The Jetty Giveth, the Jetty Taketh Your Shin
Posted: Thu Jul 17, 2025 4:16 pm
I realized something this week. I haven’t actually fun fished in a while. Like, just gone out to fish without a tournament hanging over my head like the cloud that follows Eeyore everywhere.
In fact, 2025 has pretty much been wall-to-wall competitive fishing for both the Angler's Marine tournaments, and our bass club's tournaments: pre-fish, tourney, pre-fish, tourney, repeat. And my beloved lunchtime pond trips? Fewer than the number of working bubblers at said pond. The bite’s been nonexistent mid-day anyway—those bass must have unionized or something. I'd be wasting my time.
Three weeks ago, I tried to break the streak with a spontaneous trip up to the Sierras with the better half. We rented a boat at June Lake and enjoyed the views but the 40 mile an hour winds prevented any type of fly casting.
I did finally get somewhere where I could bring out the fly rod for its yearly walk, romanticized the solitude, and pictured some artsy slow-mo dry fly takes.
Instead, I made one cast — technically, half a cast — before my 5x leader found the welcoming embrace of a tree behind me. I didn’t even bother retying. I just packed it all up in silence. Back at the car, my girlfriend asked, “Did you catch anything?”
“Yeah,” I grumbled. “A tree-pounder.”
“Oh nice,” she said. She didn’t even flinch as she kept on playing her game on her phone. I stared at her like, really? That was a solid joke. Women just don’t appreciate highbrow fishing humor.
A few days later the crew and I did make a trip to the 619, to visit The Captain, for an insane largie session where fish averaged from 3 to 5 pounds. Probably the best largemouth bite that we've been on this year, with plenty of fish annihilating specific topwater baits all throughout the morning. My buddy even managed to hook up to a monster catfish which ran him around the boat for a while before breaking him off.
We also did pre-fish DVL for a pair for days during this stretch trying to solve the DVL conundrum, where landing 11 3/4" dinks all day long continues to be the norm for us. We still haven't solved it. At least she always looks pretty as you spend 50 dollars to park, launch and fish.
•
It was a few days later when I was neck-deep in a Zoom meeting about something I’m sure I’ve already forgotten when The Gooch called. Naturally, I picked up even though I was on a work call.
“What up mang! You fishing The Pond today?”
“Nope. I’d rather get my ass wiped by Captain Hook’s wrong hand.”
Clearly, I was still bitter about something. But something stirred in me after his call. Maybe it was The Gooch’s positive tone even though he knew he'd get skunked. Maybe it was the way he said "fishing," which felt like therapy and tacos rolled into one. I hadn’t caught anything from the local pond in weeks, as the midday bite might as well be sponsored by Valium.
But, I had recently tried out the jetty with some success a few days ago! So I figured—why not go back? This time, I came with a plan. That plan: Don’t fall on my ass.
I mean, what more do you need? I’m no jetty pro. Half the time I went out there, I felt like someone’s toddler who wandered onto the rocks with a Zebco after drinking a six pack. But fishing is fishing, right? And I usually will get them to go, even though I have no idea what I'm doing. I figure if I start with making a cast in the water, everything else just comes together.
It reminded me of the time my buddy in high school who I played baseball with once asked why I never went into hitting slumps.
“I dunno man. I see ball, I hit ball.”
Confucius? No. Effective? Apparently.
So, around lunch time I loaded up my beater gear—a spinning combo that screams “Garage Sale Today From 8 to 2!" and a baitcaster that I keep since it was my first baitcaster I ever owned—a Shimano Chronarch 100A, and headed to the jetty. Funny thing: it took me 24 minutes to get there. Four hours earlier it would’ve taken an hour and some to travel the same route, along with some heavy cursing. Gotta love L.A. traffic math.
I hit three spots on the south jetty, areas that had given me luck the time before. That day, those areas gave me a healthy 13 to 15-inch spottie. No need to re-tie baits with these guys, it seems. No bait whoring drama. Just me and the pack of plastics that happens to be in my pocket at the time. This time, I was chucking a 3” Fish Arrow swimbait on 7 lb FC, and a free rig OSP Do Live Creature with 12 lb on the baitcaster. Simple. Peaceful.
Almost... too peaceful. The bite just wasn't as what I expected. So I crossed over to the north jetty for a scouting mission. Fortunately, it proved to be the right move. In another hour and a half of fishing, and a bunch of tenacious spots, and a trio of sub-legal halibut
and one unexpected shin scrape that took me back to my childhood real quick. Everyone knows the feeling: that burning sensation of ocean water sterilizing your new wound like a salty kiss from Poseidon himself. Sweet, painful nostalgia.
The final insult? My Daiwa spinning reel’s anti-reverse gave up the ghost. Snapped under the pressure of a 14-inch spottie. RIP, little buddy. "Get the Daiwa Certate Custom Finesse 2004!," they said. Worst purchase ever.
Freshwater might be riding the bench for a while. There’s just something about salty rocks, scraped shins, and pissed off spots that feels... right.
