Bonito Rule King Harbor

The bonito weighs only a pound, but it has relied on timing to give its foes a fight they will not soon forget.

The captain has foolishly positioned the small boat in the traffic lane at the entrance of the small harbor and has been nearly lulled into a state of hypnosis by the continuous casting of the angler.

He snaps to when he realizes there is a flotilla of large sailboats bearing down fast, en route to the open sea, not giving the skiff a thought.

There is the pull of the cord and the sputtering of the motor, and a plan to make haste toward the safety of the breakwater, when all of a sudden there is the cry, “I got one!”

Thus, a fight is being waged by both the angler, to get his fish in; and the captain, to avoid being keel-hauled by the sailboats while at the same time moving slowly enough to enable a successful catch.

It is, after all, the only bonito the unlucky angler has managed to hook, after hours of casting.

And alas, the spirited little speedster is hoisted out of its blue-green world just as the sailboats glide past, one after the other, their crews visibly pleased to see that their wakes are nearly swamping the skiff and its two forlorn souls, who have no business being where they are.

As for the silvery little bonito, shining so brilliantly in the sun, it is admired for a few seconds, carefully unhooked and tossed overboard.

Pointedly but somewhat sheepishly, the captain repositions the boat in a safer location. The casting and the occasional catching continue throughout the course of a crisp winter day in a quaint harbor buzzing with life.

King Harbor in Redondo Beach is one of the smallest harbors in Southern California. But for decades its sprawling basin has served as a mecca for fly-fishermen and light-tackle anglers because of the bonito that come in such large numbers.

Dick Acker, 55, remembers back to the late 1950s and ‘60s, when you could catch 100 a day if your arms held out. Though the fish were caught more often for sport than for table fare, children would gather them up by the dozens and sell them to pier-top restaurants (illegally, of course) for 25 cents apiece.

For a variety of reasons, bonito fishing began to considerably wane, inside and beyond the harbor, in the mid-1990s.

But while the “boneheads” have not yet made much of an impact on the party-boat scene, they have returned to King Harbor, and those getting wind of their return have mounted a comeback as well.

“I can’t tell you how many people have told me that this is really cool because they used to come and catch bonito here as a kid,” says Acker, who for the last six years has owned Rocky Point Marine Fuels and Skiff Rental. “Now these same people are bringing their kids to fish for bonito. It’s a real tradition.”

The disappearance of the bonito, and their return, can in part be attributed to the operation of the power plant across the street from the harbor.

When the plant was fully operational, it released a steady flow of warm water from outflow pipes into the harbor, and the warm water attracted bonito, mackerel and other small game fish.

About 10 years ago the plant scaled down its operation, and it eventually shut down, only to be resold and reopened during the recent energy crisis. The warm water is being pumped in anew, and for the past two years it has been attracting wave after wave of bonito.

The first wave arrived in June 2000. They were the smallest bonito anyone can remember, measuring about eight inches, but they came by the thousands and could be seen chasing bait fish all over the harbor.

“You couldn’t spin your head around and not see one of them coming out of the water catching bait,” Acker says. “You could almost walk on them and then, after about three weeks, they took off.”

Since then, incoming schools have included fish ranging from one to about five pounds (bonito reach weights of more than 10 pounds) and fishing has remained fairly consistent, although some days are much better than others.

This is somewhat strange because open-ocean anglers aboard fishing boats up and down the coast have not experienced a rebound in the bonito fishery.

Scientists are unable to explain exactly why the tuna-shaped, silver-and-black game fish have become so scarce. It could be cyclical--they were similarly scarce from the late 1930s until the late ‘50s. But subtle changes in global weather patterns and overfishing also could be factors.

Whatever the case, they’ve found an avenue back to King Harbor, its balmy confines--often 10 degrees above what it is on the outside--representing a piscatorial spa of sorts.

Albeit, a spa fraught with predatory sea lions, marauding pelicans and, yes, those pesky fishermen.

It’s a busy day above and below the rippling surface. Boat traffic into and out of the marina is moderate, this being a sunny Sunday. Pedestrian traffic on the breakwater is brisk, as fishermen are seeking strategic locations from which to cast their wares.

Patrolling the shallow depths of the basin are the ever-vigilant resident sea lions, a dozen or so in all and all of them glutenous tubs of lard, monitoring the goings-on, traveling from skiff to skiff, kayak to kayak. Should anyone hook up, these behemoths clue in quickly, and strike fast.

“This is part of the game,” Acker says.

This is why he recommends a seven- or eight-weight fly rod with a 10- or 12-pound tippet, instead of something lighter. Or, for spin fishermen, six- to 10-pound test monofilament. The quicker the fish can be reeled in, the smaller the risk of having it serve as a sea lion snack.

Aboard the 13-foot skiffs Acker rents--$45 for half a day and $65 for a full day--are anglers young and old, fishing with either live anchovies or casting shiny lures or glittery flies.

Many are trailing bait sleds full of anchovies, which are highly effective as bait and “chum.” And highly attractive to dozens of pelicans that have stooped to stealing as a way of life.

On one skiff not far from the bait receiver, two young girls are doing their best to fend off a white-headed pelican that is repeatedly poking its head into their bait sled, emerging with beaks full of bait.

Their father is paying too much attention to his casting to realize that the big bird has probably gulped $10 worth of anchovies, and that his girls will never grow up to be scarecrows.

Not far away is a fly-fisherman aboard a kayak. Mike Shearman is a King Harbor regular, coming twice a week from Costa Mesa. “I caught 25 bonito two days ago, losing only five to the sea lions,” he boasts, whipping his fly through the air. “You should have been here then.”

But the captain and the angler were not here then. They are here now, frustrated by how slowly things are going, ultimately acting on the advice of another passerby suggesting a move to the mouth of the harbor.

Much to their chagrin, a flotilla of sailboats was about to make the same move.