surf12foot:
Hit PO today and what a show it was. It was like 2 kids on Christmas morning. giggling, laughing and such. The big hit of the day was my 1st rockfish pick up a hitchhiker as in a 34" ling what a tussle that was. Pole doubled over and then bends all the way to the cork, thinking that it went into some kelp and wrap it self in it. Got over to it and handline it thinking it got off only to find it was still tugging so back off and gave it some slack to work its way undone and about 30 seconds later the fly line took off and I hit it again hard. Slowly working to me when in 12 foot of water one could see a molted color coming up with a rockfish in its mouth. got it next to the kayak and got on the radio to tell Kevin that I needed a bigger net. So as he is coming over the rockfish escaped from the jaws of death only to be pounced on again like a cat attacking a mouse. The rockfish did one more daring escape of going down and the ling was waiting for that and attack with full force, needless to say the ling got him headfirst 3/4 of the down his throat and from that moment on I new he was mine.
Stinger Hook:
That is awesome!
Tinker:
If you're reading this, you already read Scott's Reader's Digest Condensed Version of How We Spent Thursday. This is mine.
It's been almost two years since we had a chance to get out in the ocean. Wind and waves and mythical thunderstorms have dashed every hope we'd had, but yesterday the wind was a mere zephyr and the worst of the 6-foot swells would be blocked by the headlands. It was time to go.
It was a horrible morning. Nothing was going right. The plug and socket on Scott's battery box have been around so long they no longer fit together snugly. He says he can't find a replacement set, so there's lots of duct tape involved that doesn't seem to work well at all. I banged the bow of my kayak on the asphalt of the parking lot while unloading, then banged my knuckles trying to remove the hitch pin... It was an ominous beginning.
We're not quick about setting up our kayaks at the best of times. Yesterday we set a new mark: it took 96 minutes and 23 seconds just to get ready to begin the long trudge across miles and miles of the softest, finest sand found anywhere this side of the Moon.
Where I'm always faster to get rigged and ready, Scott is always fastest to launch. Yesterday was no exception. He's attached some of the cleverest accoutrements for holding his fly rod while launching, so when he reaches the water, he's ready, set, and gone. I had a fine setup, too, before I got this new kayak - I haven't figured it out, yet - so I was standing on the beach, trying to decide what would be the best way to keep everything on my boat while launching, and he was off like a guy shot from a cannon.
This beach is famous for its monstrous waves, and yesterday the surf was a record height, reaching a towering 16 inches high. I can't understand why there weren't Hazardous Beach warnings posted, and I insist on an independent inquiry into that oversight. Finally ready, I waded in, timed my entry perfectly - and missed the seat! There I was, unable to leap out and try again, struggling to slide into the seat, and completely helpless... so I did what any accomplished mariner would do in that situation: I did a magnificent Huli with a minor yard sale on the side.
But I didn't lose my hat or my sunglasses, so the judges awarded me bonus points for style.
What did my companion do when I flipped over? Nothing. I stood up and there he was, nonchalantly getting is fly rod ready and bobbing up and down out beyond the surf line. Did he call out, "Are you okay?" No, he did not.
There were people - tourists for sure - standing on the small floating dock, with a ringside seat to the spectacle. A truly great fishing companion would have paddled over to them, doffed his hat, and asked for donations - folks, no one gets to watch one of my displays for free. Sadly, my fishing companion didn't even think to do that.
I'd only dumped two small fly boxes and a plastic water bottle. I grabbed the fly boxes, ignored the water bottle - no way was I wading back to the beach in that surf - leaped in (landing on the seat this time) and paddled out to where Scott was still waiting, patiently and unhelpfully, for me to show up.
All I wanted to do was keep going. I'm sure all the commercial skippers, their crews, the fish buyers, the Port Manager and everyone for miles around had seen me outdo my previously best uncoordinated launch, and the sooner I was out of their sight, the better I'd feel about it.
And that guy who couldn't even muster a "You okay?" while the surf was pounding me into the sand? Now he wanted to talk about what happened. In microscopic detail.
We finally got going again, rounded the jetty and paddled to The Spot. As we approached, I tossed out a practice cast and caught a fish, and that's how the rest of the say went.
A few years back, while fishing for smallmouth, we'd had the same kind of aggravations. We couldn't let a fly touch the water without a fish grabbing it. Dropped back cast? Fish. Water haul? Fish. Moving from one spot to another? Fish. But to have the same thing happen with rockfish? Well, that was something entirely new.
I'd caught 12, kept two, missed at least 50 short-strikes when Scott said, "I have another one!" then "Well, maybe it's just kelp" followed by "I think it's still there but it got back into the kelp" and finally "Tinker, I've got a hitchhiker!"
I was thinking, "Big deal. I had what was by far the biggest fish of the day (to that point in time) on the hook. You do yours and let me do mine" when Scott hollered, "I need your big net!"
I hadn't landed my fish, but I tucked the rod under my leg and started paddling towards him because, unlike some people I could point to, I am a genuinely great fishing partner. Sliding gracefully alongside, I handed him my net and said, "I might have a fish on. I'm just going to back away so we don't tang..." I didn't get any further because that's when he screamed, "Its a lingcod!"
Great. He gets to watch me get pummeled by homicidal surf and he gets to catch a lingcod, too? Is there no justice in this world?
I was still only semi-impressed because legal sized lingcod are quite rare around here, but when he hoisted a 34-inch 24-pound, big-headed and butt-ugly fish into the air, I knew he'd caught what had to be the biggest lingcod in the cove. Dammit.
Folks, it's possible to be happy for a friend's good fortune and not like them very much at the same time.
Fishing picked-up after that. I reckon the rockfish felt safe after Scott removed their greatest nemesis and everyone came out to celebrate. It was fish after fish, cast after cast, until I'd rubbed my thumb and index finger raw on rockfish lips (when the fishing is that hot, one does not bother with a net).
By noon, I'd caught 28 fish and kept four (that's all I need). Scott had four nice rockfish and one that had been smacked-around by a lingcod, plus, of course, his lingcod. He claimed he'd caught and released at least as many as me, but one needs to understand he didn't say anything about that until I'd announced my total. We'd also brought in at least a hundred fish that had a death grip on our flies but missed the hooks and dropped off just as they reached our boats. My arm and wrist were cramped from fighting fish for two hours - and I still had to make it back to the beach through that hideous surf, so we called it a Good Day and headed in.
I don't know if I have GoPro footage. The camera didn't seem willing to turn on, but as we headed back to the beach, it gave out five beeps (the low battery signal), so when it dries out, I'll see. Until then, there's this:
And now you know the rest of the story.
Nobaddays:
Good to hear you both had a great day of catching not just fishing. Hopefully some of that is still left by the time I’m down there in a couple weeks.