Saturday after work I stopped by SportChalet in Chino for another bag of those wonderful Hueneme Bait Co. fresh frozen anchovies... and new line for two of the three outfits which usually accompany me to all saltwater adventures.

    Sunday after chores I stripped the fifteen-pound line from the old Mitchell 302 and the eight-pound from the Daiwa BG15.  In their stead I wound Trilene Big Game twenty and Trilene XL ten respectively, bumping up our combined tinsel strength 19.3 percent.  While I was at it I lubed both reels thoroughly with good ’ol Schwinn white bicycle grease, the best stuff.  The Ambassadeur baitcaster had been serviced less than two months ago and is working fine.

    All this high maintenance comes after hooking and loosing that big one last month on the fifteen-pound line, which at over a year old felt a tad rough.  And if the fish are going to pull line non-stop from a tight drag, the disks better be slippery aplenty.  I also brought twenty feet of nylon cord in case I had to drag something huge along the beach back to the car.

    Looking at the tide chart for this morning, I saw we would have a -1.5 low tide at 07:02, meaning we had the opportunity to hang out all day without getting stranded by water rising over the footpath.  Also for the first time in a while the Swell Chart said the seas would crest at only one foot.

    The last few times we fished Sargo Point down Laguna way we saw some Chinese guys passing us up for Emerald Point which looked to be a half-mile away.  To take advantage of the mid-morning low tide I too buzzed past Sargo for the next jutting line of rocks, which ended up being only another fifteen minutes away.

    At 04:30 I was at the point making my first casts.  In the dark it was tricky to detect if I was casting my anchovy with a three-ounce weight over sand or rocks.  It felt like sand as I tightened the line and stuck the rod in the spike wedged in a crevice.  While that was soaking, out came the go-to five-inch Channel Islands Chovy pattern Fish Trap set-up, flung here and there, fan casting pretty far, covering fifty yards around the point.

    While that was going on, I looked northward to see yet another major point of land a half-mile across the next inlet, which I’m sure is Cameo Cove, a.k.a. Irvine Cove.  A little before five the Chinese guys passed me again for a spot way over there.  For funzies, next low tide I might explore that area.  It’s always good to keep track where these guys fish.  They don’t come here just because it’s pretty and the weather’s nice.  I wouldn’t be surprised if one of them carried a can of Sterno and a sesame-oil-coated wok.

    Surveying the rocks along the point and ledge which I chose to cover this morning, I saw there were some good looking spots to set stage a little more into the cove.  I mean, last month the big one was hooked not far behind the beach breakers.  Since I had no bites anywhere near the tip of the point, I cranked in everything to relocate.  Well, almost.  The anchored bait rig was snagged and busted off.  I figured that would happen as straight out from most points the sand doesn’t start until past casting distance.  Worth a try, what the hell.

    After a quick re-tie of the weight, swivels and Eagle Claw 188MAG 4/0 hook, I cast the anchovy rig to where I knew the bottom was all sand.  While that pole was parked in the spike, I flung the Fish Trap to several spots, finally hooking and landing a keeper two-taco calico bass of thirteen inches tight against the rocks.  Next thing you know the bell clipped to the bait pole sounded and I had a two-taco calico of fourteen inches in a small tide pool groovin’ with the other.

    I re-baited and cast, put the pole with the seducement in the spike, then flung the Fish Trap again.  Now and then I would glance over at my anchovy rig to check for nibbles as at times the sound of the water washing over the rocks would overwhelm any ding noise the bell could produce.  That sentinelling between lure tosses paid off as sure enough after fifteen minutes of soaking, my bait rod was bent in half, bell missing, and about ready to be yanked out of the holder.  I dropped the Fish Trap get-up, took three steps over to hear the tight drag was buzzing real loud, grabbed it by the cork in two places and held on for dear life because holy bejebus whatever I hooked this time felt ever even more mammoth than last month’s monster!

    ZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZ, I quickly plopped my ass down with forwardly outstretched legs so that I could prop my Vibram souls securely against a rock in front of me so as to avoid being catapulted into the water.

    ZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZ, it ripped straight out perpendicularly towards the center of the presumed sandy-bottomed cove.  This was the best news I’ve had all year.  If it keeps on in this direction I can tire it without having to worry much about rocks razor ragged, except for the ones immediately in front of me.  Having just installed over ¼ mile worth the brand-spanking-new twenty-pound Big Game (there’s a clue), I was prepared for battle.  Thanks to the lingering low tide, even if I had to hike over a hundred yards towards the surf for a beach landing – if I were to actually capture this thing – I guessed it would be at least two hours before I would see color.  If the tide were low earlier in the morning, the water will have covered the trail by the time I start hiking back, forcing me to hoof it up to PCH through the community gate, then trudge the two miles south to Cliff Drive where the truck’s parked.

    ZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZ, after a little over two minutes of this Zzs crap, my drag started to freeze.  As I attempted to loosen the knob, I felt the whole assembly had heated up.  Now knowing I was engaged in a prolonged fight, I stepped up to grab my gaff before my new master led me too far from camp.  I sensed that the behemoth sensed that I eased the pressure ever so slightly.  As soon as I turned around to resume combat, the thing had already turned left for open water.  Funny thing how they know their way around so well down there.

    ZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZzZZ, God bless America, he’s heading toward the point.  There’s no way to control ’im.  It wasn’t too long before I felt the line between him and I hit the anticipated rocks, likely caught between basalt and kelp root.  The fish kept pulling line nonetheless, me feeling the vibrations transmitted up the rod by the pinched mono.  I hung on for what seemed like a five-minute eternity as it was starting to feel as if alas I was getting the upper hand.  I pumped the rod, cranked the reel, gaining more and more precious line each second, until checkmate, he was up against the rock.  Either move to my avail, slacking off or pulling tight, I would surely lose the game.

    I knew what the outcome was to be.  Still focused, I played it as if the line would miraculously pop out undamaged from wherever it was stuck.  Up to the sticking point he flipped his caudal fin once, if not twice.  Busted.  Free.  I applied maximum pressure until the line would budge no further.  I released the bail so that if he were to still be attached, he could swim away obstruction unimpeded, my hook skewered through his mandible.  I waited and waited for over ten minutes for a blessing to be bestowed upon me.  Come on!  Get away from that rock, I shouted.  What the f are ya waitin for?

    Whom am I kidding.  He was long gone.  Moments later I felt my line free itself as limp as my spirit.  I reeled in to see a cut as if someone snipped it with sharpened hair scissors.

    Remember last week I was telling you a bite like this happens to breakwall anglers about once every five years?  Within the past four weeks it happened to me twice in a rowski.  The common denominator here is that that this and the last trip were the first two times I have used the ol’ anchovy-on-the-bottom rig in the Crescent Bay to Irvine Cove region after three years of spring low tide trippin' these parts.  Results like this have me wanting to get down here at 3am with a lawn chair, a blanket and pillow, and a baited heavy-line rig duct-taped to my hand as I snooze.

    Back to reality.  I re-tied an anchovy set-up, casting as far as I could.  When I aimed the rod butt to set it in the spike cup, I noticed the holder was bent.  That Danged fish not only pissed me off by teasing me with mega-Zzs, but in the process bent up my new heavy gauge angle aluminum sand spike.  Contemplate that.

    Four weeks ago I educatedly guessed what I hooked was a halibut.  Today, from what I felt and have experienced the past seven years, it was a white seabass of over 20 pounds.  Glancing over the daily dock totals this week, it could have been a yellowtail, since there are more of these jacks being caught around here lately than the croakers.  The fifteen pound WSB of 1998 avoided all the rocks in front of me when I fought him.  Yellowtail always aim for the nearest rock or anchor chain or whatever to break the line.  Too many thoughts, borderline psychotic.

    Then came another Chinese guy.  We said hi, I mentioned to him pointing north his buddies are way over there.  As they were too far for him to travel, he asked if I had any luck around here.  I thought, don’t get me going, but I kept it short to... yeah, two calicos and a proverbial big one who got away.  I inquired if he comes around here often and what has he been caching lately, opaleye?  No, he has been using Fish Traps to nail calicos the past few weeks.  No news there.

    I kept my good eye on him while I dunked chunks of the plentiful mussel on a #1 Eagle Claw Laser Sharp baitholder hook.  With that rig I caught two Garibaldi, one of which was over a pound.  These damselfishes are our state’s o-fish-al saltwater specie and a protected one at that, illegal to possess.  To me the little guys and their status were worth about zero tacos.

    As we were coming upon eight, I packed it up to head south toward the car.  Line up in a row all the five six-inch forktail surfperch I caught on mussel along the way over.  How could they ever do anything to make up for one lousy bitch of a fitsh... (yada yada).

    By the time I returned to Sargo Point, I had by my calculations two hours remaining to fish before Rope Ledge would be up to my stenchy navel across wading.  This gave me plenty of time to seine with a Fish Trap that area commonly referred to around the world as...

    Dangerous Dan Point.

    Second funny thing of the day was that for a whole five hours of fishing on the edge, I was only wet up to my sock tops.  I get to D. D. Point, the first six inch wave splashes up,  slaps me silly across the face.  Tip:  When you’re down here, go ahead and fish the narrow coves, the ones which measure about 20 yards across, 70 yards out.  Please be careful to watch for the slightest rolling bump in the water heading your way.  They’ll come get you.

    Although it was an overcast and somewhat drizzly day, the wetting down felt comforting after a mile march across a large swath of sandy beach cove in full long-sleeve, long-pant uniform.  The twentieth-or-so cast  at this spot – who’s  keeping track – resulted in the final whopper of the day, a bounced sandie bass clocking in at two pounds en punto.  Woo-hoo.  Six fish tacos this coming week.

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