Incredible Fishing Stories with Shaun Morey

Sunday afternoon - resupply

2009-03-29T13:23:00.000-07:00

A resupply at Loreto

Sunday morning

2009-03-29T07:17:00.000-07:00

Sunday morning is here

Saturday night - Spa!

2009-03-28T17:50:00.000-07:00

Ok, this is where Spot located them last night - unfinished marina

It's 20 miles south of Loreto, 15 miles south of the Loreto airport. It's roughly halfway between Guaymas and La Paz and a perfect jumping off point for the Sea of Cortez Archipelago.

And here is a quick photo:

However, this looked a bit odd. I just couldn't believe that a building project in the Baja would go unfinished like this. So, I researched Google Earth and found that this was a photo taken 8 years ago.

Here's what it looks like now:

And then this anonymous image sent from a "Concerned Maria" at the marina:

Seems as though our adventurers have some explaining to do...

The Assistant

Isla Monserrat - late afternoon

2009-03-28T16:00:00.000-07:00

Evening draws and we find our friends a bit further north off Isla Monserrat right here

Looks like they are in fairly deep water with mostly desert scrub on the island. I'm wondering why the check in here. I got nothing. Writer's block I suppose. The romantic in me thinks it's a hook up. A huge wahoo. There I go again with the wahoo. Ok, I've yet to catch one and it's on my list. But, I digress. More likely a triggerfish. About as easy as catching a cold at a daycare center in November. But, before you get too uppity, Shaun told me once that a Mexican fisherman told HIM once, that if you prepare it properly you can eat just about anything out of the ocean. And on a trip a few years ago, when our luck was Bill Buckner crappy, we landed a fine tiggerfish after a fierce battle and had awesome fish tacos that night. Honest. So, when all else fails, find yourself a triggerfish, bbq the filets, toss in some tomatoes, onion, avocado, cabbage, crema fresca and viola!

The Assistant

Isla Monserrat

2009-03-28T14:25:00.000-07:00

Saturday, 3/28/09. A check in from Isla Monserrat. Let's check out their progress over the last three days. Here is an overview.

And here is the direct Google Earth link - Isla Monserrat

Must have been a fun ride from last night's beautiful cove. My guess, they are mid way through a "LFBR" (ask me later what it stands for.) A good time to talk about the tunes. Probably, a mix of Guy Clark, Ray LaMontagne, Connor Morey, John Prine and Barry Manilow. Barry Manilow? WTF? Yes, one of those "I never knew that moments" regarding Shaun. Big fan. He'll play it off, most people do. But, don't kid yourself...you're singing 'Mandy' right now inside your head and you will be for the rest of the day. That's just part of Manilow's genius. ..."oh Mandy, well you came and you gave without taking..." Tearing up...

The Assistant

Just north of Tambobiche

2009-03-27T18:05:00.000-07:00

Looks like a perfect place to spend the night. Check out the anchorage here and remember, 'A' marks their spot:

And here is the direct link - "I want to be there cove"

I did a little research and found this picture that is apparently nearby where Shaun and Winston are for the night. Casa Grande Tambobiche. Now for the school children that are reading this, EVERYTHING you read on the Internet is true. And according to this all-knowing reference tool, this was a local hot spot called Cafe de Cafe and part of a chain of Cafe de Cafe's in the Baja area. However, it appears as though six hundred thousand pesos for a grande cafe was a bit much for the locals and the chain went under. Neat old building though. Maybe Shaun will be able to confirm when he gets back.

The Assistant

Isla San Diego

2009-03-27T14:59:00.000-07:00

Wow, Shaun and Winston have checked in again. The Spot appears to be working flawlessly and Winston (the responsible one) is checking in as promised. Here's a picture of where they are - remember the A is them or go here to view from Google Earth - Isla San Diego

If I know Shaun, two things have happened:

1. Winston is nauseous like a 3-year old on his first merry-go-round ride because Shaun is certain that there is a 75-pound wahoo somewhere around this little island and they have gone around 28 times...so far.

2. Having lost their 5th lure due to some massive monster fish (read: the elusive rockis creviceious), Winston is now patiently waiting while Jacques Morey is 20 feet deep off the island with some homemade spear (read: some combination of a coat hanger, flying gaff, an a old wooden tennis racket he left on the boat in 1986 and duct tape) looking for that monster fish and 5 lures. One can eat food from a grocery store for only so long. Hasn't even been 24 hours since they left La Paz...

Hey Winston - the trip sounded like a great idea right?

The Assistant

Fish Hook-Up?

2009-03-27T11:37:00.000-07:00

They left the fishing village and moved up north to the next island Isla San Jose. I'm wondering if they hooked up in this area that is known for great fishing. They may be trying to catch some tuna for Captain Freddy's Famous Fish Tacos. I have the recipe, btw. Send me an email (dmcfetters@incrediblefishingstories.com) and I'll forward it to you. They really are good :) Have to wait a while to find out though, but something cool happened here is my guess. You can catch tuna, marlin, wahoo and other great fish in this area.

The Assistant

Click here to check out the next location - Isla San Jose

Stop #2 - Other Side of Isla Espirtu Santo

2009-03-27T06:02:00.000-07:00

Check out this spot - Fishing Village

Shaun has lots of cool stories about this fishing village that he will include in his e-book. It's a beach area that splits Isla Partida and Isla Espiritu Santo. You can walk around on this amazing place. There are fisherman that live in these huts and fish the rich waters off of Espiritu more easily and cost efficiently then leaving from La Paz each day. Of course, Shaun has the lowdown and I'm sure he will stop and hablo his Spanglish with the fisherman and report back to us. Yeah, not something you're gonna see on Discovery anytime soon!

The Assistant

Isla Espiritu Santo

2009-03-26T19:06:00.000-07:00

They are here:

Shaun and Winston spent the night here - Isla Espiritu Santo

I've been here and it's even more beautiful then what Google has captured. Okay, it's time to give a shout out to Google. Thanks for creating Google Earth, it's sooo cool!

The Assistant

Hello from the Sea of Cortez!!

2009-03-26T10:13:00.000-07:00

Hello, or should I say !Hola! I'm traveling for the next couple weeks in the Sea of Cortez with my close friend Winston. We are moving my fishing boat from La Paz to Guaymas for repairs and eventually a new and exciting location somewhere on the Baja pennisula.

So...I've got this cool gadget called Spot. According to their website (http://www.findmespot.com/), it's the world's first satellite messenger. Spot is similar to a PLB or personal locator beacon in that if you are in serious trouble and out in the middle of nowhere with no chance of getting to safety, you can push a button on your PLB and have your GPS coordinates sent to emergency services. Unlike other PLB's, Spot takes it one step further and allows you to push a button that sends a pre-set email and text message back to family and friends letting them know that all is a-ok. And, since I'm a husband and father and not a wayward traveling college kid with nothing to worry about but where I'm going to find ice for the beer, I figured it was best to have one. And my family will be a little less stressed with my frequent a-ok messages. Plus, included in the email/text message is a link to my exact location which is viewable on Google Earth.

Which leads me back to this blog. Since I'm using Spot to have my locations sent to family and friends, I thought it might be fun to have them posted here as well. Plus, I'll be taking a bunch of pictures and writing about my experience along the way. When I get back, I'll be putting it all together in a travelogue/fishing adventure series which will be available as an e-book. I've spent a ton of time in the Baja and a lot of time in the Sea of Cortez, but this trip will be the first time I've traveled it from La Paz to Guaymas. And, with Winston aboard (a big league captain and commercial Alaskan salmon fisherman) we are sure to have a number of great experiences!

So check back often. I'll have my "assistant" ;) post my Spot locations everyday. Should be a lot of fun. And I'll let you know when I've finished the e-book.

Well, I hear Guy Clark telling me he's got 'Boats to Build' and I've got a boat to launch...onward!

Here's where I am leaving from - a marina in La Paz The A on Google Earth is exactly where we are!!! Plus, don't forget to swith to the satelitte view when you are viewing Google Earth.

2008 Wrap Up

2009-01-14T09:06:00.000-08:00

For my final blog of 2008, I offer a heartfelt thanks. Thank you for fishing, for keeping only what you need, for releasing most, and for passing it on. Without you there would be no incredible fishing stories. Keep fishing and keep in touch.

I’d also like to offer an excerpt from my first fishing mystery novel. The novel is titled, WAHOO RHAPSODY, and with a little luck may soon find its way to a publisher. Please feel free to critique the excerpt. All responses are welcome, good and bad.

That’s it for 2008. And as always, may you have a lifetime of fisherman’s luck!!

<><><>

WAHOO RHAPSODY
by Shaun Morey

MAGDELENA BAY, BAJA CALIFORNIA
Gus Carter couldn’t believe his eyes. And that meant something. Five years of self-imposed exile south-of-the-border had been anything but humdrum. But a beachful of dead stingrays. That was out of the ordinary.
Gus sat straighter on the back of his saddleless mule, his hardened middle-aged frame towering above the stout animal. The morning sun reflected sharply off the outgoing tide, and the summertime heat stilted the air. He rolled up the sleeves of his Cuban-style shirt, the buttons opened to his narrow waist. He strained his eyes, lifted the wide brim of his fishskin hat, and felt a rope of sweat coil down his powerful neck.
Another lifeless stingray was washing ashore. That made twenty in just the last ten minutes. All of them speared pointblank. If this kept up, he’d never make Cabo in time. Never catch the Wahoo Rhapsody before its departure north. Never make the birthday surprise for the captain who’d found him floating in the ocean all those years ago.
And that riled Gus nearly as much as this senseless killing spree.
He gently heeled a bare foot into the mule’s flank, and picked up the trot. Ahead, a lone black pick-up truck rested on half-buried tires just above the waterline. Beside the truck was a badly constructed tent, and beside the tent an avalanche of empty beer cans. A depression of sand with remnants of charred wood marked the previous night’s fire. Across from the fire pit a cooler held an I-Pod and a foot. The I-Pod blared profanity masquerading as music. The foot waggled masquerading as rhythm.
Gus rode into camp and stopped. A college-aged kid sat in an expensive beach chair, his eyes closed, the big toe of his gyrating foot red and slightly swollen.
“Buenos dias!” Gus hollered over the loud music.
The kid snapped open his eyes. “What the fuck, man!” He pushed himself upright in the chair. “You scared the holy shit out of me.”
Gus ran a calloused hand along the edge of his sun-bleached goatee, and let his fingers fall to the metal crimp cinching the ponytail of hair beneath his chin. He motioned toward the I-Pod. “You mind?”
The kid scowled, and turned down the music.
Gus smiled, his sea green eyes glistening. “You should soak that toe in hot water. Takes away the pain. Pulls out any infection.”
“Doc recommends beer.” The kid reached into the sand for his can of Tecate. He raised it to his lips. “What can I do for you, old timer?”
“Those your friends out there?” Gus nodded toward the two snorkelers splashing along the shoreline.
“My clean-up crew? Wouldn’t go anywhere without them.” He chugged half the beer.
Gus watched the one of the snorkelers kick downward, then surface with a loud whoop. “They sure do enjoy the spear fishing.”
“Spear killing’s more like it.” He finished his beer. “Doc’s the one making all the noise. He’s pre-med. Knows all about snakes and venom and shit.” He fished another beer from the cooler. “Fucking rays are a menace, man.”
Gus dismounted in a single, swift motion, landing softly on the sand just inches from the man’s chair. “You weren’t bitten,” he hissed. “You were stung.”
Beer sprayed from the man’s mouth. “What the—!” He took a quick breath, and glanced around. “Weren’t you just on that horse?”
“Mule.”
The young man narrowed his eyes at Gus. “Whatever, dude.” He squinted, and tried to look intimidating. “Did I invite you into our camp?”
“That’s a lot of dead rays.”
“Cool, huh? The locals can thank us later…” his voice trailed off as he watched Gus step to the back of the truck and reach into the bed. “Hey, you can’t do that!”
Gus hefted a thick tangle of rope with ease, and dropped to one knee. From the corner of his eye he saw the kid stumble from the chair and grab a half-burnt log from the ashes.
“I’m serious, man. That’s my truck. My rope. Don’t make me hurt you.”
Gus twisted the rope a few times, stood, and casually flung a lasso, cinching the loop tightly around the young man’s chest and arms. The captive’s eyes bulged in surprise. He dropped the log and screamed.
Gus stepped casually to the mule, hopped aboard with ease, and looped the tag end around the animal’s neck. Then he turned up the beach toward a small inlet of water left by the ebbing tide. An estuary less than a quarter mile away, brimming with the recent spawn of baby stingrays, safe from predators until the next new moon and the spring tide that would flush them out the sea.
“Whoa, man!” the kid yelled as the rope tugged him forward. “You can’t do this. I’m American! I got rights!”
Gus didn’t answer. Instead he eyed another flat round corpse drifting onto the wet sand.
The kid leaned heavily against the rope. “Hey, I’m injured back here!”
Gus turned, and gazed back at his captive. “You’ll live. That’s more than I can say for the rays.”
“My buddies’ll be coming out any minute, man!”
“Hope so.”
“Let me go, goddammit!”
“You can count on it,” Gus nodded, and with his free hand slapped the mule hard on the flank.
Thirty minutes later, after leaving the arrogant young man at the estuary, hogtied and sitting, his stingray-stung toe soaking in the warm saltwater, Gus urged his mule back down the beach. As he approached the scene of the stingray crime, he thought about the money. So many millions and so little worth buying. Creative banking was the logical choice.
But hiding the world’s richest settlement had been a challenge. The seaplane with its fat belly and hollow walls took care of the first few million. Purchasing the Baja island used up a few more. Building the sand dune castle helped, especially its hollow octagon walls encasing at least another ten million in cash insulation.
But then, he was just getting started.
Gus had rented storage units, and stuffed them with boxes of hundreds. He’d flown to Canada and bought acres of coastline. Went to Paraguay for a mountaintop rainforest. The Caribbean for a marina. He bought a second seaplane, stored it at the marina, and filled it with currency. He purchased an ecolodge in Guatemala, a fly-in fish camp in Honduras, and parked a private plane in a hanger near Mexico City—in case the zealots honed in on his hideaway.
And then he started to relax. He grew his hair, burned his courtroom clothes, even buried his shoes. Then he settled into his sand dune island, rode his mule, flew his plane, and fished. What else could the world’s most famous class-action attorney need?
A bar, it seemed.
The fact that he hadn’t had a drink since falling off the Wahoo Rhapsody ten years earlier in the middle of the night did nothing to dissuade him. Magdelena Bay needed a bar. A watering hole where the locals felt comfortable, and the vagabonds felt welcome. A place where the proprietor wouldn’t quaff the profits.
And so, a year after successfully suing the Almighty for wrongful death, after pocketing more money than God, after fleeing the fanatics and the incessant tabloids, Gus opened Cantina Del Cielo.
Heaven’s Bar.
He hired the local matriarch to manage it. Trucked in a grader to keep the old road passable. Bought supplies from the locals, and served handmade mescal and freshly caught seafood. Fish tacos and sand dab tostadas became the specialty. Frostbitten beer, chilled by state-of-the-art solar-powered coolers, became the attraction.
And an unexpected success.
Revenue from the bar transformed the old grade school, repaired the decrepit sewer line, built the new soccer field. And, as word spread of the coldest beer in Baja and melt-in-your-mouth fish tacos, more and more sailboats veered off course to anchor in the bay. More and more carloads of norte Americanos caravanned down in a cloud of Baja dust.
Most were harmless adventurers. Tourists eager to spend pesos. Surfers in search of uncrowded waves. Drunks and drifters, dropouts and wanderers.
But these campers were different.
Deadly different.
Gus stopped his mule in the shallow water, and watched the two snorkelers exit the surf. They wore flippers and masks, and each held a Hawaiian sling. Both six-foot-long fiberglass shafts glinted in the sun. One boy jabbed the pronged end of his sling into the sand, leaning over it like a savior on a staff. The other boy proudly hefted his Hawaiian sling into the air. A juvenile stingray flapped awkwardly at the end, its wings contorted by the piercing prongs.
“Death to the devil fish!” the boy called out, and flung the wounded ray through the air. It Frisbeed to the sand, and lay still.
Gus, who had rummaged two more ropes from the back of the nearby truck, nudged the mule up the shoreline. He watched the spearfishermen high-five each other, then tug the masks from their faces. They blinked away the saltwater. One glanced toward him and elbowed his friend. They both turned.
“Howdy boys,” Gus called out. The mule moved in close and stopped. “Good fishing?”
“Hell yeah!” the one with the sling in the air, declared. “But watch out for your horse, man. Stingrays everywhere.”
“Were everywhere,” the other boy corrected, and the two high-fived again.
Gus tipped back his wide-brimmed hat. “Mule.”
“Cool,” said the boy who’d flung the stingray. He took a flippered step forward. “Fishing makes me thirsty.” He squinted toward camp. “Hey, where’s Luke?”
“About this spearfishing,” Gus commented, ignoring the question about Luke. “Plan on eating all those rays?”
The two spearfishermen frowned. “No fucking way,” one said. The other asked in a foul tone, “People eat that shit?”
Gus raised a rope in each hand, and began to twirl the lassoes.
“Hey, are those our ropes?” they asked in tandem, gawking at the spinning loops.
Gus pitched the left-handed lasso, and caught the first boy. The second boy tried to move quickly, but his flippered feet caught the sand. He fell to his knees, and Gus sent the second lasso over the boy’s shoulders and pulled tightly.
Obscenities drowned out the sound of the waves. Gus worked quickly, looping the ropes over the mule’s head, turning the animal toward the inlet half a mile away. The mule took a few steps, and yanked the two spearfishermen forward. Both bellyflopped to the sand. They stopped yelling.
“Ready?” Gus asked.
The first lassoee kicked off his flippers. He scrambled up trying to wiggle free. “Ready for what?”
Gus stroked the mule’s neck, keeping the lines tight. “Ever been on a desert sleigh ride?”
“Huh?”
“Closing your eyes is highly recommended.” He slapped the mule’s flank.
Minutes later he pulled to a stop at the estuary where the first camper hunched forward, hands trussed behind his back, his swollen toe still soaking in the shallow water. Raw, sandy, sores tattooed his back and shoulders.
Gus freed the ropes from the mule’s neck, and hopped to the ground. He strolled back to the two sandy lumps, and leaned down. “Best to soak those sand burns as soon as possible.” He glanced at the placid saltwater. “Gonna sting, though.”
“He’s crazy, man!” hollered Luke, jerking his swollen toe from the water as a pair of oval shadows swam past. “Totally fucking whacked.”
The two new arrivals spit sand from their mouths. Their swim trunks were twisted low on their hips, the skin around their waists and upper backs covered in sticky red swaths. Each looked wild-eyed and anxious.
One of them said, “Whatever it is, man, take it. You want the truck, it’s yours.”
Luke spun on his knees, and said, “It’s not your truck, Jessie. It’s mine, so shut the fuck up!”
“He’s gonna kill us, bro,” Jessie pleaded. “Don’t be stupid. It’s just a truck. Your old man will buy you another one.”
Gus bent down, and with the butt end of each rope, fastened his newest victims’ wrists in front of their bodies. “Nobody’s getting killed. And I don’t want your truck.” He yanked the boys to their feet. “Start walking.”
“Huh?” they said together.
“Into the water.”
“That’s it?”
Gus smiled. “That’s it.”
Luke released a throaty laugh. “It’s full of stingrays, you idiots. I’ve been watching them while Indiana Jones there rode off on his donkey. Thousands of ‘em swimming around like little pancakes, only with fangs and shit. One just tried to bite my foot.”
“Lesson number one,” Gus said, prodding the two boys toward the watery minefield. “Rays don’t attack. They’re shy. They hate being stepped on. The trick is to shuffle. That way they feel you coming, and swim away.” He motioned for the third boy to stand. “You, too, Skywalker.”
“Fuck you,” Luke said. He hugged his knees defiantly.
Gus took two lunging steps, grasped Luke by the waist, and flung him easily into the shallow water. Luke bellyflopped. He splashed to his feet in cartoon speed, howling at the sudden pain. His arms, still knotted behind his back, flapped up and down in tandem. Stinger welts rose on his thighs and chest. He stared down into the clear water, and froze. The estuary floor was carpeted with rays.
Gus casually brushed saltwater from his dungarees. He turned to the other two. “Next?”
Both boys quickly muddled into the water, their feet dragging across the bottom like leaden shoes.
“All the way across,” Gus ordered, and whistled for his mule standing in the shade of a mesquite tree nibbling leaves. Gus pulled himself astride. “These rays are only a few weeks old,” he explained. “Stings won’t last long.” He eyed Luke who stood calf-deep and stiff as rebar. “Lesson number two: Skywalker mentioned having rights. Down here, you want rights you earn them.”
The one named Jessie released a sudden wail.
Gus shrugged. “Focus on the first lesson right now.”
Jessie nodded. “I’m really sorry about all those stingrays, sir. I swear it’ll never happen again.” He shuffled deeper, the water rising to his thighs, then his waist. He screeched as it lapped against a raw petal of skin. Jessie backpeddled into Luke, and stepped on a second ray. He wailed again.
“What, are you retarded, Jesse?” Luke asked, snapping out of his stupor, and chest-bumping Jesse. “The freak said to shuffle, dumbass.”
“Fuck off,” Jessie said, and shoved Luke with manacled hands. Both stepped off balance and screamed. Each started shuffling toward shore.
“Wrong direction,” Gus said, nosing his mule to the water’s edge.
Jessie and Luke switched directions, shuffling fast toward the middle of the salty lake. The third boy, who had resorted to swimming a modified breaststroke, suddenly cried out. He splashed to his feet, surprised to be in ankle-deep water. He raised his locked wrists, and touched a tiny trickle of blood slaloming down his neck.
“Sandbars,” Gus called out. “Best to shuffle over them.”
The boy nodded theatrically.
“Halfway across,” Gus ordered, “and I’ll be on my way. I’ll be back after lunch, and there better not be any sign of your camp. Not even a tread mark.”
“Yes sir,” all three said with conviction.
“Kill another stingray, and I’ll find you.”
“Okay.” They nodded meekly, continuing to shuffle.
Gus patted the mule on the neck, and cantered through the mesquite grove up the beach toward his bar.
He glanced up at the sun. Almost noon.
Still time to catch the Wahoo Rhapsody.
Just as soon as he cleaned up all those corpses.

HEAD-HIGH IN COSTA RICAN JACKS

2008-06-13T16:21:00.000-07:00

I arrived in Tamarindo, the not-so-sleepy surf town on the northern coast of Costa Rica, with only two things in mind: blackjack and surf fishing.

The blackjack went as expected. A few good hands to make me overconfident, a few too many celebratory cocktails, and a then like a house of sand, the complete collapse of my teetering stack of chips. The visit to the pricey ATM was no help. I was doomed from that one and only ace-king combo of the night. At least the casino (I use that term loosely as the gambling was located on a second floor of what appeared to be an apartment building) was close to our hotel, and the stumble home was filled with the soothing sounds of the Pacific.

Morning had its usual post-blackjack bleakness, and after an extra-large coffee with the necessary extra-large refill, I assembled my surf rod and headed west. Two blocks and five minutes later I found the perfect cure for my toxic bloodstream: a long stretch of beach populated by a handful of local fishermen flinging handlines and hauling gilled rugby balls from the surf.

I eagerly rigged a cigar-sized pencil popper and waded in. The water was cool in the early morning light, and I splashed a bit over my glassy eyes. I paused when I reached waist-high waves, blinked at the receding thump playing hide-and-seek with my skull, and heaved the lure skyward.

I don’t know what it is about that first cast into new water, but the excitement is coupled with an added layer of anticipation. Maybe it’s the hope that somehow this is where all the big fish vacation. Or maybe it’s a harkening back to simpler times when beginner’s luck worked its charms; when you caught all those fish without knowing you couldn’t.

Whatever it is, it worked on this morning. I watched that huge lure—the one the sales clerk back in Long Beach swore would catch anything south of Baja—splash heavily on the surface. And then, remarkably, almost surrealistically, a second, even larger splash followed. My four-piece surf rod flopped forward and the big spinning reel spun at cartoon speed.

I think I might have whooped. My head immediately cleared, and I think I whooped again.

Line poured from the reel like smoke from a fire. I sluggishly moved through the surf working the drag and hoping to stop the run before I ran out of line. I don’t remember getting in over my head, but a swell that could have swallowed Shaq lifted me from my feet, and caused a mad retreat toward the beach.

As I clumsily back-paddled, the locals watched with amusement, hauling fish after fish with their heavy hand lines. It seems a school of lunkers had circled through just as I’d cast my lure.

Beginner’s luck. I’ll take it anytime.

It took another ten minutes to get my quarry into the shallows, and after timing the waves to get the fish safely above the high waterline, I stared into the bovine eyes of a huge jack crevelle. Not the best table fish, but a definite brute of inshore angling. I’d caught them before in Baja, and each time I’d been amazed at the tenacity of these powerful fish.

I unhooked this savior of the hangover, offered it to the locals for sharing their sea, and lobbed my lure back to the waves. I stayed for another hour and caught jacks on almost every cast. It was a surf fisherman’s Shangri-La.

And if it wasn’t for that gnawing desire to break even, I might have stayed all day.

Board Fishing For Halibut in Scorpion Bay

2008-01-08T10:03:00.000-08:00

Happy fishing new year!! It's 2008 and I just returned from 10 days of tough Baja driving. My destination was San Juanico, aka Scorpion Bay, located some 700 miles south of Tijuana on the Pacific coast. The surfing there is legendary, but the fishing is not so well known. I went for both. We left southern California on the morning of December 21st and arrived as the sun was setting on Christmas Eve. The swell was chest-high, and we sunset surfed neverending waves until dark. Christmas morning was celebrated around a campfire with smoky pancakes. Then I went fishing.

From a 10-foot longboard. I used a bungee cord to secure the small tackle box and hung a Leatherman off the side. Then I tucked the small bass rod under my arm and paddled around the surf break to an empty stretch of rocky beach pocked with underwater reefs and turquoise water that indicated sand. The first 10 minutes were slow so I paddled in close to the rocks knowing I risked losing my shiny new Rapala. First cast brought a strike rather than a snag and I released a small cabrilla which had been hooked by all three treble hooks. I realized my mistake, and quickly clipped the middle treble hook free and crimped the barbs on all but one tang of the two remainng trebles. I only keep what I plan to eat and the healthier I can release a fish the better. It's my small way to try and keep the fisheries healthy for my two kids--and fishing kids everywhere.

There's something special and a little spooky about fishing from a surfboard. Your legs dangle in the water as shark snacks, and sudden swells jostle you around. But it's quiet without all that engine noise, and pleasant without the smell of fuel. You don't need to worry about your anchor or watch for those propeller-bending rocks. Best of all, you can get to places a boat can't go and a surfcaster can't reach. And because you slide in on top of the water, the fish don't know you're there.

I played around in the rocks a little longer before moving out to a patch of turqouise water that looked about 8 feet deep. I lobbed the rapala and cranked hard to get it down when the bass rod bowed to the waterline and my 10-pound test line melted from the reel. The battle was brief but exciting as the fish tried to take me into shore. I kept its head up and soon was staring into the toothy smile of a keeper halibut. After a few whoops and hollers I clenched the rod in my teeth and began the slow paddle back to shore. I had to paddle back around the surfers and then time the swells into the beach. I also had to make sure the line stayed taut to the fish, especially since the hooks were mostly barbless. It took about 10 minutes, and as I slid the good-sized flattie up onto the hard sand, a small crowd gathered. Photos were snapped, high fives were exchanged, the fish was iced, and then I hit the waves for some epic minute-long rides on the best Christmas day of my adult life.

You can email me at smorey@incrediblefishingstories.com for more information or just to talk fish. I'll be blogging more of my recent fishing trips over the next month, and I'll include as many photos as I can. All the best to all of you, and may you always have the fisherman's luck in your tackle box!!

Shaun Morey

2007-12-01T09:05:00.000-08:00

Hey everyone, welcome to shaunmorey.com and my new blog! I'm getting this blog thing figured out and look forward to lots of fun, thoughtful and provocative conversation about fishing. Drop me a line anytime, and remember clean water and curved rods forever!