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My girlfriend’s father, Mike, and his close-knit fishing buddies
call themselves the Water Dogs. When I was invited on one of their fishing
trips, it was an honor — like being invited to join the Navy Seals
for a day, only with physically unfit office workers.
At Dana Point Harbor we boarded the 65-foot Fury, a white commercial fishing
vessel. As we chugged into the open sea, I went to the bow, watched the
stars and imagined falling over the side of the boat. It was magical.
Out on the ocean, away from the fluorescent lighting of our workday world,
standing in the spray of crashing waves, I found myself muttering, “Landlubbers.
I hate ’em.”
I went to my bunk and fell into a deep sleep. At an outrageously early
hour, I was kicked awake by one of the Water Dogs, who said gruffly, “Time
to fish.”
I don’t understand why fishing has to take place so early in the
morning. Why not simply do this very same activity later in the day? I
think it’s sad what fishermen put themselves through unnecessarily,
and I hope they come to their collective senses someday.
I got my fishing rod and realized I didn’t know what to do next.
Mike encouraged me to fish for bottomfish. Bottomfish are easier to catch
than other kinds of fish. You don’t even need to cast. You just put
some frozen squid on your hook and lower it off the side. When it hits
the sea floor, you reel it up a few turns and wait for a strike.
Problem is, what does it feel like to hit bottom? I would feel the line
come to rest for a moment, seemingly having hit bottom, then the line
would suddenly let out again at full speed like it was falling to Hades.
Is that the boat moving, the waves moving the line, or the kelp? Did I
hit bottom or not? When I finally cranked my line up to see just what
was going on down there, invariably my line was empty.
Here’s what I discovered: fish are crafty mischief-makers. I can’t
tell you how many times I reeled in my line and found the hook completely
bare. These fish nibble off your bait. They’re very clever and —
frankly — dishonest.
I caught one, though. I hooked its triceps — or its butt, I can’t
remember — completely by accident, not like it’s supposed to
work out at all.
I napped on the way to our next location, then woke to a shout: “You
better get out here, the barracuda are biting like crazy!”
I didn’t land one myself, but I caught a lot of “salad”
— big hunks of kelp you reel in madly from the deep, your rod bending
dramatically, adrenaline racing because it feels so much like a fish.
It’s catching on rocks, moving around in the current, resisting with
every turn of the reel.
When we were done for the day, the crew awarded prizes for the largest
fish caught in different categories. I won the prize for biggest salad,
a 40-pound kelp Caesar that I had mounted and is proudly hanging in our
living room today. Boy, that sucker fought me tooth and nail.
Everyone should go on a fishing trip like this at least once. There’s
something for everyone. I liked the naps and the experience of being outside
in the fresh air, surrounded by this vast open body of water, so awe-inspiring
it can’t help but make you a better person. For me the fishing was
a distraction, frankly, but if fishing is your thing, then a trip like
this is for you, too.
If you’d like to invite Harrison Heyl along on your next kelp fishing
trip, e-mail him at h.heyl@verizon.net.
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