Ovgard

Despite its name, fishing isn’t allowed from the Fisherman’s Wharf in Monterey, California. Technically. Probably for lack of crazies attempting to do so, there are no clearly defined rules about fishing underneath it.

Despite my continued presence on the dating app, Hinge, I am just unhinged enough to make these distinctions.

At high tide, the water below the pier gradually deepens from about 4 to 20 feet. At low tide, those figures are roughly halved. But with a minus tide, where the water level is below the normal 0-foot sea level elevation, the end of the pier sits in just about 8 feet of water. Ask me how I know.

Donning waders on a chilly November night a few years back, I packed some tackle and my phone into the pocket of my waders, donned a beanie and strapped a headlamp over the top. Passersby would agree that the headlamp wasn’t the only thing over the top, and the few folks brave enough to face the Pacific’s chill breath that night to adventure a stroll on the boardwalk did give me strange looks, but that’s never stopped me before. Probably why I’m still on Hinge and definitely why my adventure that night was so unhinged.

It was a minus tide that night in Monterey, so after work, I drove seven hours and arrived just in time to fish about an hour on either side of the night’s low tide, which sat at nearly minus 3 feet (read -3.0 on tide tables).

As a small-town boy, I wasn’t about to pay $20 for parking, so I’d parked about half a mile away. The long walk in waders quickly warmed me and allowed me ample time to focus.

My research had shown several fishes I hadn’t caught, peacefully living in apparent dissonance underneath Fisherman’s Wharf. How we, societally, got to a point where Fisherman’s Wharves don’t allow fishing is a discussion for another day, but it meant the fish there were lulled into a sense of security I was prepared to make false.

The first few steps into the frigid waters were met with no alarm. I wore socks under insulated, bootfoot waders wrapped in wading boots. As my calves sank into the brine, the cold water forced the warm air up and out of my waders, forcing the fabric to cling to my skin.

By mid-thigh, I realized I was cold, but thankfully the waders were new enough as to not yet have pinhole leaks. So I was dry. Not warm, but dry. Like an English judge on an American reality show.

Ordinarily, waist-deep is the rough height of pertinence. Shakespeare, roughly paraphrased, would agree that caution is the height of valor. But I wasn’t using Shakespeare gear; I’m a Shimano guy. So I pressed deeper still.

I saw a number of woolly sculpins darting in and out of the cobble and rocky crags isolated in a sea of sand, but those are everywhere. I wasn’t making the effort for common fishes; I was after something special.

With each step, I pressed farther and farther out from shore. Around the time I was halfway out along the pier, the water deepened again, this time from waist-deep to rib-deep. I still had at least 8 inches of dry waders above the water, and the ocean was glassy. I figured I’d be fine.

Large rockfish, small lingcod and schools of surfperch cruised the shallows, darting to the depths when swept with the beam of my headlamp.

Blackeye gobies gave the light a mixed reception, and I quickly caught one on the naked sand. A picture later, and it was swimming free again.

Then I spotted a fish I’d only dreamed about seeing in person, the painted greenling, casually swimming along the contours of a sunken metal object that was now serving as an artificial reef. I put my bait, a tiny piece of shrimp, in its face. It nipped a few times but refused to commit, so I guess Hinge isn’t the only dating parallel in this story.

Time wasted away. I had begun with three hours to fish, but I spent almost an hour on that painted greenling, but I might as well have been painting rocks. Alas, I didn’t catch it.

The wash of my headlamp passed along the seafloor and found a similar-looking artificial reef maybe 50 feet from the first. It was visibly deeper, but I moved toward it, hopeful the deepening bank was just an illusion.

It wasn’t.

The 8 inches I had to work with when I started chasing the painted greenling shrunk in those increasingly cold waters to 6, then 4 then 2 measly inches.

I’m referring to the height of my waders above the water, mind you.

My Tenkara rod was collapsible, so I used its length to get ever closer to that reef, which looked like it may have once been an engine block. Regardless, it was now covered in aquatic vegetation, barnacles and at least one small fish that caught my eye.

I didn’t know exactly what species the sculpin was, but I recognized it as one I couldn’t recognize — which meant it was likely a species I hadn’t caught.

Unfortunately, when my bait crossed its path, it retreated to the far side of the structure. I creeped up as close as I dared, my waders now sticking out of the ocean less than half an inch. Careful not to crouch or lean over, I exhausted the depths of my skills trying to catch that fish. If I’d been able to get closer, I’m sure it would have been more effective. What I would’ve given for just one more inch…

I’d set a timer on my phone to notify me when I had 30 minutes of minus tide left to fish before the tide started rushing back in. It went off and scared what little sensibility I had left in me out in a masculine flinch that, thankfully, no one else saw.

The flinch sent the smallest amount of water into my waders, maybe a tablespoon, but it was enough to renew my vigilance. I doubled down.

Adjusting the size of my bait compulsively finally paid off, and I got the little fish to lift its head up from the rusted pipe or piston it was resting upon. A little flurry of the bait made the fish bite. I reacted as quickly as I could in the cold and set the hook.

I took my photos with the fish floating in my increasingly numb hands, let it go, and beat the tide back to shore just as my second alarm, indicating the water was now rapidly rising, went off.

It would prove to be the first documented snubnose sculpin ever caught on hook and line. Not the worst payoff for my crazy attempt and proving that sometimes good things come to those who wade for them.

Luke Ovgard’s book “Fishing Across America” is now available. Sign up for every CaughtOvgard column at www.patreon.com/CaughtOvgard. (Read more for free at caughtovgard.com; follow on Instagram and Fishbrain @lukeovgard; contact him at luke.ovgard@gmail.com.)