Casting Call

When the sun set on another day in the life of Jeff Klassen recently on a deserted beach north of town, it did so fittingly.

With the 6-foot-5 fisherman standing ankle-deep in wet sand, shin-deep in swirling surf, silhouetted against a purple sky and engaged in battle with a large, copper-colored snapper that would eventually become dinner.

After landing his prize, Klassen quickly carved it into fillets and, in the dim light of dusk, waded back out to rinse his hands, only to be sent high-stepping comically back to shore by a seven-foot hammerhead shark that brushed against his legs.

Perhaps this, too, was fitting, because although a day in the life of Jeff Klassen is usually a day at the beach, it rarely involves lounging in a hammock--and almost never is dull.

The Henhouse

The southernmost beaches on either side of the Baja California peninsula are Klassen’s home away from home, shunned by the masses who believe that the farther offshore one travels, the better the fishing must be.

Granted, you won’t catch a marlin, dorado, or any of the so-called glamour fish walking the beach with Klassen.

But the world’s most prolific beach fisherman--a Seattle resident who spends much of his summers here--can guarantee one thing none of the captains can: You will not get seasick.

You might shake loose a kidney bouncing across a snake-filled desert getting to the places he likes to fish, but you’ll forget about that pain when your right arm starts to throb after your 83rd cast of a four-ounce surface plug.

But if alternative angling adventure is up your alley, track down Klassen--he’s on the Internet at www.jeffklassenfishing.com--to see if he’ll take you on a wild ride to the Henhouse, where getting lucky means getting your hooks into a 50-pound roosterfish.

He named the private beach after a small green house that used to stand where the desert meets the sea--and after the marauding roosterfish that patrol its shores.

Klassen, 37, says an underground spring enriches the tidal zone here, attracting thousands of bait fish, which in turn bring not only the really big roosterfish, but schools of dogtooth snapper, also called pargo, and jack crevalle.

During Klassen’s most recent visit, he brought along a client named Dennis Spare, 53, a surfer from Vista taking a break to try something more relaxing.

Instead, Spare was handed a 10-foot spinning rod that had at the end of the line an estimated 70-pound roosterfish, which dragged the surfer 300 yards down the beach and sapped the life from his arms during an hourlong fight.

They hung limp at his side while Klassen’s assistant, Tom Meyer, held the fish so Spare could pose for a picture. Meyer then hoisted the big rooster atop his shoulder and carried it back to the water’s edge, where he spent 10 minutes reviving and releasing it.

The Roosterfish King

Klassen’s personal best is the first rooster he ever caught, an 84-pounder he wrestled ashore after a three-hour struggle nine years ago below Frailes Point on the gulf side of the peninsula.

It was a classic battle that turned to Klassic comedy in the waning moments under a balmy night sky.

“The line breaks and the fish is just lying there on the wet sand, and another big wave is coming in,” Klassen recalls. “So I dropped the rod, and myself and these three Mexican guys who were standing on the rocks--we just jumped on top of this fish the moment the wave crashed. One guy shoved his hand right through the gills of this rooster. . . .

“The wave just bowled us all up onto the rocks. And we were all cut up and beat up and everything, but we had the fish. It was 8:30 at night and it took three of us to carry him up the hill and put him in the back of the car.”

Klassen releases his fish these days, keeping only an occasional snapper for the dinner table--or any fish that might qualify for the record books.

He has set eight world records from Baja’s sun-drenched shores. Three still stand: an eight-pound-line record for a 34-pound snook he bagged in 1997; a 16-pound-line record for a 22-pound 8-ounce jack crevalle he caught in 1992, and an all-tackle record 21-pound 4-ounce leopard grouper he pulled from its cavernous world in 1995.

The one he wants most, though, is the one that keeps eluding him: the roosterfish record.

The 16-pound-line record is a 68-pound 12-ounce specimen caught off Costa Rica. Klassen’s 84-pounder would easily have wiped that out, had he been thinking about records back then.

The all-tackle record is a 114-pound roosterfish caught in 1960 off La Paz. Klassen says he has hooked bigger, but without a boat to chase the fleeing beasts he has been unable to stop them.

“How many roosterfish have I caught in all my years down here?” he asks, repeating a question. “I’ve probably hooked up several thousand, but I’ve passed a lot off to clients. Myself? I’ve probably caught a couple thousand.”

Lore of the Land

The number of fish stories spawned in this resort city will make your head swim. Well, that might be the margaritas, which flow freely down here. But then, fish stories and margaritas seem to go hand in hand.

There are tales of tuna pulling people overboard, of marathon battles with monstrous billfish, of marlin jumping into boats and wahoo jumping over them.

Klassen’s yarns differ only in that they do not involve boats, and listening to him spin a few, if nothing else, may give you a greater understanding of the dynamics of Cabo’s surf zone.

There was his encounter with a 400-pound bull shark six years ago at the Pedregal, Cabo’s posh seaside community. He hooked a 20-pound roosterfish and had passed the rod to a customer, who successfully landed the fish as his wife and friends cheered.

As the client held the rod, Klassen waded out, grabbed the leader and bent down to pop the hook free with his pliers “when all of a sudden everyone on the beach started screaming,” he recalls.

“We turned around and looked at them and I shrug my shoulders like, ‘What are you screaming at?’ So me and the guy both turn back around at the same time and at that moment there was this big splash.

“All I remember seeing was white and red. I was just soaked and all I could see was this big, black tail in front of me, going across, like in slow motion. Water and blood was flying everywhere and everybody was screaming.

“The two of us were trying to get out of the water, but we’re in the middle of this shark attack thing. We got to the beach and the guy actually fainted.

“He dropped the rod in the water and I was still holding the leader . . . and a couple of the wives were crying and screaming.

“One of the women pointed at me and said, “Oh my God!’ I look down and see I’m covered with blood and I’m thinking for sure I was hit. I started feeling around and then realized that I was OK. I’m still holding the leader and all I had was the head of the roosterfish.

“It was a miracle of God that I wasn’t hit because he bit that fish and he kept biting and biting, and the fish was flopping and everyone was screaming and I couldn’t see anything but red.”

Then there was the “bay of pigs” incident years ago on a remote beach north of San Jose del Cabo.

“I was standing knee-deep and casting when all of a sudden a whole cloud of sardines came flying out of the water and landed right on the beach,” Klassen says. “There were five or six small roosters that had herded a whole school of bait and chased this bait all the way onto the beach.

“They came right through my legs and were flopping around behind me. I look and see these roosterfish take off with mouths full of sardines, but all of a sudden two pigs, two huge hogs came out of the woods and start gobbling up these sardines.

“They were just munching away on these sardines on the beach and then they just disappeared. It was almost like they knew that this was a nightly thing.”

And there was “the invasion of the body snatchers” back at the Pedregal.

“I was fishing with one of the Mexicans, who was using a hand-line, right at sunset and all of a sudden there’s this big area of churning water coming right at us. You could almost hear it,” Klassen says. “It was the biggest school of jack crevalle you could ever imagine; they had herded all these mullet right at us. My lure didn’t even hit the water--it was caught in mid-air and, bang-bang, we were both hooked up, and mullet are flying everywhere and going between our legs.

“I’m standing there and this big jack going 30 mph hits me in the ankle and knocks my feet out from under me and down I go, plunging in the water with all these fish swimming over the top of me. It was total chaos. All they cared about was getting those mullet, and then away they went.”

All but one, a 20-pounder that Klassen reeled in after climbing back to his feet.

Lasting Impressions

It’s high noon at the Henhouse. The morning bite has been dreadfully slow. Meyer’s white truck is rolling precariously over the soft white sand, and all eyes are on the incoming waves.

Suddenly, there’s the loud and familiar cry: “Roosters right there!”

Mullet are flying everywhere in panicked flight, speeding toward the beach. The tattered dorsal fin of a large roosterfish is amid them, slicing through the foam. Other roosters can be seen streaking through the faces of the breakers a little farther out.

Rock guitarist Stevie Salas hooks up and stands locked in battle for 20 minutes, his surf rod pointing to the horizon.

He gives his quarry no slack, but suddenly there’s total slack. The hulking fish, by shaking the hook in the impact zone, has pulled the plug on Salas’ act.

But now, Salas is at center stage again. An enormous dogtooth snapper has emerged in the face of a six-foot wave like a monster out of a demon sea, its fiery gills flared and its mouth agape, ready to devour the plug Salas is skipping across the surface.

“Pargo!” someone cries from the beach. Salas keeps reeling, as previously instructed, but seeing this 50-pound snapper virtually on top of his lure is too much. He rears back to set the hook, only to find that there is no resistance, no sign of the fish. He had blown his own gig this time and knows it, falling to his knees in despair.

Then Klassen is back in the spotlight, looking like the subject of a surrealistic seascape, silhouetted against a pastel-colored sky, his rod bent to the sea.

And minutes later, he’s looking more like a lanky cartoon character, walking on water to escape the jaws of death.