The increasing shortage of kings in recent years has attracted some slightly grumpy sportsmen and I am one of them, although a little lucky.
I was there when the Chinooks invaded the region like a horde of Genghis Khan’s horsemen branded with 100-proof fermented goat’s milk.
I first heard about the lagoon when we moved to Homer about 40 years ago and was introduced to the silvery beasts lurking beneath its surface by a couple of big grunts, Louie and Pat “The Fish Assassin.”
He had been fishing since he was big enough to hold a 4-foot tree branch set up with a line, a hook, and a very cheese worm, so he was sure he knew just about everything there was to stalking fish in the north. Cascade Mountains of Washington State to the inland waterways of Puget Sound.
Now, as any true angler realizes, an angler who sports that kind of attitude is very likely to eventually show general potting soil fishing acumen, and I quickly confirmed the theory.
When I originally joined the duo at the water’s edge, I made a professional entrance sporting super rigs and secret baits that no fish in the world could resist. He was prepared to stun the boys with “new blood” techniques and establish a major reputation.
I achieved the “major representation” goal by being attacked three days in a row while The Fish Assassin couldn’t keep things *&^% off his line.
I swear I could have thrown moose nuggets at the bugs and they would have turned into sushi trying to wrap their black gums around my hooks. That was disgusting.
I was a good sport, staying calm, watching his techniques, and waiting for the opportunity to steal his “hot spot.”
My time came when it was his turn to do the morning feeding of the smolts in the holding pens, leaving me unsupervised for an hour.
Big shout.
I hit the lagoon as he joined the minnows and smiled at me while muttering about my pitiful skills and use of questionable equipment that Goodwill would have rejected as charitable donations. The man had a black belt in verbal takedowns with low kicks to a guy’s ego.
Fortunately, my luck and attitude changed on the fourth day, when The Killer finally tired of watching me flail around with large herring carcasses, gelatinous balls of highly fragrant home-cured roe, and floats the size of a basic missile frigate that created mini tsunamis. as they crashed into the placid pond.
He also noticed that I was starting to make the nearby tourist fishermen nervous.
Pat understood that unsuspecting visitors become a little squeamish when a guy the size of a medium-sized grizzly bear growls at his pole and insults his bait with a running commentary that would mortify a marine boot camp instructor.
He suggested I should “keep things simple” and opt for lighter line, a single hook, smaller lures and a cork the size of a swollen grape while growling, “You want the fish to take your bait, not knock it out.”
Early the next morning, as I was working to calm my attitude and employ some serious tackling improvement, Louie, another teacher from The Hole showed up with a jar of what he called his “Wonder Eggs.”
The moment the grumpy guy crouched down next to me, he immediately started complaining about not being able to light his cigarette because the kings were hitting too fast. I swear that guy caught fish about 8.5 seconds after his bobber hit the water. Yes, I know, long-term memory transforms reality.
I finally gave up and did something that manly fishermen fear the most. I publicly allowed a competitive sportsman to demonstrate to me how to properly ride and then accepted another guy’s highly superior bait while I still had some of my catastrophic cure that even the seagulls ignored.
After all these years, I’m still plagued by the displeasure of letting my self-image crumble like 20-year-old toast just to catch a fish, but I ended up landing a great blackmouth about ten minutes after changing my setup and I’ve been filling my annual card since then.
Trying the humble fish pie was just the beginning of a graduate school of lessons taught along the shores of the lagoon, like not losing a fish to your brothers.
I still get criticized for losing a megabeast at 04:32:15 on June 14, 1998.
There’s no mercy out there, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Nick can be reached at ncvarney@gmail.com if he’s not arguing with Turk again about who was at fault 10 years ago when their lines got tangled and Turk lost a fish that Nick said weighed about 8 pounds and Turk is still screaming that he was a mutant who would have fed his family through the winter.
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