Fishing Tips – Loose Hips Land Fish

Winter 2007

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.
To download a pdf copy of the magazine click here: > DOWNLOAD

The basics of fishing from a sea kayak

by Adam Bolonsky

I had a hankering to try fishing on the west coast for a change, and my friend Ken was just the person to tell me what I needed to know. I called him at his home in Seattle and asked him to give me some advice that would help me prepare for a trip out west.

We hadn’t been talking too long before Ken told me what to expect: learn the term mooch, don’t get caught confusing chinook with coho, nor chum with pink, and above all, let go of my New England sea kayak fisherman’s assumptions that halibut are merely a larger version of dinner plate-sized flounder, and that lingcod are cod, when in fact they are a different species altogether.

As a Massachusetts native lately jaded by the local kayak fishing species—predictably voracious bluefish, broad-shouldered and sag-bellied striped bass, bonito on occasion—I was as much intrigued by the names of the Pacific Northwest’s fishes as I was by the names of their haunts: Sooke, Bamfield, Ucluelet, Tofino, Clayoquot, Nootka, Kyuquot. These are some of the best places in BC’s southern regions to fish for halibut, chinook, and northern coho, but I was told that I could expect to find fish in many of British Columbia’s hundreds of coves, inlets and near shore areas that lie between the mainland and the eastern edge of Vancouver Island. If I felt bold, Ken added, and had my roughwater skills in order, I could venture into the tidal currents in places like Discovery Passage near Campbell River, particularly the back eddy out by the lighthouse where Georgia Strait and Discovery Passage tumble against one another.

Ken also mentioned a hot spot where it pretty much sounded like I could get killed: Seymour Narrows, where salmon are as big as logs. The Narrows’ tides, Ken chuckled, can run at 16 knots and form whirlpools deep enough to swallow a houseboat. Even the slower tides, he said, the mere 10-knotters, move one million gallons of water per second through the gap. Salmon handle the currents in the narrows with aplomb, as do local fishing guides, but I might want to avoid the place. I agreed. I took the Narrows as a general warning: in the Pacific Northwest, you need to know which local hazards are treacherous, which are remote, and which run in cycles—even if they hold thousands of fish.

I was thinking of gearing up for a short leg or two of the Inside Passage between Skagway and Seattle. I’d made the trip a few decades back on a motor vessel and was stunned by the beauty. If I could handle even a portion of the passage, I’d find world-class chinook in the Rivers Inlet area in the southeast corner of Queen Charlotte Sound. Ken said my luck would be truly good should I paddle to an area known as “the wall.”

The wall. Now that is the sort of nickname any fisherman can decode, as most fishing spots are described in terms of their structure or the contours of the sea floor around them. It wasn’t difficult to picture the wall, and I looked at my chart to confirm my suspicions. Yup: the wall’s bathymetry was what I would expect: changes in water depth from sheer to abrupt. Just off the cliffy shores, water at 15 fathoms. A few yards beyond that, 30 fathoms. Another 100 yards more and double that depth again. I made a note on my chart in pencil.

As in the northeast and everywhere in the world, changes in water depth are what fishermen here look for, because water depth changes indicate places where fish hang out. So wherever I end up on my trip, I’ll pore over my charts in search of the narrows, inlets and fast-water back eddies near changes in depth. Most important, I’ll seek out spots where abrupt depths abut shallows.

I had the lowdown. There are a lot of fish to catch in the Pacific Northwest: five types of salmon, kitchen table to barn door-sized halibut, yelloweye rockfish, lingcod and red snapper. I might have to get away from popular and overfished areas, and would certainly have to be aware of local closures, but the question, really, was not so much where as how.

Of course, a sea kayak is my vessel of choice. Sea kayaks are especially well suited to fishing. They’re fast, relative to other human-powered craft, and their average speed of 2.5 to 5 knots is ideal for trolling. Their ability to handle rough water if the paddler is skillful, practically guarantees that a fisher will get back to shore no matter how rough the conditions. All I will need are my few simple fishing tools and the willingness to apply some rudimentary kayak-handling skills in ways that some readers might not anticipate.

LAND FISH ON MY OFFSIDE.
Anyone who’s paddled a season or two realizes that they have an offside, or a side of the kayak on which they feel less confident and stable. Typically, right-handed paddlers feel less confident bracing to port (left), as they have to use their less coordinated arm and leg to control the paddle and hold the kayak. Likewise, paddlers who can roll are typically more comfortable recovering from capsizing to port, as rolling up from a port-side set up allows them to use their more coordinated and stronger right arm and leg to sweep the paddle and complete the hip snap.

That said, I’ll fish only from the port side of my boat. Fishing off my weak side may sound counterintuitive (I’m right handed), but there’s good reason for it. By fishing to port, I’ll rotate my torso to port so I can land my fish with my right hand, which is stronger and more coordinated than my left.

USE MY HIPS AND KNEES TO BALANCE THE BOAT.
The larger the fish, the stronger it will be. And the stronger the fish, the more intensely it will struggle. I’ll need my other hand (my left) to hold my fishing rod while I land the fish with my right. That will leave me with no hands to hold my paddle. I’ll have to keep my hips loose to keep the kayak fluid beneath me. On the other hand, I’ll need to practise pushing up one knee, then the other, and also each thigh, to stabilize my boat. Conversely I’ll practise flattening one leg within the cockpit, then the other, also for stability. I’ll have to remember that my legs, hips and knees will be the only tools I’ll have at my disposal to stabilize the kayak when waves roll by, if boat wakes bear down, or if a large fish repeatedly pulls heavily on one side.

DON’T LOSE ANY GEAR OVERBOARD, AND DON’T LOSE THE PADDLE!
Of the numerous pieces of gear I could lose while landing a fish—and that includes a pump stored on the foredeck—none would be as catastrophic as losing my paddle. Jamming my paddle under the foredeck bungees while landing a fish would be awkward and unwieldy. Instead, I’ll secure my paddle to the foredeck with a three or four foot bungee cord.

This issue of a paddle leash is controversial, I know, but I defend it like this: landing a fish is absorbing, often demanding work, and often requires concentrating on that task alone. The last thing I want to worry about is dropping my paddle and losing it to the wind and tide. With a leash, if I catch a fish, I’ll drop the paddle off to one side, confident I won’t lose it. Then I’ll get down to work with the fish. Similarly, because I’ve invested considerable money in my rod and reel, I’ll leash the rod also. Otherwise I might see my pricey fishing gear sink to the bottom. So that the two leashes will be less likely to intertwine, I’ll leash my paddle to the foredeck, and the rod aft.

BLEED MY CATCH AND STORE IT.
Finally, I’ll carry a very sharp knife safely sheathed in a block of closed-cell foam. My serrated rescue knife won’t do, as its blade isn’t long enough. I’ve already ruined a fish or two in the past by neglecting to bleed my catch as soon as it came to the boat.

Bleeding my catch (a deep cut across the throat, just beneath the gills, to sever the main arteries) serves three key purposes. First, it kills the fish quickly and more humanely; secondly it prevents the fish from flopping around and potentially injuring me or capsizing my boat; and thirdly, bleeding my catch nearly quadruples the amount of time the fish will stay fresh without ice. Drained of blood, the fish’s flesh does not oxidize as quickly. All I’ll have to do then is store the fish in the aft hatch—either by going ashore and opening the hatch or, in calm water, twisting in the cockpit to do so.

These are the first basics of fishing I’ll bring with me to the west coast. In another story, I’ll talk about the lures I will bring, the lines and the weights, and how I will rig and think depending on whether I’m targeting salmon, lingcod, yelloweye, or halibut. And most importantly, the right way to mooch.