Sometime in the mid afternoon the call came that the seabass were biting. Like biting, biting close to home, as in literally in the backyard. Huge fish, all on birds within bino range. I could wave at my buddies. Yeah, this was the San Clemente bite in front of our place that I thought might never happen.
By this point it was two days after Carin’s due date, but the fish were close enough that the plan — just get dropped off outside the surf line, swim in, run up hill and have Denny Hill deal with the Arima — would have worked out no different than if I had got the call at Rite Aid or running the dog in the field or something.
Here it was mid May and the only strain of seabass fever I get these days—coastal, A-1 slug, slob, tanker, monster strain—was setting in. Usually it's June when it kicks in.
Magic words from a magical women: “just go, sweetie.”
Two rods were packed, a little tackle tray that's always on standby was grabbed. Simple plan: my boat partner John Keeler was going to jump off with his limits that included a 60 pounder for his buddy, and I was going to jump on with Hill and give it a hour or two.
Then the real magic started.
“Brandon, come back!” came from the window mid dog walk. Fritz and I looked at each other. The only water I’d be seeing was on the bedroom floor.
Nineteen hours later, the cure for any type of fishing fever came popping out. It was “Hello, Noah” and instant tears. The seabass kept swimming and it was one of those two day deals. I'm glad I missed it.
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