Breakwall Dan cracked me up the other day.  After reviewing the write-up about our Malibu trip of two weeks ago, he emailed me expressing his thanks for not mentioning you-know-what about him in the story.  I thought for a moment with all the day’s action fresh in my mind yet could come up with no excluded you-know-whats.   It wasn’t until a week later after speaking with him on the phone I remembered what he was talking about.  Dan fell down.  Hmm, so what.  He does this about every time we fish somewhere.  I said, by now breakwall readers are probably bored with me telling them about his every amusing mishap.   This time there was an exciting twist.  He fell… and broke his fiberglass pole in two places.  There you have it.  He thought I had changed my wicked ways, being nice not to mention it.  I said heck no, I just plum forgot.  Me nice?  Not intentionally.  Let’s see what chaos he can wreak upon himself this week...

    Today we were off to fish the rocky points between Laguna Beach’s Emerald and Crescent Bays for morning low tide.  Yesterday the swell was a puny two feet, a size we wished would have held.  How unfortunate it was to see at three this morning the Swell Chart saying some kind of surge had developed overnight, creating waves of three to four feet heading our way.  Sure enough around 05:15 when we arrived at our beloved Sargo Point we saw the water was kind of messy, but still very fishable.

   I pointed to the spot I scored a bunch of sand bass using a Fish Trap last time I was here and coached Dan to step on up to the plate for a few swings.  Meantime I searched for a suitable crack in the rocks to stick my new sand spike rod holder so I could cast out and plant a frozen anchovy on the sandy bottom rooted in place by a three-ounce pyramid weight.  While the bait soaks I can toss a Fish Trap here and there with my other outfit, all the while keeping an eye out for bites on the other.  I even clipped an alarm bell to the bait rod so that if something were to bite I would be notified.  By the way, the Hueneme Bait Co. one-pound bag of fresh-frozen anchovies for $1.89 I picked up at SportChalet were of the utmost quality, on the verge of being beautiful things.

    I didn’t find too many cracks into which the spike could be wedged.  I thought I saw more crevices last time but Dang there weren’t many.  I finally secured the thing in a tide pool supported at the bottom by a wad of mussels.  I knew if something big ate the bait and took off, there goes my pole.  I was already in trouble when I lifted out my bait rig and set my Fish Trap pole in there while I reeled in to check the status of the anchovy I had soaking the past twenty minutes.  A smallish wave came up into the tide pool knocking over the spike, washing my rod, reel, Fish Trap and holder out to sea.  Well, not quite that far.  When the swell receded a bit I saw the whole wreck lying two feet under water in a gap between rocks.  I managed to grab the rod, then hook the plastic protectant molded to the aluminum sand spike with the extra sharp Fishco leadhead I was using.

    Alrighty, to find another safer spot to set up.  Closer to shore, about fifty yards from the beach, I found the perfect hole into which to cram the spike.  I cast a fresh anchovy out as far as I could using the three-ounce weight, reeled in the slack, put the pole in the holder, clipped on the bell and went about flinging the Fish Trap.  Well, almost.  I attempted a mighty toss with the Ambassadeur baitcasting reel, ending up with a nasty bird’s nest clogging up the whole thing.  I did manage however to reel in, so as to not lose another four-dollar lure.  What the heck?  The reel was adjusted perfectly, it seemed, as I made several successful casts moments earlier.  Oh yeah, when the reel went in the drink, the water added that extra dab of lubrication, causing the spool upon liftoff to spin wildly out of control.

    As I sat there picking out the backlashes, Dan was hollering, HOOK UP!  A legal thirteen-inch sandie worth two tacos was dropped into a small tide pool for safe keeping.  Right back at it, a few casts later he landed another of the same exact size, both while using the new and improved four-and-a-half-inch Fish Trap, now with molded pelvic and anal fins.

    A little before six, about half-way through restoring my Fish Trap set-up to operational status, something rang my bell.  I glanced over to see the line that had been taught since I cast was now somewhat limp.  That’s a great sign.  So far the waves coming in neither sounded the alarm nor caused any slack in the fifteen-pound-test while I waited.  This must be a fish.

    With one hand ready to pump the reel handle I awaited a line going out.  Au contraire, the rig stayed put signifying the classic halibut hit.  They scoot over to your bait, chomp down causing your bell to sound, then lie there as they squeeze the ’chovie  through their gullet.  I cranked in with great fervency but it felt like I hooked a really big clump of kelp.  I felt no wiggles of any sort, although a funny thing happened; My wad of weeds decided to angle to the left, straight for some half-submerged jagged rocks.  Getting that close to shore must’ve spooked’er because my pole took a huge dip and, ZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZ, there she went tearing line off my 1967 Mitchell 302 like nothing ever has before.  I hollered HOOK UP and screamed BIG ONE as I let’er swim straight out with all the power her presumed twenty pounds could muster.  Knowing at this moment she dominated my whole person I loosened the drag to give her space, hoping soon she would come back to me.

    A minute later she stopped but still I had a major tug-of-war in progress as I couldn’t get any ground on her for another couple minutes.  Then she gave in a little, coming right back to the same spot close to the razor rocks, getting my line stuck between two mussels.  There was no way I could safely scamper down to free the snag.  ZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZ, she’s off again for a half a minute, all I could do was hold on and let God sort it out, and he did with a SNAP, gone.  Opportunity presented itself, I gave it my all.

    That felt like the largest fish I have hooked from a rock since the 1998 Opaleye Point fifteen pound white seabass.  I hope it happens once again before 2008.

    Solemnly for the next hour we used Fish Traps, anchovies and mussels all over the ledge with neither of us realizing any more bites.  A couple anchovies between us came up half-eaten, but it could have been any of a variety of crustaceans carving them up.

    As we walked back, Dan ahead of me appeared to be making time for the car.  Fishless for the day and Pointing like Babe Ruth, I announced, hang on, there’s a fish over here.  I dropped my other two rods, net, gaff and bucket and with backpack still attached hopped out to a handy casting rock.  With my baitcaster spool now perfectly adjusted and a lovely lob placed across the small cove, BAM, I was on.  It felt teensy and as I held it up for all to see it was obvious this eleven inch sandie was to be returned.

    Dan was sitting there on the phone telling someone, Mike just caught a fish.  I walked by, looked back towards the cove and proclaimed there’s another one over there closer in.  Again I hopped out to make a perfect cast to a small boulder in the middle.  Reeling in with the usual slow, jerky motion, something sizable hit just before I lifted my lure out of the water.  The twenty-pound test I was using yanked out, might I say, the largest fish of the day, a sand bass eyeballing in an ounce or two below two pounds, or about three tacos.

    As I replaced the now scuffed Channel Islands Chovie pattern Fish Trap with a new model, Dan stepped out to brave a point of rocks near the outside of the cove to participate in his own Trap flingin’.  I stood there watching where he was casting, so that when I toss out I won’t cross his line.  Then, as a service all The Breakwall Crew members provide each other, I shouted, WAVE!.  Dan looked out and saw he should brace himself, and quick-like.   To myself I uttered, oh, oh, oh... DOH!  I watched a powerful flow of water up to his thighs wash his ass directly into a pool of violent tumult lined by jagged basalt spires and razor-sharp mollusks, a situation of which I would not whish upon my worst enemies.

    At first glance this actually looked like real trouble.  I was right on it, offering a hand to help hoist him out.  As his head appeared above the foam I heard, Mike, I F’d up my hand, in the most panic-stricken voice in pain ever.  At first I thought maybe when he put his arms out to break the impending impact against the rocks the wave sent him into, his wrist snapped.  Both his hands were hanging on to the rock for dear life and the fingers were gripping, so that wasn’t it.  I cut my hand, he cried.  It’s gushing blood.

    Climbing himself out of the water onto the next ridge he was really freaking out.  I had to yell at him to stop walking because the fishing line coming off the pole he just abandoned was wrapping around his boots.  Now completely out of his gourd I had to get on my belly and bite the line to cut it in two places so that when he jumped like Super Frog on adrenaline across the next crevice two seconds later he wouldn’t have ended up tripping down there for missing teeth and a hole in his head.

    I wasn’t sure if this was the proper time for the old Boy Scout don’t panic lecture, so I laid off.  It was doubtful a big hug was going to help either.  I lent him my clean and dry slime rag to use to apply direct pressure until we got help.  I saw the main injury was a break of the skin about two inches long and a half-inch deep on the left palm below the pinky.

    Oh dude, oh God, oh man, how we gonna get out of here, he weirded.

    I said, Dude, there’s only one way out of here.

    Okay, put my backpack on me.

    I did, he tore out for the truck.  I gathered up all the loose ends and followed.  About a quarter-way back I realized I didn’t deposit the day’s biggest catch into the bag.  You didn’t think I was gonna leave that, did you?   Darn sand bass match the rocks.  I looked in ten small tide pools before I found it.

    As I semi-rushed back I kept glancing toward the water saying, jees there’s a fish over here and hey, one over there...

    That delay creeped him out even more.  Ten minutes later upon reaching the top of the stairs near the parking area, I saw he was on the phone again, telling whomever never mind, he’s here.  I kind of knew who that was.

    When I saw him sitting in my car wearing his dripping saltwater rain suit and soaked, sandy boots, I had to quickly dust off some old meditation techniques so Dufish the heartless jerk wouldn’t emerge.  I guess one wet passenger in 30 years ain’t gonna kill me.

    For a 40-year-old who acts like he’s never been injured before, he sure the hell knows where his plan’s nearest quack practices.   Jumping in I aloud wondered, what’s the deal?

    Head south on PCH.  I’ll let you know where to turn.

    Alright.

    I’ll be a medivac flyer, not three miles down the road there’s a spiffy clean hospital with a door for emergency walk-ins and nothing to do on a Monday morning.  The waiting room was cool too.  It had an aquarium with big fish, cable TV and walls adorned with original artwork by local painters.  And since it was Laguna Beach, there were no screamers attached to their lactating mommies.

    I handled cell phone duties and coordinated with the spouse the faxing of the forms and documents for coverage.  His pal Brian called, I gave him the lowdown.  He said, cool, that’ll hamper Dan’s golf game.  I guess Bri-man has been trying to beat ol’ Dan for a number of years.

    Not three beers later, voila, out he comes with a fish-eatin’ grin and both hands moderately taped to cover 10 stitches on the left hand, four stitches on the right, and several holes from which the doc plucked sea shell fragments.  He says, crap, I have a job interview tomorrow.  What are they gonna think?  Suicide attempt?

    I said, glad I could help.  How ’bout a taco?  I’ll buy.

*****

My Side 4/21

By Breakwall Dan

    It was incredible. Mike after being out fished for the 2nd straight trip said, hey there is a fish "right here" on the way home from an outing that was completely in my favor. Sure enough after a few cast' he reeled in a just undersized sand bass. Then again he said there is a fish right there pointing to a spot he planned just moments after casting too. Sure enough on his first attempt he reeled in the largest catch of the day. A big sand bass. I could only stare and watch in amazement as he proudly held up the best of the day. The only thing stopping him now was an accident I had after letting my competitiveness over take me falling into a huge rock of mussels after 4 cast' realizing I can't beat the king of all fishermen. Thank goodness it happened for I could now say a tie was the best he could do after watching the blood gushed out of my left palm.

Note from the editor:

B. Dan wrote that before he read the story...

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