Well, at least I know my problem: I just don’t care enough to get up early enough, or trek far enough, to get the good stuff. I have come out pretty far today – 15 miles out of San Carlos – but I didn’t even leave San Carlos until 11:30, which was after all the yellowtail and dorado were biting, surely, and when only the disgusting black skipjack were interested enough to take my lure. I followed birds and drove through the bait balls they were dive-bombing, and got three strikes doing so, but every time there was a black skipjack on the end of the line.
For someone who loves good tuna as much as I do, this is an issue, but it’s probably not something I’ll ever solve with a sailboat, because I’m someone who doesn’t like short day-sails our “out and back” days, which is what a five-hour long fishing expedition ends up looking like (since I have the sails up, but am motorsailing in less than 5 knots of wind). I see having a nice fishing boat someday, where 15 or 20 miles out is nothing but twenty minutes and gas money. Another part of the problem today wasn’t the time I got up (7:30) but rather the need to take care of some things on the Internet / via email and a couple Skype calls before I could go fishing. Yes, I do still have responsibilities, to a degree. Pro-bono responsibilities for a company in which I’m now, for better or worse, fully-vested. The old VC line / investment impetus goes: “Do you want to own 12% [or whatever percent] of nothing, or 2% of a 20, 30, 50 million dollar company?” Well, I own 12% of….So this first fish was damn big. I saw right away that he was a black skipjack so I started making plans to let him go, but I had to use the gaff to gently pull him up so I could unhook the hook. But when I “gently” put the gaff through his gill opening, I apparently sliced something wide open and he started bleeding like crazy (it might have been the hook too). I’ve seen fish blood before (heh), so no big deal. I pulled him up higher and started working on the hook with the pliers, but before I could start, he went into like convulsions – crazy blood-loss convulsions so quick and furious that they couldn’t have been voluntary, and with as much as he was bleeding, my entire back “fishing area” (including my legs and probably my face, too) turned into a gruesome bloody Jackson Pollack painting. I finally had to knock him on the head just to get the hook out, so I feel bad but that’s nature. We used to do that with undesirable fish in Puget Sound, too – the little bottom-dwelling sharks (I can’t remember their name) that would take our mooches when we were going after the king salmon. That big black skipjack will still go to good use for something down there. Already has.Before I saw the birds, in a fit of goofiness caused probably by the heat and some cockpit exercise (stretches, standing crunches, “Karate Kid” crane technique, etc…), I had come up with some killer song lyrics that no doubt Jimmy Buffet will steal from this blog:I don't see no sign of schoolin' tunaNo leapin' mahi mahi anywhere
There's no look of billfish in these waters
But I got my icebox and it is filled with beeeeeeeer.Sing that in a totally over-blown twang (especially “beer” which should sound like “bear” so that it rhymes with “anywhere”) and you’ll have us a hit (Lyrics copyright 2009 The Taco Traveler – all rights reserved). Of course, all I’m drinking is water, but I do have a few Corona Lights down there chilling nicely, which is one of the reasons for coming out today, too – to get my icebox cold again. I carried the same 20lb bag of ice from San Diego all the way here to San Carlos, with the occasional motoring I did. That icebox chills nicely (below 0 degrees Fahrenheit, if necessary) when there’s enough engine-time at high enough RPM. But since I’ve been here I’ve pretty much let everything get warm, but there wasn’t anything left to lose, really. I’ve still got a few pounds of butter I’ll need to give away since I’m not getting any dorado to sizzle.TT
