The King of Crappie : John Beale, 66, Is Worst Nightmare for the Species of Sunfish

John Beale has this recurring dream about falling into the water and being attacked by a school of killer crappies (pronounced CROP-peas).

“I’m swimming as fast as I can, but I can’t get away,” he says. “I wake up in a cold sweat.”

That would seem appropriate revenge for what Beale has been doing to crappies for most of his life, earning the kind of reputation reserved for those who raise skill to art.

Most of his disciples don’t know his last name. It’s enough that “Crappie John” is his name. He can’t start to say how many he has caught--that is, how many thousands he has caught--but it’s reasonable to say that nobody does it better.

Crappie John, soon to be 67, lives in Ventura and hangs out at Lake Piru, catching crappies and sharing his wisdom with anyone who asks--and some who don’t.

Fishing from the marina dock is not allowed, a technicality John circumvents by standing on one end of a pontoon boat in a slip, working his lure gently in a shaded corner under the float. It is 7 a.m., and every time he drops his line he pulls out a fish.

“Hey, guys, better get in on the crappies,” he yells to everyone within earshot. “They’re hot.”

He tells two fishermen getting into a rental boat, “If you want crappies, just drive around here to the other side of the dock.”

John notices some young men trying to get the hang of it.

“What weight line are you using?” he asks.

“I think it’s six-pound (test),” he is told.

“Oh, Lord, help these people,” he implores. “You could use that line to moor the USS Enterprise.”

John doesn’t tell anyone who he is, but they seem to know. “You’re Crappie John, right?”

On the lake, fishermen who don’t recognize him but notice his success ask what he’s using.

“Crappie John Finger Jigs,” he yells back. “You can buy them at the bait shop.”

Then, to a companion: “I never tell them who I am.”

The anglers leave, then reappear--and start to catch crappies.

To fish for crappies, John uses virtually invisible two-pound test line on an ultra-light rod, with the drag set so light that a strike won’t break the line. That can happen if a largemouth bass or trout blunders by and takes the lure. John calls those “nuisance” fish.

Soon John is working the dock, giving advice and encouragement.

“Too bad you couldn’t have been here yesterday,” he says. “I must have caught 150.”

When crappies are biting, they are usually in such abundance that most lakes have no limit or a liberal one of about 25. They are tricky to catch and put up a good fight for their size. The world records are 5 pounds 3 ounces for a white crappie and 4-8 for a black, both of which exist in most Southern California lakes. Most catches run from a half-pound to two pounds. John has been hooked on them since he was 8.

“I’d go to Puddingstone Lake with my granddaddy,” he said. “It was a mudhole and, supposedly, there were no crappies in the lake. My granddad went for bluegill. I’d catch crappie and nobody else would catch one, and the old guys, they’d say, ‘Here comes that little Crappie John.’ It stuck.”

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Crappies are a sunfish and strictly carnivorous. But although they bite best before and during their spawn in April and May, he has disproved the general theory that they don’t bite year-round.

Said Art Caldara, the marina manager at Lake Piru: “About the time somebody comes in complaining that the crappies aren’t biting, here comes John with a bucketful.”

The secret is not only having the right equipment, but the right technique. It requires a sensitive touch and a delicate balance of the lure, which “swims” level, like the tiny shad the crappies feed on.

“I make sure I hit about 10 feet of depth rapidly,” John says as he demonstrates. “Then I put the tip down near the water, have the bail (on the reel) open with my finger holding the line . . . give it a three-to-four-foot swift rise, drop the tip . . . watch the lure swim in a circular motion, and if the line stops . . .”

At that instant, the tip of his rod dips almost imperceptibly. John raises it slightly to set the tiny hook and starts to reel slowly. The membranous jaw structure of a crappie is so tender--they’re also known as “papermouths”--that a hook can easily tear out. But John’s touch is soft and sure.

“I don’t even feel them (bite),” he said. “All I see is the tip stop, and I swing.”

If the initial drop produces no response, John keeps the lure moving by twitching it.

“I just use my wrist and my elbow . . . just kind of thump it very gently. You can get hit a lot quicker if you make the lure swim at all times.

“This lure is so balanced that it swims circular at all times . . . acts like a wounded fish. If I stop, the lure just sits there. But when I twitch--now watch this . . . I’m only at eight feet. (Raise the rod) about four feet up, drop, watch the circle . . . usually they’ll hit it right there, or--there he is! Right at the end of the swim.”

He reels it in. “There’s another crappie.”

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The lake is the centerpiece of the Lake Piru Recreation Area. It is at 1,080 feet five miles up Piru Creek from the village of Piru, which lies in a historical pocket of Ventura County amid orange groves along California 126, 11 miles west of Interstate 5.

Less than an hour from downtown Los Angeles, the town once was a stagecoach stop between L.A. and Ventura. Indians lived along the canyon walls and used the reeds--pirus--to weave baskets. The town’s founder, David C. Cook from Elgin, Ill., planted the olive trees in the campground above the lake.

The lake, four miles long and averaging a mile wide, was formed by construction of the Santa Felicia Dam in 1955 as a multiuse facility for flood control, hydroelectric power, recreation and domestic, industrial, municipal and irrigation use. The Temescal Joint Union one-room school lies far under the surface, with the crappies.

But there is more than crappies at Piru. Besides largemouth bass, catfish, bluegills and planted rainbow trout, there are water skiing, sailing and swimming, although no boats shorter than 12 feet are permitted, ruling out sailboards and jet skis. The campground has 170 RV hookup sites and free hot showers.

Crappie John rates the crappie fishing the best in the state, with Lakes Cachuma and Isabella next.

“Hey, Art,” he yells to Caldara when the bite is on. “It’s (a catch on) every drop.”

He advises an angler: “Rub the skin of the crappie on the last five feet of your line and the lure. They’ll think it’s another crappie.”

John also advises that any crappies released be put back somewhere else.

“Don’t put ‘em back in the same hole,” he says. “They’ll go back down and scream and run the whole school off.”

He seems dead serious. After all, if he fell in, some of those fish might recognize him.