeks Off, and I Forgot How To Fish Vertically

Fall is in the air in Southern California.

Or I think it is. Or maybe it’s just the lingering effects of what was once a fucking hurricane in the Eastern Pacific. I dunno. The weather has been a bit weird lately. A week ago, it was 103 degrees in the basin. Today, it rained on me.

When I got to the launch at the Unnamed Marina, a thick marine layer had obviously settled in the night before. Even though it was six in the morning and the sun was trying to peek through the clouds, it was still dark. The 3/4-day boat had just picked up its passengers and was making its way out of the basin. I followed slowly behind, using its wake as a free speed boost.

And I’m glad I hitched the ride because the current was pushing hard. Harder than I’d ever felt at this marina.

Since I started this endeavor of hanging out with my legs under saltwater more, I’ve been following the tide, and the weather overall, as we know that water movement, especially in the saltwater, dictate what these fish are doing. I’d been following the reports of flooding in Newport and Long Beach, and figured the unusually large tidal swings had something to do with it. Turns out, there was a lot more going on. A hurricane in the Eastern Pacific, an oceanic Kelvin wave pushing sea levels higher, unusually warm water, and high tides were all coming together to give Southern California’s coastline a serious beating.

I figured all that moving water would produce an equally impressive bite.

Turns out, more doesn’t necessarily mean better.

A Little Rust Never Hurt Anyone. Except Maybe the Fish.

The recent past seems so distant when you’re on the water as much as I have been this year. The fact that I hadn’t fished the marina in three or four weeks was enough to leave me a little rusty. No pun intended.

I missed quite a few good bites, some that I really should have connected with.

When you’re fishing vertically, you have to pay attention to the subtle bites that happen as your bait falls. Sometimes, it’s nothing more than your pink line sinking, suddenly stopping, and then starting to sink again. Or that S shape that’s laying on the surface of the water suddenly straightening quickly.

And I find myself muttering, “WTF was that?”

By the time I’ve finished the thought, the fish has already spit the bait or wrapped me around a piling.

Literally that quick.

There’s nothing quite like watching yourself fish to realize how badly you’re out of rhythm. The hesitation, the awkward hookset, the sound of fluorocarbon hitting god knows what, and the rod making contact with my forehead.

Three weeks away from this particular style of fishing, and apparently I needed to relearn how to operate my own equipment.

The fish, thankfully, didn’t seem to care.

At least I was catching fish. I just wasn’t always looking particularly graceful doing it.

Fishing in a Phone Booth

Some of the spots around the docks don’t exactly leave you a lot of room to work. You’ve got pilings, dock edges, boats, and just enough space to get yourself into trouble.

When you’re fishing tight quarters, a little hesitation or an awkward rod movement can make the difference between getting a fish out cleanly and watching it wrap you around something that probably costs more than your truck.

And on this particular morning, my coordination wasn’t exactly inspiring confidence.

There’s something humbling about watching yourself struggle with something you’ve done hundreds of times. You know what you’re supposed to do. Your hands just don’t seem interested in following the instructions.

But somewhere along the way, things started clicking again.

The WD-40 Kicks In

Eventually, the movements started feeling more natural. The reactions got quicker. I stopped looking quite so surprised every time a fish decided to eat my bait.

Maybe it was just getting back into the rhythm of fishing the marina. Maybe it was finally waking up. Whatever it was, the rust started wearing off.

By the later part of the session, I was feeling much more comfortable. That’s one of the things I love about fishing regularly. You develop a rhythm that becomes almost automatic. But apparently, automatic doesn’t mean permanent.

Take a few weeks away from a particular technique, and you’ll find out just how much of it depends on repetition.

At least the fish gave me enough opportunities to work the rust off.

The Channel: A Brilliant Theory, Thoroughly Disproven

I also wasted a huge chunk of time revisiting the channel.

My thinking was simple. Caveman simple.

The channel fucking sucks when there’s no current. And with the current blazing like it was today? It’s gonna be the opposite of fucking sucking, right?

Wrong.

The strong current pushing against me the entire way didn’t exactly improve the situation, either. I didn’t get ONE bite in the channel area. Not a tap. Not a bump. Nothing.

I don’t even want to know how much time I wasted kicking my way down there and back.

So much for that theory.

he only bright spot was running into a school of barracuda about the size of big sardines. I hadn’t caught one in 30 years, and it didn’t take long to remember why they call them slime sticks.

I even managed to get the release on video.

“Slime sticks…”

He’ll live!

…maybe.

I’m not a marine biologist, but I’m pretty sure that last part was an educated guess.

The Fish Are Already Wet

The rain continued until I finally called it a day.

As I’ve mentioned before, I couldn’t care less if it rains while I’m fishing. The fish are already wet.

There is no bad weather, only bad gear.

Next stop: Parker, Arizona.

Two days of pre-fishing with Doc, followed by two full days of tournament fishing with the club. Four days on the water, a whole new set of conditions, and hopefully a few more fish that cooperate.

I took first at Silverwood. Now it’s time to see if I can carry that momentum across the state line. I’ve got a week to find out if California and Arizona share warrant databases.