Excerpt from "Long Range Sportfishing: WHEN THE COWS CAME HOME"

BACKGROUND

       Growing up in a small northern Los Angeles suburb, I did not find myself around water much, aside from that in the tub, or a friend’s swimming pool, or when the beach called. When I did find myself on a large body of water, like Lake Casitas, or Cachuma, or Castaic, or the Pacific Ocean, it was not until I was strong enough to hold on to the side rails of the boat we were on, able to cast accurately and adequately a lure to unsuspecting largemouth bass, and if the desired strike came…“never let go of the rod,”

       At about five years of age, I can recall holding spools of fishing line by the ends of a Number 2 pencil as it was inserted in the core of the spool. My father would wind fresh new fishing line onto the many reels he used on a weekly basis. You see, he was a bass fishing junky and was a member of a club who started bass fishing tournaments in the mid to late 1960s. I’d usually sit for about an hour, holding the spools as he would meticulously wind line onto his reels. Even if Monday Night Football was begging for my attention, my eyes followed the technique of winding line.

       As a very young child I rationalized this practice of winding on fresh line on reels that caught fish the previous outing as vital to having success on the next outing. I also rationalized that this practice had a direct relationship with the success of putting food on the table. It was worth taking the time to change out used line because trial and error suggested there were too many lost hook-ups from damaged line. Abrasion, burns, nicks, and stretched line all had a tendency to show their destructive mentality - sometimes when it mattered most.

       This said, he certainly lost a fair share; however, our home’s freezer illustrated why the practice paid off; it was always full. Hence, at that age I reasoned our family would never go hungry. My father’s attention to detail would support the claim, “change your line as often as necessary.”

       In my youthful exuberance to enjoy what the natural world offered, it did not go unnoticed that if my father was drawn to water, then it must be a tremendous pastime.

       I loved watching him maintenance his reels, tackle, the boat, then carefully the way he paid attention to detail relating to casting. He’d often go out into the backyard and practice casting into our swimming pool. He’d put a hoop at one end, then stand at the opposite end. I’d marvel at his skill on how many casts landed in the hoop. He knew exactly how to temper the cast to the weights of the lures he was testing.

       This knowledge was tremendously helpful when he was fishing fresh-water bass tournaments in the western part of the United States. His attention to detail in all aspects put him on the trophy stand of a few of the early bass fishing tournaments, held in the late 1960s to the mid-1980s.

       Fortunately for me, my mom was busy taking care of my other siblings so when I turned seven years old, I finally got the chance to be one of my father’s fishing buddies. About once a month on a Saturday, he and I would pre-fish lakes that would be home to some of the scheduled tournaments. I loved that he would have the boat trailer hitched the night before, pre-pack our sack lunch, drive while I slept, buy breakfast, find the fish, and best of all, cook the fish when we got home.

       I on the other hand, tried to mimic his technique, understand his knowledge and reasoning, and put a big smile on his face when he saw the bend in my fishing rod. Candidly, it was that much fun for me too. Furthermore, I was great on the cleanup crew. This was our little way of rewarding the big fish for the day. LOL, it would happen regularly. Barrel-Line dominated in this context.

       When I was in college, Barrel-Line invited me to accompany him on a fishing trip that took us into salt-water, the Pacific Ocean. There would not be a barrel line in this giant body of water. It was my first fishing trip in the deep blue sea. Our desired catch for the trip was Albacore Tuna. Up until this time in my life I had only fished in lakes and in rivers. The strength of the fishing line I used was never any heavier line than 10-12-pound test monofilament. On this day of fishing I was using 25-pound test line, pulling with all my strength.
   
       The battles that day with 20-30-pound albacore tuna left a tremendous impression.

       I mean, this tuna two step they talked about was about as fun a way of fishing as I could imagine. Our appetites were satisfied in so many ways.

       Several years later I had the chance to fish with my father and a few of his fishing friends on a 32-foot, offshore fishing vessel called a Skipjack. It was Labor-Day, 1998. From the time we first stepped onto the boat until the time we finished cleaning the sensational catch of yellowtail, calico bass, and yellowfin tuna it was twenty-eight hours later. My memory is of spectacular fishing.

       We started in Long Beach harbor, fished Catalina and San Clemente Islands, and returned to the dock a few hours later than the time we left the previous night. We caught a variety of game fish that cemented my love for the sport. Truly I tell you…I WAS HOOKED. This day of fishing ranks up there towards the top five days ever spent out on the water. The memory of this specific Labor Day will stay with me for a lifetime.

       For many years thereafter, I would fish about once a month on the overnight boats that took anglers out to Catalina Island for Calico bass fishing. We would oftentimes catch yellowtail and an occasional white seabass or halibut.

       I think I fell in love with white seabass fishing on a full moon night on the back side of Catalina. There was something so special about being on the water, fishing with live squid (candy to the seabass), and watching the full moon rise over the island’s mountainous structure. There was an eerie glow in the already dark water that was gently slapping the anchored sportfishing boat we occupied.

       As if the wolves of the ocean who came to do damage to the forage that rose from the depths to eat and get a moon tan wasn’t enough entertainment and excitement, the auspiciousness of this setting in the predawn hours simply ignited a passion that must be DNA associated.


PERSONAL CHALLENGE

       Having grown up in a family whose father was a teacher and coach, my young worldly view emphasized sports. Acquiring a competitive attitude, instincts, and savvy was always top priority. In context, I have always been shorter and lighter than most I competed with in sports. This physical fact always inspired me to see if I could compete with competitors that were bigger, stronger, and maybe faster. In other words, could I still be competitive regardless of size and weight?

       The parable that comes to mind is the classic example from our world’s historical record of David vs. Goliath. This said, as it relates to sport, I had always got in the ring with bigger opponents than myself, even as a youngster I’d find myself in a boxing ring with bigger athletes. Getting in the ring in this parable would be to take on a yellowfin tuna that had every bit of weight, height, and brawn that I had. I paid the price on many occasions playing organized tackle football; the price of pain that accompanies when a bigger, stronger, faster athlete plants his helmet in your ribcage and drives your face mask a foot into the turf. Nevertheless, I was willing to see if a giant yellowfin would do the same, or could I win a battle, here and there?

       In context, I had not fished for giant yellowfin tuna in my youthful years because I was enjoying fishing for the smaller class of species closer to home. It was no mystery that limited vacation time, family and funding played into the decision making. I had fished San Diego’s fleet often for tuna on one to seven day trips, with one 10-day length trip; however, to get to the big giants of the class, one had to board trips in the 16-18 day category. Starting in the early 1990s, San Diego’s sportfishing fleet started to offer fishermen trips in which passengers had a choice to ride on the vessel from San Diego to Cabo San Lucas (CSL), a three-day journey, or travel by plane. The length of the trip and days on the water was reduced by six days, choosing air travel. Sincerely, this offering became a game changer for me.

       This said, Doug Taylor, a very close friend for nearly thirty-five years, continually inspired me with his “BIG” yellowfin fishing stories. In modern sportfishing terms, Doug is what many call a “Long Ranger.” This will be his nickname always to me.

       A Long Ranger is a fisherman that gets on ‘made-for-big-fish’ sport fishing vessels that take anglers hundreds of miles out to sea. The early Long Rangers would fish on old military vessels that had been stripped and customized for stand-up fishing. Those rickety old vessels paled in comparison to the vessels anglers are blessed to fish today. Regardless of the craft, Long-Rangers of past and present have similar common denominators; they are skilled, highly motivated, and find great pleasure in tangling “stand-up” style with truly giant (200-pound plus) fish. Most, if not all are also driven by a record book…a chance to catch the next stand-up caught world record yellowfin tuna. Personally, I don’t fish for records, I fish because I love it; nonetheless, I’ll surely enjoy it if it is meant to be…

       Moving along, I have several old movie reels (1950’s-1960’s) of tuna fishermen who fished in Southern California and Mexican waters. I love observing their ‘ancient’ (LOL) techniques, many still work today. In this context, while observing these old tuna fishermen and their practices, the fact that I understood their passion leaves me with a hunch and a question, could I have been a fisherman in some past life experience?
Does this passion to be in the wild, hunt and catch a desired species, combined with the knowledge and wisdom that comes through the educational process mean I might have a bad case of fishing-OCD that is DNA associated? Oh, I am betting others would contend such a scenario. It’s all good.

       In relationship to fish DNA in my body’s cells, I’ve often wondered if there is by chance a somewhat coincidental twist of irony. For instance, could it be possible that I was on the beach two thousand years ago when Jesus asked a few fishermen to follow? LOL. How else does one explain the thrill of catching fish that can be traced back to a DNA association? ;)

       That said, the Long Ranger (16+ trips of 16 days or more at sea) phoned to invite me to accompany him on a trip into uncharted waters. Well, uncharted by me in this regard.

       If there is one pastime that I enjoy doing in my free time that takes my mind off the rigors of life’s climb better than anything else, that pastime would have to be offshore fishing. The Long Ranger was asking me to join him on a journey that would be the longest time I would spend on the water (eleven days), and into a fish mecca, known as the Revillagigedo Islands. My father had not been, nor had my grandfather. Grandpa, may he rest in peace, also loved fishing.

       So, to pursue my dream and goal (to catch a fish bigger than me) the timing of the trip was perfect. I made the decision to accompany and to explore a fishing wonderland, a “promised land.” I was accepting of a personal challenge, tremendously blessed and excited to be…

​       Going, going…Long Range Sportfishing