A Fishing Tale
By Robert M. W. Tsou
Ever since I began fishing in Southern California, I have heard yellowtails being mentioned in the tales of the seasoned fishermen--how valiant and cunning a fighter it is and how tasty a meal it provides once caught. Frequently mentioned as it is, I have seldom seen one caught. When fishing aboard a "party boat" and a yellowtail is spotted from the surface, the deck hand would holler with great excitement "yellows!" and the entire boat would go literally mad with everyone frantically casting their bait, jigs, and whatnot to the general direction of the spotted fish. This is when lines tangle and tempers fly high, but more often then not, the elusive 'tail disappears like a phantom and no fish is caught. On those rare occasions when one is caught, the fish is invariably the "jackpot" of the day and the whole boat would take turns touching and admiring the prize with envy in their eyes.
This is how badly I wanted a yellowtail. Once I had gone down to San Diego on a whole-day boat, only to come back empty-handed. Yes, there were several yellowtails caught on that day, by about half of the anglers, but none were mine. For a while, I felt like the old man in Hemingway's The Old Man And The Sea who had gone 80 days without catching a fish. My luck couldn't be that bad, I muttered to myself. I knew that somewhere in that vast blue expanse called the Pacific Ocean, there was a yellowtail, or two, with my name on it, waiting for me for that fateful encounter on that fateful day. I wanted it so badly that I could taste it in my dreams.
That was the reason I booked another whole-day trip aboard the Grande, an 85-foot fishing vessel operating out of Fisherman's Landing in San Diego. The boat leaves daily at 11:00 P.M. to fish the next day in Mexican waters. The exact fishing location depended on the whereabouts of the fish being sought. During the latter part of the year, the quarry is yellowtail, catching them during their migration south to Baja California. Actually, November is not a great season for yellowtails because by this time, the water has turned cold and most of the fish have already gone south. In order to catch up with the migrating schools, the boat would have to travel 70 miles or so south to the vicinity of Ensenada, Mexico, where the fish count is still fairly high. Once there, I was told, the boat would be "paddy hopping," that is, fishing from kelp pads to kelp pads floating atop the water.
Once aboard the Grande, each angler was assigned a bunk. The bunks were built like wooden book shelves, layered three high, one on top of the other, each providing a coffin-sized sleeping space for one person. Pillows and blankets were provided. The accommodation was not exactly luxurious but it was clean. The Grande is capable of accommodating 50 anglers but being on a weekday, there were 34 passengers aboard--still pretty crowded. The boat has a galley where one may order a hot meal. When not fishing, one may also go above to the bridge to chat with the skipper. Before departure, I had already befriended several of the fellow anglers, as well as the deck hands.
The boat left Fisherman's Landing just before midnight. The water in San Diego Bay was calm, the night air was cold, crisp and invigorating. The first stop was at the bait barge, just inside the harbor, where live bait were loaded. The bait barges are independently owned and operated, the owners get a percentage cut of the profits from the fishing boats. Boats from all the landings congregate there just before departure to load up live bait. The bait were all contained in large wooden cages strung together and partially submerged in the water. Crewmen work under dim, swaying incandescent lights loading the bait into the bait tanks while a few well-fed pelicans and sea gulls await patiently nearby to snatch up an occasionally dropped morsel. I had hoped that we would get live squids for bait because live squid is the prime offering for yellowtails. In fact, live squids are just about the ideal bait for all sorts of fishing. Fish gobble them up just like candy. Just think: they are soft, white, boneless and spineless; if I were a fish, I would probably love squids as well. Unfortunately, the water around San Diego is too warm to spawn squids and we had to make do with live anchovies and sardines.
Once the spectacle of bait-loading was over, the boat turned around Point Loma and headed into open water to start its long journey toward the southern fishing grounds. Going at a steady pace of 10 to 12 knots, the process was agonizingly slow, but the boat headed due south, not once wavering, as if it knew exactly where the fish would be tomorrow. This apparent confidence was reassuring. The night was dark and moon less, all the stars were visible in the firmament. As the twinkling lights of San Diego gradually faded on the horizon, I went down to the cabin and crawled into my bunk.
It was only the second time that I had spent a night at sea and the excitement had kept me awake. At home, whenever I had trouble falling asleep, I would always imagine that I was alone in a boat, lazily floating in a dreamy tropical sea. Now that I was in a real boat in a real sea, it was ironic that I would have trouble falling asleep. As I lay there with my eyes wide open, I could hear the sound of water rushing. I thought of the countless billions of cubic feet of cold, black sea water just across the hull beneath me and what mystery may lurk in its depths. I also thought of the yellowtails that I would catch the next day and what they might be doing at this time of the night. Perhaps they were swimming about or perhaps they were resting to gather strength for what may lie ahead tomorrow. I, too, must rest and conserve my energy for tomorrow, I said to myself. Somehow, deep into the night, amidst the monotonous din of the engine and cradle-like rocking of the boat, I drifted to sleep.
I woke up the next morning just before daybreak. As I went above deck, I was greeted by the aroma of bacon sizzling on the grill, emanating from the galley. The boat was still steaming full speed southward, just like the night before. I ordered my breakfast and poured a cup of hot coffee and went to the bow, away from the incessant engine noise. We were within sight of the rugged coastline, far to the east. Mexico, I presumed. The pre dawn sky was a colossal dark-blue curtain draped above the horizon and the sea below was a menacing black void. From my perch, the bow of the boat appeared to be gliding silently above the water, not stirring up even a ripple. As the sun rose from behind Mexican shores, the eastern sky glowed purple, orange, and then bright yellow. When the sun's first rays burst through the coastline, the black void was suddenly crowned with myriad golden crests, shimmering and dazzling the eyes. What a glorious sight it was to behold; how glorious it is to be alive! I took in a lungful of cold morning air as a contented smile crept up my face.
The sea has always held a special allure for me. Perhaps my affinity to the sea is attested to by the salinity of my blood as our progenitors only crawled out of the "primordial soup" a few billion years ago. I remembered when I was a boy, I loved to ride my bike along with neighborhood boys to "Dragon Port," a small fishing village near our hometown in coastal Taiwan. There we would spend hours wading in the tide pools for hermit crabs, mud skippers, and oysters. Some days we would spend an entire afternoon simply gazing into the ocean, seeing the old-fashioned Chinese fishing boats sail and wonder what it would be like to go down to the sea someday. At Dragon Port, the sound of the pounding surf, the smell of the salty air, and the call of the sea gulls had left an indelible imprint in my boyhood memory. How I wish the tides could carry me back to those innocent times.
At about 8:00 A.M., the boat's engine suddenly grew silent and the boat drifted to a stop adjacent to a kelp bed. The anchor was dropped and the skipper announced succinctly that we had reached our destination and that we could try our luck. He recommended that we hook a sardine through the nose with a 2-0 hook and fly line the bait, that is, let the bait swim freely on the surface without adding a sinker to the line as yellowtails are surface feeders. This was done and almost as soon as the bait were tossed into the water, the rods were seen bending energetically, the reel drags were heard singing, and there were shouts of excitement coming from the stern section. Two or three yellowtails were hooked simultaneously and the battle had begun.
The yellowtails strike the bait swift and hard and are courageous fighters once hooked. They also have the uncanny ability to head directly to the nearest object that will help set them free, be it kelp, rocks, or the boat's own propeller. Invariably, the fish will race around the boat and the angler would have to push aside fellow anglers in order to follow it. Even when the fish is finally reeled next to the boat and the battle seems over, it would often rally and dive straight down to wage another fight. This is why yellowtails are such highly-prized sport fish--besides being great eating.
As the lucky anglers battled to bring the fish near the boat, the deckhands were ready with their gaffs. When the fish were brought near the hull, they were gaffed and thrown aboard. The yellowtail is a beautiful fish having a streamlined body with tiny scales and a slender, bright yellow v-shaped tail. The dorsal surface is dark green and the belly is a shimmering, iridescent silver. The dull thud of a 10-pound fish landing on the deck would become a familiar sound that day, and without looking, I would know that another fish was caught. You see, yellowtail bites are truly all-or-none phenomena and if you go look at every fish that was caught, you could be wasting valuable time. During yellowtail bites, it is often a mad dash to get the bait into the water.
As suddenly as it started, the feeding frenzy stopped and a dead calm returned to the water. It was almost as if the fish had made a pact not to bite. The morning sun was warm and there was no wind in the air. Everything was silent except for the occasional splash from the swaying hull. The Captain finally gave in and announced that it was time to move on to another kelp bed. By then, there were several fish caught but I had nothing, not even a bite. The nightmarish thought of another fishless day began to creep slowly into my mind and frankly, I began to worry.
At the next kelp bed again there was nothing, only dead silence. After 10 minutes of fishing, the Captain decided to move on. This "paddy hopping" continued throughout the morning and by mid-morning, we had visited several kelp beds with varying success. There were several more yellowtails caught but the bite never lasted for longer than 10 minutes. The Captain kept mumbling something about looking for the "mother lode" as we moved on. My fish sack was still empty and my confidence wavered.
It was about 10:30 in the morning when we stopped at a rather small kelp bed. The water was calm and clear and emerald-colored. We could see deeply into the water with the sun shining directly behind us. I attached a sardine on my hook and cast it into the water. It swam dutifully away toward the kelp and disappeared from view. I waited patiently, concentrating on the tip of the rod, trying to distinguish the spasmodic tug of the struggling bait from the bite of a yellowtail. Suddenly, a tremendous tug was felt and the rod tip plunged downward toward the water. The reel let out a long, exasperating whine, and the line took off as if it had snagged a rapidly moving underwater vessel. Adrenalin surged. A yellowtail was at the end of my line! I struck with all my might once to set the hook. Sure enough, it felt solid. Just as I had the hookup, four other anglers in the boat also had strikes and suddenly the whole boat was in a pandemonium. Rods were bending and lines were going in every direction and anglers who did not have hookups were being shoved aside. Some lines were deliberately cut to avoid entanglement. I watched to my horror as my line became entangled with three other lines yet throughout this time the heftiness felt on my rod did not diminish. I held the rod fast against my belly and pulled hard with my left hand while cranking the reel with my right hand. As the rod tip quivered uncontrollably under the tension, I prayed to God not to let my line break--at least not until I got a glimpse of my yellowtail. I could hear my fellow anglers cheering as the frantic battle waged on. My left forearm began to sore. It was the best darn fight of my life, even better than those big bonitos that I caught a few weeks back. Moments later, the silvery, ghostlike shape of a yellowtail could be seen dashing and shimmering in the water against the sunlight. It looked big, very big--bigger than anything I have caught before.
I yelled out for the deckhand with the gaff. He was busy gaffing another fish. My yellowtail was too big to risk popping onto the deck with just the line, I had to keep it at bay in the water. Finally, in what seemed like an eternity, the deckhand arrived. My fish was splashing and sputtering near the hull, feverishly trying to get away. The deckhand took one swing at the fish with the gaff. He missed. The fish took off and I had to struggle to bring it in again. It took about six or seven wild swings of the gaff before the deckhand finally caught the fish precariously on the dorsal fin and brought it aboard. By that time the lines were a tangled mess and had to be cut. I was utterly speechless. My heart raced with ecstasy. The experience was sheer exhilaration. I learned later that during the frenzy, several guys lost their fish because the gaffer could not get to them in time. I counted myself as one of the lucky ones.
It was a beautiful specimen, a fine yellowtail about 2 and half feet long. As it was brought aboard, it struggled on the deck and its eyes rolled with fury. I did not have time to admire it, as I had to quickly get back to the fishing. I placed my prize into my burlap sack and wetted it with water to keep it cool. Then I let out a sigh of relief. The pressure was off. I had caught my yellowtail and the rest would be "gravy." I could sit back and enjoy catching more yellowtails. I celebrated with an ice-cold Budweiser.
Unfortunately, this never turned out to be. The bite never picked up again and soon the sardines ran low and we had to resort to the smaller anchovies. A couple of times I had hookups. Once it was a 3 foot shark where I had to cut the line and the other time the line broke soon after I struck to set the hook. It might have been a large yellowtail, but then, it might have been another shark.
By early afternoon, there were a total of 60 or so yellowtails caught on the entire boat. Some lucky anglers had three while a few had none but most had at least one fish in their sack. The fish caught were almost uniformly yellowtails weighing at about 10 pounds each. There was one skip jack caught on the trolling line. No albacore or tuna were seen. The boat started its slow journey back to San Diego at 2:30 P.M. and did not make it back into Fisherman's Landing until 9:00 P.M. that night. Most of the anglers spent the long ride home playing poker in the galley or sleeping in their bunks.
Such was my memorable
trip fishing for yellowtails. Although it was not spectacular in terms
of the harvest, it nevertheless enriched my life and I walked away
a slightly different person. The yellowtail that I caught weighed in at
six and a half honest-to-goodness pounds, admittedly on the small
side for bragging purposes, but it was nonetheless a noble yellowtail and
a worthy fighter. I was content. I have been inducted into the brotherhood
of the seasoned fisherman. I have caught my first yellowtail, and
the rest is simply gravy.
