My thumb was finally dripping bright red blood, and yet I was smiling ear to ear, having just released my PB Spot. It kicked my ass like if I owed it money, ripping drag from my still-new-to-me Stradic 2500S in a tug-of-war that made me question whether I’d hooked a fish, a rock, or a pissed-off sea lion. You know that moment where you set the hook, you feel something, and then your line locks up and you think you're snagged—then suddenly your “snag” starts peeling drag like if the fish at the end of it owns several TapouT shirts, takes creatine mixed in with their pre-workout and then lifts weights while listening to Slipknot on volume 11? Yeah, those fish feel like that.
Just a few casts before, I had released what was my previous personal best—a chunky little 2-pound Spot that made my decision to come out to the jetty during a weird tide a good one. When I landed that fish, it was the cherry on the sundae. “This has been my day,” I thought. I had caught about 15 fish in the past 2 hours, each more 'roid raged out than the last.
I was going to go home, but "one more cast." And then I go and catch another Spot—this savage—did the ol’ bite-and-shake move when I lipped him, and tore deeper into my already shredded thumb. Honestly, I should’ve switched hands. Rookie mistake. The things we do for our personal best. Even though the saltwater had cauterized the thumb, the decision to use the same one opened it back up.
After the release of two nice fish back to back, I sat down on one of the rare flat rocks, and wiped the blood on my pants, thumb throbbing and stinging, adrenaline fading, and soaked in the moment. After a rough week of not being able to get out on the water once due to car troubles, this was exactly the prescription the doctor would’ve written if my HMO covered mental health through fishing therapy.
The squawk of flying sea rats (also known as seagulls, but let’s not dignify them), the rhythmic slap of waves on the rocks, boats of every size cruising out of the marina, and the distant barking of what sounded like either a sea lion or a very aquatic Doodle of some kind… it all pulled me into a zen-like state. I was inches from full Enlightenment when I heard what every fisherman loves hearing:
“YOU CAN’T FISH HERE!”
I sighed, muttered, "The f*ck I can't" to myself and stood up to see if they were talking to me.
Ah, yes. The soothing sound of chain-smoking authority. I looked up to see a security guard in a golf cart who sounded like she’d spent the past 40 years gargling Marlboro Reds, a spitting image of Large Marge from Pee Wee's Big Adventure.
“You can’t fish there. You need to leave.”
She stood up and did that dismissive little “shoo” motion to get me to skedaddle with her hand like if I was some type of feral cat digging out her Petunias from her planters.
You know the one—like if I was a raccoon that had just knocked over her trash cans in the middle of the night. And much like those raccoons, I could care less, I'm still gonna dig through last night's leftovers. Luckily for her, though, I was already in a good mood, and wasn't feeling too litigious at the time.
A few weeks ago, another security guard had tried this same act, but he was lucky that he approached me as I was leaving. Being the cautious but petty individual that I am, I consulted my lawyer Dr. Gonzo, Esq., who quickly brought me up to speed. Paying a retainer for Dr. Gonzo is well worth it, considering how many Trespassing cases he's had dismissed for me.
"Here, check this out," he said. "I think your troubles are no more."
https://pw.lacounty.gov/sur/nas/landrec ... M1-053.pdf
And as expected, those rocks—where I had been fishing when Large Marge approached—are public easement. As in: U.S. coastline. As in: this belongs to all of us, not just for the HOA for people who drive Range Rovers and whose dogs have names like "Lord Astor of Barrington, Esq."
"W'ly side line of a Perpetual Right of Way and Easement of the United States of America, per Bk. D-296, pg. 840, and Bk. D-616, pg 199, both of Official Records."
In other words, the condominium complex that hires these security companies that are instructing them to disobey the law, can eat a bag of d!cks. Legally, that stretch is treated just like any other American shoreline. As long as I stay below the high-water mark and don’t trespass through their precious patios, pickle ball courts or Safe Space zones to get there, I’m golden. (This same issue was debated in Malibu, where homeowners think they own the beach and water and think they can just put up "PRIVATE PROPERTY" signs and deem a public space a private one. https://www.sfgate.com/la/article/malib ... 594013.php)
But, try explaining that to someone whose only training came from watching a grainy 10 minute VHS video in the HR office and has been instructed to just basically keep the riffraff off the rocks. That's why I don't go hard at the people who are just being paid to keep me off the rocks.
(It actually reminded me of fishing the docks at Havasu, where homeowners would crash through their front doors like thoroughbreds out the gate, screaming, “YOU CAN’T FISH HERE, IT’S PRIVATE!” as if they owned the water.)
Today, though, I wasn’t in the mood for a fight. I packed up, smiled, and calmly told her I’d be back. And that next time, if they try this again, I’ll be the one calling the DFW Warden or the Sheriff, and having copies of the city zoning maps on hand. Because last time I checked, this is still a country of law and order—and ma'am, with 2-pound+ spotted bass biting like they've never seen a free rig before, you’re not keeping me off those rocks just to protect your “aesthetic.”
Besides, as a wise philosopher once said, "In a closed society where everybody's guilty, the only crime is getting caught. In a world of thieves, the only final sin is stupidity"
)….