Judging solely from the view, I could very well be part of a photo shoot
for a Club Med advertisement. I'm floating off Baja California's East
Cape, where the Pacific's powerful currents reach around the Cape of San
Lucas to mix with the Sea of Cortez. Miles of deserted white-sand
beaches link distant hills to the lighthouse visible over my shoulder,
and when I look down I can see the bottom clearly through 30 feet of
aquamarine water. The cornucopia of nutrients has yielded an explosion
of sea life, a veritable paradise for game fish like yellowfin tuna,
roosterfish, and even marlin.
But while I'm on vacation, I'm not aboard a luxury cruise ship; instead,
I'm in a cherry-red fishing kayak listening to Jim Sammons, my guide on
this five-day fishing safari and owner of La Jolla Kayak Fishing. Sammons
says this is one of his favorite places in the world. "It's just so
lifey," he says, as baitfish roil the glassy water and a squadron of
pelicans skims the surface.
Most of Sammons' clients come for the tuna and rooster-fish. But over the
last three years, he's helped his kayakers land 15 billfish, both
marlin and sailfish. "Billfish are the extreme edge of what we do," he
explains. "But hooking one of them can happen to anybody, anytime." It's
a thought that rattles me. I'm a passionate whitewater kayaker, but my
fishing experience consists primarily of a few childhood afternoons spent
hauling bluegills out of a tranquil Missouri farm pond.
My only comfort is that I'm not alone. Kelly Miller hasn't caught a fish,
or even tried, in ten years. She's come from Denver with her husband
Craig, an avid fisherman who adamantly insists that the spa stay they'd
scheduled later in Cabo San Lucas is not a quid pro quo. Now Kelly is
the first one of us on a fish, grinding resolutely as Jim coaches from the
support boat. She proves an excellent student, pulling with short
strokes and reeling down on the dorado, keeping a solid bend in her rod.
The fish is a splendid specimen; its odd, bulbous forehead and bright
colors are vivid reminders that we're on the edge of the tropics, even
if snowy Colorado is just a four-or five-hour flight away.
Cries of "Hook up!" begin to ring out as the others in our group of five
kayak anglers land dorado, jack crevalle, and bonito -- then comes my
turn. As the clicker on my reel ticks over, indicating some toothy
character has taken my bait and started to run, I remember the advice
Sammons gave me the previous night. "When you hear the clicker go off,"
he said, "count slowly to ten. Then slam your reel in gear and wind like
hell."
It sounded awfully simple over a cold Pacifico and fresh ceviche, but
here on the ocean I forget all about counting and just spin the reel as
fast as I can, shouting, "I'm on!" My fish makes a series of acrobatic
leaps. He's not big, but he's a fighter. Before long our local fishing
guide, Chuy, arrives in a panga boat to witness my triumph.
"What is it?" I ask.
"Ladyfish."
"Do I keep it?"
Chuy is too polite to laugh, but he can't hide how badly he wants to. I
lift the 18-inch fish out of the water to let it go, but it saves me the
trouble, slipping the hook with one nimble twist.
Kayak fishing has enjoyed exponential growth in recent years, and it's
not just because today's fishing kayaks are stable, nearly unsinkable,
and are about one-twentieth the price of a small motorboat. Anglers are
turning to kayaks because they provide access to places no other boat
can reach, like the shallow Gulf Coast salt flats where prized redfish
lurk and pristine lakes where motors are prohibited.
Here in Baja, anglers use kayaks to chase game fish on light tackle.
While a marlin or big tuna would normally snap a 20-pound line in an
instant, the same line won't break if it's attached to a rod being held
by someone in a kayak. Instead, the fish pulls the kayak, an unnerving
phenomenon dubbed a "Baja sleigh ride."
Though kayak fishing is a far cry from a motorboat charter, we're hardly
roughing it at the Hotel Punta Colorada, where we enjoy comfortable
suites and ample buffets. The hotel offers other amenities - a swimming
pool, ATV rentals, and horseback riding along the miles of empty beaches
- but fishing is the big draw here, and Americans are the chief
clientele. As freshly sunburnt anglers gather each evening around his
open-air bar, Manuel "Manny" Vasquez tells fish tales in English that's
nearly as flawless as his pina coladas (which is saying plenty).
Though we could paddle straight off the hotel beach, Sammons has
retained Jesus Andres "Chuy" Canedo and his 25-foot super panga
motorboat to whisk our kayaks from one hot spot to another. It means
less work for more fishing, but most importantly, it gives us access to
the local knowledge of men like Chuy and Alonzo Castro, who have fished
these waters for more than 50 years.
The next morning, we drop our kayaks from Chuy's boat into the brawny
swell five miles offshore. I slip a live sardine onto the hook, pay out
60 feet of line, and tally my first strike -- and this time I remember to
count slowly to ten. Finally, I slam on the drag and feel the weight of
the fish far below.
"Are you on?" Jim shouts.
"Yeah, I'm on," I reply, projecting a confidence I don't really feel. The
dorado leaps three times in 60 seconds, and then, somehow, I have him in
the kayak. He's not big, but I've never seen a more beautiful fish. His
flanks shine like gold in the morning sun; his spots flash like blue
pearls. I hold my drought-breaker aloft for the camera, thank him
sincerely, and give him back to the sea.
More fish follow in rapid succession: two more dorado, a skipjack tuna,
an unwanted needlefish. And then, after a brief respite, my reel emits a
tortured howl. It's something really big; could it be a marlin?
I take the rod from its holder, grip tightly with both hands, and engage
the drag. Instantly, the rod doubles over as the strength and fury of
the fish travels through the line and into my hands like an electric
shock. The monofilament is a blur, flashing back and forth across the
spool as the big fish runs. My reel is loaded with 300 yards of 30-pound
mono, and this mystery fish takes two-thirds of it without slowing down.
He's running at right angles to the kayak, and if I can't turn the boat
in the next 20 seconds, he'll swim away with my line. I bring the rod
tip to the front of the kayak with all the strength in my torso. It
works; the bow slowly veers behind the fleeing fish, and the kayak begins
to build speed. The tone of the clicker drops an octave, slows again,
and stops.
"I'm on!" I shout. "I'm on to something really big!"
The fish and I have reached our first stalemate. He's still stronger than
the drag, but he's not taking line; he's pulling 250 pounds of man and
kayak. We shoot toward the lighthouse, a silvery wake spreading from my
bow. Someone yells "Baja sleigh ride!" as the fish turns into the wind,
running for deeper water. I feel the rod load up with the extra pressure
-- and then the fish slows. He pulls me another quarter-mile before I
manage to take three turns of line.
A seesaw battle takes place over the next few minutes, but weight and
technology are at work against the powerful fish. At last I see him, 15
feet below in the clear sea. Rows of tiny fins flash golden in the
sunlight. "Yellowfin," I cry.
When I finally hoist the 35-pound tuna aloft for a photo, my arms are
quivering. Craig paddles by and high-fives me; Chuy leans over the rail
of the panga and shakes my hand. He's laughing. Seconds later he's back,
holding a sardine in one hand and motioning with the other for my hook,
as if to say, "You came here to fish, right? So get going."
KAYAK FISHING IN BAJA
Jim Sammons' La Jolla Kayak Fishing (kayak4fish.com) offers all-inclusive
four-day, five-night kayak fishing packages to Baja's East Cape. Packages
start at $924, including food and lodging at the Hotel Punta Colorada,
panga support, bait and guides, and use of new Ocean Kayak fishing
kayaks. Sammons also offers year-round instructional kayak fishing
outings in La Jolla, San Diego Bay, and Mission Bay ($175 for one-on-one
instruction), as well as mothership excursions to San Clemente Island
($500) and surf kayaking clinics ($65).
Located a little over an hour north of San Jose del Cabo on the Sea of
Cortez, the family-owned Hotel Punta Colorada (vanwormerresorts.com) has
long been a magnet for North American sport fishermen. The self-contained
resort boasts 39 air-conditioned rooms and caters almost exclusively to
anglers: The hearty breakfast buffet is ready before the sun rises over
the Sea of Cortez. In addition to Sammons' kayak-fishing tours, the Punta
Colorada offers a fleet of 28- to 32-foot sport-fishing cruisers, super
pangas with English-speaking captains, and saltwater fly-fishing in
cooperation with the Baja Fly fishing Co. (bajaflyfish.com).
Jeff Moag is an outdoorsman and adventure writer who lives in San
Clemente, California.
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