Eleven has always been a lucky number for me, a fitting analogy for various things like synergy, teamwork, and even love (all represented by two Ones who, standing together in proximity and partnership, achieve more than they would alone, more even than the sum of their parts). Ironically for me, 2011 has been a year of modest ups and incredible downs. Not unlike the tides that follow a similar pattern, such ebbs and flows of existence have the potential to wreak havoc and destroy, just as they have the ability to cleanse, to refresh, to purify, and to prepare a new canvas upon which to paint tomorrow's masterpiece.
Such was our most recent fishing excursion to Hog's Heaven, a stretch of sandy shore in south Santa Barbara county that has been a place of extremes--incredible fishing, or a ghost town serving as little more than a place to practice one's casting ability.
My brother Dan, cousin Bryan, and I arrived about 90 minutes before the top of a considerable tide, and found a beach that was telling its usual tale: a glance down the beach in either direction betrayed holes and rips in an S pattern between hills and valleys. So pronounced were the dunes today that as water ran back to the ocean, it flowed in miniature rivers, pushing huge plumes of chocolate-colored sand out into the sea.
The first cast immediately loaded-up... with eel grass, bits of kelp, and other assorted junk that immediately covered my quarter-ounce egg sinker in one bunch, and four feet below, another clump of detritus engulfing my size 8 Gamakatsu hook and BH MORF grub. Subsequent casts produced a similar result, and hiking up and down the beach a half mile in each direction from our starting point didn't change the outcome much. Sandcrabs were nowhere to be found, so bait fishing wasn't an option. Only a couple of small male barred surf perch that managed to find our offerings before the weeds, and some near-shore acrobatics by a family of porpoise were our rewards for fishing in tough conditions.
After an hour of picking slop off the setups, and pushing my 4 lb. outfit to its limits, we made a decision to head south a bit and try a few other spots. Travelling light and mobile, we left our rods rigged, tossed backpacks in the bed of the truck, and were south on the 101 in short order.
Bypassing a 7-Eleven stop for coffee in an effort to fish the backside of the high tide, we found a stretch of beach about 8 miles down the coast with what appeared to be excellent conditions: cleaner water, good rips, a pronounced trough, and wave patterns that demonstrated a very fishy beach.
As I stepped into the water, I felt the tell-tale movement of sandcrabs underfoot. I pulled the grub off my hook, placed it in my pocket, and pinned a "Taster's Choice" sandcrab (not too big...not too small) on the hook. The first cast splashed down behind the trough, and before I could take up the slack in the line, a chunky barred surf perch had inhaled the bait. The fish made a run to the north, providing a spirited, drag-pulling fight on 4 lb. test. She taped out at 12 inches, posed for a quick photo (on my cousin's camera, unfortunately for this report), and back into the ocean she went.
As the tide fell over the next three hours, we caught and released dozens of perch, the largest being a whopping 15 inches. These fish had shoulders! Even the low tide didn't seem to turn off the bite, as the fish were practically beaching themselves to eat sandcrabs at our feet. We left them biting, satisfied with an outstanding bite for barred surf perch of a quality and quantity that we hadn't enjoyed since childhood trips to San Quintin in Baja California. True to the memory, I even found (and released) a legal Pismo clam kicking my feet in search of bait.
2011 is nearly over; to paraphrase the Good Book, "Sufficient for a year is its own evil." Heck, a little numerology demonstrates that the sum of 12/26 is eleven...and maybe there's something to that.
The next year is full of promise--both good and bad, ups and downs, ebbs and flows. It's an analogy that is not lost on me, particularly with regard to fishing the beaches of Southern California. Tide is king, here; local lakes lay flat and lifeless for the most part, their surfaces only rippled by wind or a wading bird. But the surf--with her crashing waves, her ups and downs of tides, and the ever-shifting sands, are a dynamic example of a life well-lived.
Pulling a few slabs from the foam from time to time is just a bonus.
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