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By Rich Johnson 

Thanksgiving, a wonderful time with family, friends and, of course, turkeys. Being an outside kind of guy, I am thankful for butterflies, rainbows, green flash sunsets, the gentle roar of surf and stream, the wind in the trees, rain on the roof, and the Marlin strike.

It is October and the phone beside the bed rings at 0600. Our son Pete, said that he had just boarded the plane in Phoenix and would land at 0730. We struggled from the warm covers, made coffee and drove to the boat. Pete arrived on schedule and we left the dock at 0800. At 0930 we were just past the Nine Mile Bank when a trolling reel gave a short chirp. Pete tossed in a bait which the Marlin took. When we struck the fish, it outwitted us and cherry-picked the mackeral from the hook. We rebaited and trolled back over the spot. The Marlin was deep under the water following the teaser when it’s pectorals suddenly burst into a flourescent blue. We slowed the boat and tossed in another bait. The marlin took a lure instead and, at 1000, we were locked in battle with what may be the last marlin of the season as of this writing. How can it happen that Pete was in Phoenix and we were snug in bed in La Jolla only 4 hours ago and are now fighting a marlin from our 8 knot cruising boat? We caught, tagged and released the marlin after a long fierce battle and lost another one that afternoon.

How thankful we are to live in a beautiful city of millions so close to the wild beauty of nature– green flash sunsets, the roar of the surf, wind in the palms, birds and butterflies all year, and every now and then, in late summer and fall, a chance meeting with the most spectacular fish that swims the far flung fathomless depths.

Rich Johnson and the crew of the Marie B.

By Rich Johnson 

It had been some 22 years, since the Cone Head had fished for marlin, with his Mom and Dad, in California waters, aboard the Marie-B. The captain wasn’t feeling real hot, and was too weak to argue, as our course was set for the 371 bank, better known for paddy hopping, than the hunt of the majestic marlin. In a word, I never go there. But there were dorado to be caught, and I was resting in the salon after lunch. Cone was trolling two rods from the cockpit, which we never do, with a teaser we never use, in a pattern never seen. The starboard cockpit reel burst into song, unheard by the Cone and his mother on the bridge. I picked up the rod and yelled “Fish on!”. Marie didn’t have her hearing aid in, and the Cone’s ear was to the radio. Of course, the marlin nearly spooled me, before this alert crew stumbled into action.
“Unforgivable!!!”– I calmly shout, trying to catch the fish, and run the boat by myself. By some miracle, everything stays attached, and the tagged marlin swims away to fight another day.

We spent a rolling night at anchor off the South Coronado Island, as the tuna cowboys had a wild time, as attested by the screaming and laughing of imported feminine companionship. The next morning we rounded South Island into a stiff breeze and a light bulb pounding chop. We smash our way back to the 371. Our arrival is greeted by another marlin strike, unloading a bunch of line, before it throws the hook in a spectacular display.

After spending the morning trolling around in the wind and tumultuous seas, I again find myself laid out in the salon after another delicious lunch. This must be the key to our success, as all the five reels start to scream. I stagger into the cockpit, to see marlin jumping everywhere behind the boat. Of course, we put in a live bait to see if we can get a sixth marlin on. We end up with three fish that stay hooked up. Leaving one rod in the fighting chair, I let the chair swing freely to stay pointed at the marlin. Phil and Marie battle their fish that go in opposite directions. After 30 minutes, Marie’s fish pulls free of the hook. The marlin on the rod in the fighting chair is still hooked up, so she begins her struggle with her second marlin.

The Cone Head’s fish gets tail wrapped and dies in the deep, while Marie’s fish is still fresh as a daisy. Marie is not. She has all the fun while the Cone winches up his dead fish which we gaff at the boat and secure with a tail rope. Cone is trying to wrestle his fish on to the swim step, while I run the boat to help this grandmother of 10 catch her marlin. A big wave washes Cone’s marlin off the step. Wails of anguish fill the salty breeze until he discovers that I had cleated the tail rope, and his fish is stiil there, down in the deep. We open the transom door, and pull his marlin into the cockpit. Now, it is easy to run the boat, and we then tag Marie’s fish in textbook fashion.

So, that is our story, and we are going to stick with it. The wonder of sea stories is that, you can’t make up these bizarre tails — Fish tails, of course.