Channel Bass Fishing In South Carolina 
By William E. Simmons. 
There is good channel bass fishing along the 
entire coast of the Palmetto State. I have heard 
much of the fishing about Beaufort, but personal 
experience enables me to speak only of the stretch 
of coast from the North Edisto to Georgetown, 
a distance of something more than ioo miles. 
I feel somewhat like a pioneer in speaking of 
the subject, for when I went to Charleston, in 
December, 1910, and asked where I could get 
some bass, I got the stereotyped answer: “You 
can’t get any now!’’ 
“Why?” I persisted. 
“Because it is winter time.” 
“Is that so? Well, if you will show me where 
you get them in the summer time, I will show * 
you I can get more now than you could get then.” 
In short nobody seemed to know that the 
channel bass is a winter fish on the coast of 
South Carolina. They are probably no more nu¬ 
merous in winter than in summer, but in winter 
there are no sharks to drive them away, and 
few small fry to steal your bait. My first try 
was in a creek between the Isle of Palms and 
the main land. To the surprise of all who watch¬ 
ed the experiment, I landed three small fish, 
from two and a half to five pounds. Throughout 
the winter I seldom went out without getting at 
least one fish, and frequently I got half a dozen. 
The succeeding fall and winter I tried the 
surf with better results, getting more and larger 
fish. I have taken a hand at every kind of 
fishing but I like surf fishing best of all. There 
is the always delightful ocean before you and 
the musical monotone of the surf, and the ex- 
hilarant expectation of the game, far you never 
can tell beforehand what you are going to get. 
You hope it will be a bass, but it may be a 
bluefish, a cobia, or a Spanish mackerel, or even 
a shark, but it is pretty sure to be something 
big, and to my mind, one big fish is better than 
a hundred small fry. 
One day in the latter half of June, I was 
fishing in the surf at Kiawah, an island about 15 
miles southwest of Charleston. A tremendous 
strike brought me suddenly to attention and off 
went the line. Presently a huge tail shot about 
ten feet out of the water and when I realized 
it was wagging the head that held my bait, I 
thought I had hooked the leviathan. It proved 
to be a shark about 15 feet long, which must 
have weighed 1,000 pounds. I landed him, but 
a breaker turned him over so that he got the 
slack and cut off my snell. As I had no gaff, 
having broken mine the day before, he wiggled 
back into the water. This may sound like a 
“fish” story, but I have two credible witnesses, F. 
C. Hammond and John Bogle, both of Charleston. 
Later, the same day, about low water, I stood 
upon a bar, knee deep in water with at least 
fifty bass, from 15 to 70 pounds, around me. I 
landed four of the smaller fellows before the 
sharks came and drove the school away. I 
hooked another big shark, but after a stiff fight 
he cut my snell and escaped. However, I wound 
up the day by landing a 70-pound clam-cracker, 
which gave me an hour of the liveliest sport I 
ever had. The clam-cracker looks like a huge 
stingray, but has no sting on his tail, and differs 
also in being a perfect whirlwind of activity. 
Experience is the price of a big bass. I caught 
hundreds of small bass, some up to 16 pounds, 
before I landed a big one. I had hooked a good 
many big fellows, but the snell, the leader, or 
the line always parted. I should be ashamed 
to tell how much time and tackle I lost before 
I landed my first big bass. At last, after a 
rapid succession of disappointments, I set forth 
one September morning, with a new $4 line. A 
fish, about ten pounds, struck me almost as soon 
as I cast out, but I failed to hook him securely, 
so lost him. A fresh bait, another cast, a hard 
strike, a violent outrus'h of the line. Hard down 
went the thumb guard; pop went the line. Hot 
air lifted the safety valve. But, rerigging, I 
registered a vow, the next big fish should run 
till he turned of his own accord. 
Luckily, I did not have to wait another day, 
but several hours dragged by- It was about 3 
P. M. and half ebb tide. I was sitting upon a 
box, with the surf lapping my feet, waiting, 
for I had found that bass bite best in the last 
two hours of the ebb and the first two hours 
of the flood. Unexpectedly, therefore, I got a 
strike from a big fish and supposed it was a 
shark. Nevertheless, faithful to my vow, I let 
him run, putting only enough pressure on the 
spool to keep it from over-running. The fish 
seemed to be heading for the other side of the 
Atlantic, but after he had run more than 100 
yards the drag of the line through the water 
turned him. I took in the slack as he came 
back, perhaps twenty yards. Then he made an¬ 
other frantic rush outward, only to turn again 
of his own accord. Thus the fight went on for 
some time, the fish alternately running out and 
coming back, while I, having at last acquired 
the great art of mastering myself, sat serenely 
upon the box and slowly mastered the game. 
I had worked the fish in to about 75 yards 
of the beach without seeing him, and was still 
fearful that he was a shark, when he rose to the 
surface, an indubitable sign of weakening, and 
made a splendid spurt to the right, along the 
crest of an incoming roller. Then I saw, with 
unspeakable delight, he indeed was a bass. Mag¬ 
nified by the water he seemed like a golden ele¬ 
phant, and I asked myself with something like 
dismay: “How can I ever land such a fish?” 
,But I kept a firm grip on my nerves, giving him 
free play at every rush, and taking up the slack 
line as he yielded. 
At length I brought him to the gaff, but the 
struggle was not even then over. Played out 
as he was, every time I lifted the gaff he man¬ 
aged to wiggle out of reach. His gills were 
working like bellows, and before the end he 
had me blowing almost as hard as himself. In 
his scales the large bass has a veritable coat 
of mail. The gaff cannot be driven into his 
back or sides. It must be struck into the gills, 
which is no easy task, or into the soft tissue 
under the jaws. At last I got the point of the 
gaff under his chin and victory was mine. 
I was alone, and when I had dragged my stil 1 
struggling prize high up on the beach, I felt 
like shouting to the breakers. Have you ever, 
dear reader, felt the elation of triumph? That 
was my first big bass. As I first saw it magni¬ 
fied by the incoming roller, it looked like a hun¬ 
dred pounder, the scales brought it down to just 
35 pounds. I have landed many big, and some 
bigger ones since, but never again have I felt 
the like exaltation. 
Excellent bass fishing is to be had at times 
by the jetties at the entrance to Charleston Har¬ 
bor, but it is subject to some impediments. You 
must go by boat, and, as the position is exposed 
to the open ocean, you must have a quiet day. 
The jetties are a favorite resort for sheepshead 
fishermen, but as those are not properly equipped 
for bass they seldom get anything but small fish. 
One day I went with a party of sheepshead fish¬ 
ermen and noticed a green pool formed by the 
outward swirl of the ebb tide close to the inner 
end of the south jetty. A few days later I bor¬ 
rowed one of the Carolina Yacht Club sail- 
dories and tested that pool. In less than two 
hours I landed three bass from 11 to 15 pounds, 
and my only companion, using a hand line 
caught one that weighed 9 pounds. The bass 
were plentiful and we could have loaded the 
dory, but an ugly squall came up in the south. 
My companion was a tyro in boating, and I did 
not care to risk a squall with the rocks under 
my lee, so we made for port. Three days later 
with two companions I returned to the pool and 
landed seven bass that averaged more than 21 
pounds. Such a catch had never before been 
seen by the yacht club members, and numerous 
parties thenceforward went bass fishing to the 
jetties. Up to that time there were few rod and 
reel fishermen in the old “City by the Sea,” and 
not a few handline anglers hotly resented my 
suggestion that they were throwing away their 
sport. But times have changed so that now the 
use of the handline has become exceptional. 
The best way to fish at the jetties is from a 
skiff. You can fish from a launch or a sail 
boat, but the fish are apt to circle and keep you 
moving fore and aft to avoid fouling the cable, 
the screw, the rudder, or the rigging. One day 
three of us in a dory each had a fish hooked 
at the same time, and it was like playing round 
the gooseberry bush. It was only by good luck 
that we landed two out of the three fish. 
