Lingcod Fishing in Half Moon Bay

Giant lingcod, threatening whales and an old friend are subjects of this post. Blood and heartbreak are prevalent themes. Still interested? Then read on.

As the 21-foot Boston Whaler crested sharply down the backside of the wave, I tried to quell a rising sense of vulnerability. Unfortunately, the size of the vessel was the least of my worries. The GPS computer on the boat would turn on and off, leaving us stranded in the middle of the ocean, praying for the computer to reconnect. Pervasive fog surrounded the boat on all sides, giving a sense of isolation. However, these factors only added to the building excitement as the boat neared the GPS coordinate named “lingcod_2”.

But how did I end up on that small boat in the middle of the ocean? I was contacted the day before the trip by an old friend named Francisco. You can check out my other adventures with him here: Rockfish, Lingcod, and Crab abound at the Farallon Islands, Rock-Fishing Cruise: The Farallon Islands, Fishing for Rockfish off the coast. The bottom line is that Francisco helped me foster my passion for fishing during my youth, and is one of the most influential people in my life. So when he invited me fishing for the first time in nearly two years I jumped at the chance. Never mind that it was only with two other people I had never met before in an area that I had never gone out in. I was just excited for the chance to go fishing again.

Back on the boat I dropped my double shrimp fly rig down to the bottom of the ocean. Seconds later, a fish began dancing on the end of my light bass pole. After reeling up through 150 feet of water, I was greeted with two healthy yellows. Placing the smaller one on the top hook I dropped the poor fish down to his inevitable doom. Hopefully, that yellow was going to catch me a lingcod.

The 13 pound lingcod

In hindsight this was a terrible idea. I had 170 feet of line on my bass pole and I was dropping it into 150-155 feet of water with a live yellow rockfish on my hook. But when the tip of the light rod was pulled sharply towards the water I instantly realized my mistake. The lingcod pulled out twenty feet of line before I was able to stop it. I watched in horror at the knot where the braid attached to the metal spool of my reel. With my rod between my legs, left hand gripping the line and right hand cranking furiously I was able to recover zero feet of line. So began the stalemate where neither boy nor lingcod was willing to give an inch. Luckily for me, the lingcod gave in first. After a grueling battle that literally spanned the depth of the ocean, the lingcod was within sight. The net scooped down, the head entered the mesh and seconds later a thirteen pound ling was flopping helplessly on the deck.

The twelve lingcod

Up until this point I had only caught three lingcod in my entire life. Francisco congratulated me as I shakily traded in my bass rod for a heavier blank and a reel with more line capacity. The same shrimp fly rig was attached and another live yellow rockfish was placed onto the top hook. Down went the poor fellow. A couple minutes later the rod was bent over double again.

And once again I had another lingcod at my feet. As I reached behind the gill to pick it up the lingcod thrashed, raking the gill plate across my fingers. Blood instantly welled up across the thin but deep cuts. Pulling on gloves I simply placed it into the fishbox. Putting another rockfish on the line, I dropped the rig down again. And once again I had another lingcod on within a few minutes.

By the time the third lingcod hit the deck, Francisco and his friends were beginning to figure out that live bait was working well. After a quick redistribution of the bait we were all fishing rockfish, and all getting hits. Unfortunately the lingcod were hitchhiking off the rockfish. This meant that they were not actually hooked, and instead were holding onto the back of the rockfish with their razor sharp teeth and refusing to let go. But when they saw the surface they often got scared, releasing their prey and darting back into the azure depths. Luckily for me, I seemed to be getting the lingcod on the trailer hook, giving me a higher catch rate. Eventually Francisco caught three, while his friends caught three total. Believe it or not I caught six lingcod all over 25 inches during the trip. After we limited out on lings we made a couple of drifts, picking up a rockfish or two on every pass. After four hours of fishing, we decided to call it a day and head back.

We ended the day with around 37 rockfish and 12 hefty lingcod. This trip to Half Moon Bay turned out to be the best fishing in my life.

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Yellowstone Fishing

The Old Faithful Geyser 

As I trudge through the calf deep mud and bison excrement, I hold my fly rod high above the muck with one hand. With the other I thumb the orange safety clip of my bear spray, listening for a rustle or a growl to warn me of an imminent attack. As I approach the river, a cloud of steam obscures the surface. Then, a sudden gust of wind lifts the steam and I see a dozen of twelve-inch trout sipping insects beneath the surface of the water. Wait.... Bison excrement, bear spray and crystal clear water full of trout? Where am I?!

Well, I took a trip Yellowstone National Park with my family. And the river I am about to fish is the famed Firehole River, one of the most prestigious dry-fly rivers in the world. Complete with underground hot springs and abundant insect hatches, trout grow fast here. But can I catch these wary fish after nearly a year since my last fly-fishing excursion?

Back at the river I slide onto my knees and instantly feel the moisture from the grass seep through the water-resistant pants. Holding the rod low to the ground I inch my way towards the river bank. I can see the trout swirling, flashing and darting just under the water’s surface. Unhooking my caddis dry fly, I make a sloppy cast towards the head of a slow-moving pool. The fish are not impressed with my presentation and swim away. Frustrated, but not discouraged I move down to another slot.

Here the water is faster, and the trout hopefully less wary. After applying flotant, I cast my fly just beyond the fast moving water. It drifts into the flow and suddenly a large brown trout erupts out of the water in pursuit of the fly. I swing the rod and miss the hookset. Dang it….

A 13-inch brown trout

This scene repeats itself over and over. A perfectly placed cast results in a hit, but no fish. Finally, I find a pool where the water moves fast, but slowly enough where I can easily keep track of my fly. I cast, make a perfect drift and… BAM! It’s on! It jumps a good foot out of the air, writhing back and forth in fury, to no avail. I bring it to shore, snap a few pictures and release it back into the river.

I landed around 23 trout in four days but only two were rainbows

It is a special moment seeing your catch swim away towards its slot in the river. In Yellowstone, this moment is compounded by the natural beauty that surrounds you. And now, for the first time, I can experience it in isolation. This was the first trip where I was left alone. Not even my parents accompanied me on this journey. As a result of my age, they have decided to entrust me with new responsibility. So now my fishing experiences include just me, my fly and the fish dancing on the end of my line. And I have rarely been more happy.

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Bass Boy (Teen) Returns

At the age of 16, I cannot really consider myself a kid anymore. I would like to think of myself as an adult, but I also know that is not true. All I know is that I am a boy with an unprecedented amount of freedom and new responsibility. What has stayed the same is my love for the outdoors, for fishing and for life as a whole.

With that, let us get to the fishing. Many books detail the life of the young teen who has his special bass lake. In this lake dwell copious amounts of five pound plus bass. Well I have found that lake. Unfortunately, my friends have threatened to whip me to death with 16 ounce lead balls if I reveal where this lake is. So just rest easily knowing that this lake exists, there are fish in it and I have been catching those fish.

Imagine the lonely plastic crawfish, silently sinking into the water after a perfectly placed cast. A three pound largemouth-bass locates this weighted plastic and makes a mad dash towards the rapidly descending figure. With it’s mouth wide open, the bass smashes into the bait and violently jerks the braided line. On shore I can be heard screaming “FISH ON!”

There have been hot summer nights when this occurs ten to twelve times, and me and a couple of friends can walk home along the mile-long dirt trail with face splitting grins. And we have not been skunked yet, so I guess every hike back to the cars has been a happy one.

You can fish frogs, jerkbaits, swimbaits, crayfish imitations, or even mice imitations. The lake is a canvas for which one can apply any style of fishing they want. However, catching the bass is not the most important factor in the trip. Me and my friend Dylan have guided many people in catching their first bass, and had many friendly competitions. Introducing people into a lifestyle which has given me many wrist-wrenching moments is the greatest reward.

I have trudged back many times as the sun set and the animals of the night came out to feed. The memories of my latest bass replay over in my head. The cool breeze of evening dries my sweat. Everything around me is at once silent, powerful and beautiful. At these times I am reminded of a kid who loved to fish and wanted to spread his joy to others. I hope I can release some of my joy to you.

A double on large-mouth bass. Notice whose fish is bigger. 

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