A CALIFORNIA BASS. 



Charles Frederic Holder, 



The sea-fishing ot Southern Cali- 

 fornia is peculiar. Some small 

 fish can be taken from the piers 

 that jut into the surf at Santa Mo- 

 nica, Redondo and Long Beach; but 

 the shore line of almost the entire 

 coast is sand, upon which beats the 

 surf of the Pacific. The fishing, from 

 the standpoint of real sport, is con- 

 fined to the islands, off shore, which 

 are rocky and precipitous, affording 

 good ground for many fish that avoid 

 the sandy beaches of the mainland. 



The most available islands are San 

 Clemente and Santa Catalina, which 

 are reached in less than three hours, 

 by a line of steamers from the main- 

 land. The delightful nature of the 

 trip, aside from the fishing; the good 

 hotels at Avalon, and the ease with 

 which it is reached from all over the 

 State, have made this island a most 

 popular resort. 



Santa Catalina is about 22 miles 

 long — a jumble of mountain peaks 

 and ranges, with abrupt rocky cliffs 

 rising directly from the sea, with deep 

 water all about it, so that almost any- 

 where ships of the largest size can 

 run in shore and touch their bow- 

 sprits to the rocks. This is the nat- 

 ural home of fishes of the bass fam- 

 ily, and many kinds are found here. 

 On my first visit I went down on the 

 little beach one evening and soon 

 was exchanging fish experiences with 

 the islanders. I told the assembled 

 anglers of a catch of black bass I 

 made one year, at the Thousand 

 Islands, which in size broke the rec- 

 ord of a single catch for that year. 



" How large were they?" asked one 

 of my listeners. 



" Five pounds each," I replied. 



" Just the size we use for bass 

 bait here," said the fisherman, 

 dryly ; and then followed fish 

 stories which I believed only when 

 I saw the fish. They were 

 about a member of the bass family, 

 that weighed up to 600 pounds and 



that would tow a boat about for an 

 hour. 



A few mornings later I started af- 

 ter the mysterious game. My man 

 was on the beach when I arrived, the 

 boat tugging at her painter as if 

 eager to be off, and the slight swell 

 was making the pebbles on the shore 

 sing and talk. 



Avalon Bay is a picture. It is a 

 perfect semi - circle, forming the 

 mouth of a canon that winds away 

 up into the mountains. As we pushed 

 off there was not a ripple on the sur- 

 face. We pulled up shore for per- 

 haps a mile and came to anchor off 

 a pebbly beach in water about 60 

 feet deep, directly over a big rock 

 which my guide said rose here some 

 10 feet from the bottom. The line 

 was about the size of the Eastern 

 halibut line, perhaps a little larger; 

 the hook large, and the bait a live 

 6-pound whitefish. A heavy sinker 

 was attached, and the bait kept about 

 5 feet from the bottom. The boat- 

 man slipped the anchor, fastening 

 the rope to a buoy which could be 

 cast off at short notice. Thus equip- 

 ped, we sat and waited, the boatman 

 telling me of the island and its sin- 

 gular history; how it was discovered 

 350 years ago; of the bands of na- 

 tives found by the Spaniards, of 

 their strange disappearance, and of 

 the many antiquities found on the 

 island. All this, and more, he told, 

 when suddenly the line which I held 

 began to tauten and then to glide 

 through my fingers. There was no 

 jerk, no twitching — simply a business- 

 like walking away of the bait. 



"Bass!" whispered my guide, as 

 though fearing the fish would hear 

 him. " Give him plenty of slack! So 

 — now give it to him!" 



The fish had taken perhaps 15 feet 

 of the line when I struck my hook 

 into his jaw. Next there came 

 a response so terrific that my arms 

 were pulled elbow-deep into the 



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