Sittin’, Thinkin’, Talkin’, Fishin’ : Santa Ana River Lakes Provide Relaxation at End of Working Day

The line forms on the right. And it forms every evening at 11.

Men, women and children stand single-file outside the bait and tackle shop located on the north shore of Anaheim’s Santa Ana River Lakes, waiting to have their mugs and channel cats (catfish to layman) snapped by Mike Hubbard with his ancient Polaroid.

Capturing their tired faces on black and white film, Hubbard’s camera is a lot like the three lakes.

Out of place.

Instead of being located in the middle of nowhere, the lakes are in the middle of everywhere.

Just off of the Riverside Freeway, which forms its southern border, the lakes’ not-so-natural landmarks include a discount furniture store to the west, where the best fishing is supposed to be found.

Veterans think the store’s large rotating sign might have something to do with attracting fish and, therefore, fishermen. Or, just maybe, it’s the fact that even if you don’t catch anything, you’re close enough to buy that sectional sofa you’ve had your eye on.

OK, so you won’t see these fishermen with Curt Gowdy on “American Sportsmen.” They’re working types who hope to cash in on the 8,000 pounds of fish poured weekly into the lakes.

Just off the job, they head to the lakes in their work togs. Kerosene lamps at their sides, they usually sit quietly, staring at the water, allowing a generous amount of space in between camps, so as not to entangle their lines--or their thoughts.

For five years, they have come to the bountiful Santa River Lakes, most to fish, some to tell their stories.

There’s one about a kid who jumped over the fence surrounding the lakes, avoiding the $6 charge for children ($8 for adults), and caught 13 catfish with his bare hands. Though the story isn’t verified, the catfish bites on the hands are.

The lakes seem to specialize in unsubstantiated stories . . . fish stories.

There are the stories about Gerald. That’s how everyone knows him. Just Gerald. He seems a nice enough fellow, they say, though the stories about him are as mysterious as a Bigfoot citing. Gerald has become well known for his practice of standing on a deserted part of the lake shore, fishing pole dug into the sand next to him, and yelling, “Hey! Hey fish! C’mon fish! Let’s go!”

“The crazy thing is he always seems to catch plenty of fish,” said Paul Rufinelli of Carson. “I’m not sure what his secret is, but I don’t want to get too close to find out.”

There are two sessions at the lakes. The morning phase begins at 6 and ends at 4 p.m. Employees use the latest in technology to clear the 150 acres of fishermen when the first session ends. They drive around the perimeter yelling, “Let’s get the lead out,” from a beat up pick-up truck.

Night fishing is much more popular, at times attracting 1,000 anglers.

Rufinelli has been coming to the lakes with his friend, Ken Burton, at night for the past three years. Rufinelli owns a bait and tackle shop, but it’s landlocked in the middle of Carson.

The two men list ocean fishing as their favorite sport, but say the lakes provide a great way to unwind after a tough day of work.

“I think half the reason people come here is just to relax,” said Burton, a construction worker. “You want to catch a few fish, but you also just wanted to be able to kick back with a few brews and think or talk.”

It’s a sentiment shared by most who come to the lakes. The lakes, which cover 150 acres, are actually a reservoir for the Santa Ana River. Because it’s really a river, a current gently flows by the dimly lit figures.

Music may calm the savage beast, but a slow river current seems to rejuvenate the working man’s spirit. If Henry David Thoreau had worked 9-to-5, chances are he could be found somewhere such as the Santa Ana River Lakes.

“It’s almost hypnotic,” Burton said. “You think and say a lot of things out here that you wouldn’t normally say.”

Henry Gordon will tell you he doesn’t need to talk. He has let his harmonica speak for him since he was 8 years old when he was living on a South Carolina farm. Gordon, who lives in Los Angeles, has been fishing for 45 years. Santa Ana River Lakes isn’t the best fishing he has ever seen, but it’s close. That’s important, because Henry has to squeeze fishing in between gigs as leader of “Dr. Gordon’s Gospel Harmonica Band.” The band’s name is splashed across the door of his station wagon in large metallic letters.

But, when the concerts don’t come, the station wagon converts from music machine to motel.

“Sometimes after I finish fishing at night, and if I got nothing to do the next day, I’ll just pull out on the street and sleep until they open up in the morning,” said Gordon, smiling. His front teeth are covered with as much gold as Sammy Davis’ fingers.

“Besides playing the harmonica, there’s nothing else I’d rather do than fish,” he said. “And sometimes I do both while I’m sitting out there.”

Things aren’t always like Golden Pond, though. Sometimes it’s more like the Battle of Midway.

Rufinelli and Burton recalled about a year back when they were the victims of incoming fire. Well, it was actually only one rock and it was thrown by a 45-year woman. But to the two men, it was the thought that counted.

It started when the woman and her family decided to set camp close to Burton and Rufinelli. A little too close.

“They kept getting their lines crossed with ours,” Burton said. “We told them they should move, because it would keep happening, but they wouldn’t. After it happened the fourth time, I cut their line. She got really mad and started yelling at me. I couldn’t understand what she was saying, I think it was in a foreign language.

“All of sudden, someone yelled for me to watch out. I just turned to see her heave this rock at my head. She missed me by a few feet. I don’t think it would have killed me, but if it had connected it could have done some damage.”

It’s inevitable that friction would build between lake veterans and newcomers. Since the lakes require no license and are freeway close, many people who wouldn’t normally fish, do.

The tackle shop provides everything from poles to rowboats. They’ll give you everything you need, but they can’t teach you how to use it, and that’s where problems start.

“A lot of the people who come out here don’t know what they’re doing,” Rufinelli said. “If you try and help them, a lot of the time they’ll tell you to get lost.”

Rufinelli’s a nice guy. Never mind his “Make My Day,” cap complete with Clint Eastwood pointing a .357 Magnum, poised to shoot. Rufinelli always is ready to lend a hand. Whenever he and Burton catch more than their five-fish limit--one time they caught 16--they give their fish away to someone who hasn’t been as lucky.

See, these guys know what they’re doing. One of their favorite forms of bait is worms soaked in transmission fluid. They say it drives the fish, and if it ever found out, the Environmental Protection Agency, crazy.

“Everybody has their own favorite bait,” said Willie Jones of Los Angeles. His favorites include nightcrawlers and Velveeta. “No one knows for sure what works. But that’s the fun of it.”

With apologies to Mr. Jones, the fun is in just being there.