Summer 1962
Breakers crash all-at-once, “beach break” along the ocean front. No curl peeling off right or left, instead a rolled-tube smashes in one thunderous instant to the hard sand. Broad foam wash creeps up the beach, where surf casters wade waist deep to the face of the crashing tubes. Hurling their weighted and baited hooks beyond the breakers with long rods and strong line.
The beach was littered with dislodged kelp ‘trees’, sand dollars and pulverized shells. The surf-caster walks back feeding out line while pacing, finally planting their rod in an upright sand-stake holder.
Surf fishing for Striped Bass (pronounced strI-Ped) off Ocean Beach was distinctly different from the pier fishing of my earliest memories. Doug parked the old Plymouth east of the dune, walking through those elegant ‘dune tunnels’ to gain beach access. I recall emerging from those uniquely San Francisco colored tunnels with embellished arches toward the thunder, sand and beach debris.
Doug would set up his tackle, bait, cutting board and snacks then wade out to cast his line. Returning to place his rod in holder, he began his meditative line monitoring, while caring for my brother and I, his young anglers. His was not the simple, ‘one eye on his line’, but more of a second nature to regularly glance, ready to pounce the rod. Patiently setting up our tackle and preparing fresh bait, Doug would sequentially cast our lines, whoever was baited and ready, for we were required to bail our own hooks. After his cast and return, the rod became mine, to put in the sand stake and monitor for bites.
Striped Bass each anchovies. Anchovies swim in schools and during their travels will swim along the beach front, where shallow water creates a trap for hungry bass and salmon. Big fish chase the schools into shallow water close to the breakers, where anchovies become surrounded, their escape blocked by beach. After we completed the grisly task, Doug would cast the greasy anchovy fillet beyond the comers, into the “anchovy death zone”. Then we wait.
Seagulls also eat anchovies. Bomb diving from fifty-feet, these hungry low-lifes pound the surface, spearing and clamping anchovy underwater. They emerge soggy with a wiggler in beak, then quickly take flight, less another gully attacks and steals their meal. The successful diver shakes and flies off, chased by companions, struggling to protect his meal.
Diving gulls signal that anchovy are schooling, meaning striper are attacking and the bite is hot! A bite is often immediate, a baited line will catch a fish when the gulls are diving. The prepared angler is ready for this frenzied moment. Fishermen quickly converge from everywhere, hooks are flying, gulls crying and diving from a cloud, the surface frothy and wiggling from anchovy.
A striped bass keeper weighs four to ten pounds. The skillful, and lucky, fisherman can get two, perhaps a three fish limit, in ten minutes during a schooling.
An hour into our day, Larry walks forward, rod in hand retrieving his line. Checking his bait likely, given how casually he walked, without asking for help from Dad.
Surprisingly, without a gull in sight, Dad and I watched Larry walk right up to the waters edge and reel in a striper, retrieving quickly as a wave washed the creature forward. Larry brought that fish right onto the sand, no net. No diving gulls. Dad and I, plus some of the other anglers, were speechless.
His catch was unusual, no diving gulls or other fish being taken, just a lone striper hooked on a short cast. Unusual also to land the fish without a net, to actually pick-up the flopping striper by the gills, right off the sand. As much as anything, a testament to Larry’s uncanny ability to focus and sense the moment.
This is bad. Larry got a striper, on the beach, the first one ever by either of us. The rest of the day became an anxious mission.
About midday, my rod bent hard, I set the hook. The line zoomed hard left, then took some line, this was a striper! Reeling and reeling, walking forward, do not set the drag too hard, tire the guy out. I had been coached by an expert. Dad took over my rod and went into the surf with rod and net. Struggling with that creature, he scooped with the net but my striper jumped the hook. Dad dove for that fish, but he got away. I recall watching Dad talking to an onlooker, about ‘the one that got away’. Doug walked toward me and gestured, saying “he got away”, arms outstretched, rod in one hand, big surf net in the other.
Crushed in my mission to keep up with Larry, Doug was feeling kinda blue, and wet, about the one that got away. I personally think he was at least twenty-five pounds, maybe bigger. 🙂
The day wore on. Late afternoon began the gradual put away of tackle and gear. Doug spoke to me directly stating this being “the last cast”. Likely sensing my intensity, he came over to discuss the moment, “We need to get ready to go home. I can make one more cast with your line before we go.” Knowing the likelihood of a bite on any single cast to be close to nil, he pitched the weighted and baited line beyond the crashing breakers, and handed off the rod.
Holding my rod, I watched intently for my fish, breakers thundering in my ears. The zzzzzzzZZZZZZ of the spinning open-reel clicker signaled the buzz that makes fishermen jump. Line fed out five feet per second. The hookup moment escapes, yet that ‘Fish on!’ excitement is still with me, plus an angler’s immediate knowledge that a big fish was hooked.
Beyond the breakers my line sped left, then broke right, pulling, tugging. Doug had taught me well: rod tip up, hold on, let him take the line. There are moments of ecstatic panic when a fish strikes and pulls out copious line lengths. The possibility of either landing or losing your catch is now on the table: trophy day or fish story.
Facing the sea with a deep bend in my rod brought Doug running to my side. While men on the beach gave room and looked on approvingly, Dad offered, “Can I help you pal?, Are you doing OK? Do you need help?” No attempt to take over. Doug scanned the surf watching for a glimpse, monitoring my progress. He coached me to walk toward the water while cranking, even while cranking my beast took more line.
Tiring after minutes of tugging and cranking, the retrieve becomes quicker, the tug less powerful. My line disappears into a wall of breaker, cranking becomes rapid as the roller crashes into foam, washing powerfully up the beach. Doug had anticipated the moment, wading cautiously into the foam with big surf net, he scoops expertly in a long arc raising high our catch. His look, smile and our triumphant shared moment, pure joy.
The beach was buzzing over the two boys with stripers, Doug the proud father, each son with a keeper sport fish that day. A slow and triumphant walk, Larry and I each with keeper fish slung over our shoulders. (Mine was bigger!) Doug beaming in the lead as we three paraded toward the dune tunnel at Ocean Beach.