Surf Fishin' Be Bitchin'

(warning: content contains cursing like a sailor)

  Six hours a day in the water has gotten me well acquainted with the ocean, but I know I’m still far from obtaining the waterman status of the guys I read about in the pages of The Surfer’s Journal.

 

  The wind has been blowing onshore all day, turning what little surf exists into chop. So what do watermen do when the surf is down? They catch dinner—which is exactly what I decide to do.

 

  At the bait and tackle shop in town I buy supplies and rig myself a decently complicated—if I do say so meself—set up. A 20lb leader on a barrel swivel with two #3 drop hooks and a 3oz. pyramid weight. Combine that with the 11’ surf pole my Pops hooked me up with and I look like the shit.

 

  Knowing the cape like the back of my hand, I climb down near the boulder garden where I’ve seen fish jumping daily. Finding a high post, I pull the top of the bait can full of sand shrimp.

 

  Oh god, the poor bastards are still alive!

 

  Grasping a little guy, I start to get choked up… “Wait a minute” I think, “I’m a stone cold waterman, quit being such a ninny.” And so, clenching my teeth I tap into my machismo and punch the hook through the soft abdomen.

 

  Preparing to cast I realize how bid an 11’ pole really is. It’s huge. Reel engaged, line pinched, I cock back and let loose towards the sea, watching as the shrimp go flying, no longer hooked to the line.

 

  Oh goddamit! Not only did I cause them unpleasant pain, but I failed them the honor of fulfilling their duty. It was like a missing the casket with the flaming arrow during a Viking burial. Those shrimp must think I’m a huge asshole. I promise the rest of them it won’t happen again.

 

  I hurl the next round of bait nearly fifty yards but reel it in to no avail. The third cast yields a hit. I give it a snap but can’t sink the hook… the theme for the rest of the evening. With each bite I practice technique; feeding line here, quick tugs there, but nothing works.

 

  As my bait stock dwindles the only thing I’ve accomplished is hosting a dinner party for a hungry school of fish and I’m starting to think I should have just eaten the bait myself… then it hits.

 

  I give it some line, then reel it back in. The somnabitch is a real go-getter, forcing me to take a seat. No matter how much I crank the rod, I can’t bring ‘er in… then it hits me. I’ve been in a ten-minute match with the sear floor. I decide to release it.

 

With the last of my shrimp gone, I retreat to my beer, sulking over the long road ahoe to waterman status… Oh shit, the Top Ramen is burning!