Steve Merlo: Tuna time on high seas of Central Coast
| Thursday, Sep 24 2009 06:57 PM
Last Updated Thursday, Sep 24 2009 09:45 PM
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Eric Borja, a Bakersfield High senior, shot this 500-plus-pound black bear in Shasta County last week. Using a 270 Winchester and 130-grain bullet, Eric killed the bear with a single shot, some 150-yards away, while standing up on a fishing boat in Lake Shasta. Eric was on a hunting trip with his father, Freddie Borja.
Freddie Borja shot this deer Sunday on a hunting trip with his son Eric in Shasta County.
Hooking a big, hard-fighting, great-eating albacore on stand-up tackle and eventually bringing it to gaff has to be one of life's more exciting outdoor adventures. Time and time again after hooking up, line screams off the reel at an alarming pace and the rod stays doubled-over for the duration of the bout as the long-fin heads for the bottom some 1,000-feet below. Albacore are spunky, fast and powerful, and there is no doubt in my mind that each hooked tuna thinks he can make it. A freshly hooked fish reminds me of someone tying a string to the back of a car and having the driver stomp on the accelerator, necessitating an unusual maneuver called "hanging on to your fishing rod for dear life."
The annual run, with some years better than others, has already began in earnest on the Central Coast. Huge schools of the pelagic nomads follow the warming currents northward, migrating up the coast of Mexico, California, Oregon and Washington before suddenly steering west and heading for Japan on a circular route that takes them almost completely around the Pacific Ocean. Some years the fish remain far off shore, out of range of most sport fishing boats, while other seasons see the giant schools moving within easy striking distance of day-tripping fishermen with albacore fever.
Tuna fishermen are mostly tough-skinned, hardened people with tons of character and a steely glint in their eyes. A rough albacore trip like the one we experienced quickly separates the men from the boys.
While some trips end up being flat and balmy, this was not one of them, and the men aboard fought the weather with true grit and a determination to battle and better the elements for their hard-earned, delectable prizes.
Right now, newly arriving schools of fish can be found off of Morro Bay, in an area known as the "Donut," 40-60-miles offshore. Last Friday, after a minimum amount of cajoling by my tuna-crazy friend Don Crabtree, we drove to Morro Bay, ate a nice dinner (With regrets, I would later think of it as "The Last Supper") and then boarded the 105-foot long Admiral out of Virg's Landing at around 10 p.m. After securing live bait, we were underway -- directly into combined 15-foot seas and a stiff headwind, and with apologies to the movie "No Country for Old Men," the rough ride seemed destined to be named "No Ocean for Old Men" -- or for guys our age.
The Admiral, however, is a big ship and can take the pounding, and with the Morro Bay lights receding in the distance, we stumbled, lurched and tripped our way to the bunks below deck. Both Don and I are fortunate in that both of us are easily lolled to sleep by the rumble of twin John Deere diesels and rolling seas, so getting some decent shuteye came fairly easy.
At the first gray light of day, the weather lessened and began to calm down, so heavy rods, big stuff with lines testing 60-pounds or more, were put out. The skipper began trolling while all 35 passengers waited impatiently for the first strike and scream of reels. Casting rods at the ready, most anglers hovered near the live bait tanks ready to impale a struggling sardine on a hook and get it in the water when and if the bite came.
We did not have long to wait. Within three minutes, the first rod bent double, and -- with the screams of "Fish On!" -- the skipper cut power and allowed the boat to slide to a stop. As the crew tossed live chum and cut-bait overboard to keep the hungry school nearby, we made our first casts into the melee and immediately hooked up. Rods bent double and men screamed "coming through," following their fish around the boat to keep them from getting tangled as lines sizzled through the water in every direction.
Eventually, several hooked fish were gaffed, unhooked, marked and then unceremoniously tossed in a large container to be iced when and if the excitement faded. For 20 minutes the zany action continued, then suddenly, without warning, the fish quit. A half dozen tuna had been gaffed and many more lost -- so typical of the first stop on any tuna boat, but a learning experience that paid off, no less, for all aboard.
The rest of the day proved to repeat itself time and time again with very few tangles and a lot of fish. By day's end, more than 60 albacore and one bluefin had hit the decks. The lucky angler that landed the bluefin also won the jackpot with his 35-pound fish, taking home nearly $350 for his efforts, along with a great tasting and very special tuna.
Don and I were happy, too. Our eight-fish, 13 percent of the total 35 anglers brought aboard, landed us over 75-pounds of precious tuna fillets, which were not given to the needy, by the way, in case anyone was wondering. Broiled, barbecued, canned, sauteed, baked or served raw as sashimi, ceviche or sushi, the "chickens of the sea," to borrow a phrase, never disappointed us in the kitchen or out there on the high seas.
