Clarion's Cows

Can you handle spending two weeks at sea more than a thousand miles from port in search of mammoth 300-pound yellowfin? If so, then long-range tuna fishing is for you!

Discovered by commercial fishermen half a century ago, Hurricane Bank lies 1,125 miles south of San Diego. From November through June, this Mecca is a prime destination for long-range tuna fishing trips departing from California’s finest landings.

Can you handle spending two weeks at sea more than a thousand miles from port in search of mammoth 300-pound yellowfin? If so, then long-range tuna fishing is for you!

Discovered by commercial fishermen half a century ago, Hurricane Bank lies 1,125 miles south of San Diego. From November through June, this Mecca is a prime destination for long-range tuna fishing trips departing from California’s finest landings. However, Hurricane is just a warm up to the ultimate of all monster tuna destinations, Clarion Island. Now while you may think that 14 or more days at sea is a long time to spend on a boat of any size, short of a Royal Caribbean ultra-luxurious ocean-liner, when monstrous yellowfin tuna and wickedly fast wahoo are definite possibilities, you’ll end up wishing you had more time.

experienced long-ranger, my most recent adventure aboard Qualifier 105 is one that I will not soon forget. Qualifier 105 is a specialized vessel designed for comfort and extended days at sea. Typical of many extended long-range trips, Qualifier 105’s skipper punched in a course for Hurricane Bank some 400 miles southwest of Cabo San Lucas, and thanks to a northwest swell quartering off her 30-foot beam, she took three and a half days to make the journey, including a brief pit stop in Cabo San Lucas to pick up the group of anglers who chose to fly in. “The Bank” is the most offshore destination ordinarily fished by the San Diego long-range fleet. On most charts it’s called the Shimada Seamount, a magnet for vicious game fish of unimaginable proportions.

Decking tuna to 190 pounds and plenty of huge ‘hoos, we departed Hurricane Bank at dark on our third fishing day and arrived the following morning at our primary destination, Clarion Island, where we donned our permit bracelets and checked in with Naval authorities. We anchored in a little bay called “The Camp,” just off the only beach on the rocky, volcanic outcropping, one of very few places where sea turtles can lay their eggs unmolested by man. Frigates, boobies, shearwaters and terns also live on Clarion without human predation and were kind enough to reveal where the tuna were surfacing to feed out past the boundary limit.

The yellowfin off Clarion were the right stuff. Fast, husky and long-sickled, these fish were a serious force to be reckoned with. They ran from 60 to over 300 pounds, and sometimes as many as half of our anglers got bit on a stop.

Just before noon on our second day at Clarion, I hooked a monster on my 80-pound outfit, the lightest stand-up gear the captain permitted. This tuna was easily the largest I’d ever hooked, so it was reassuring having second skipper Cal Link and deckhand Brook Landavazo advising me through the tight spots. As another gourmet lunch was served (long-range vessels are famous for providing passengers with fantastic meals and an endless array of snacks and beverages), all the anglers made their way into the galley, everyone but me that is. I remained on deck, staggering and sweating under the strain of an untamable gargantuan of the deep.

Any angler who has ever had the privilege of connecting to a massive yellowfin knows that the excitement is highlighted by drag-screaming dashes across the stern, and my fish, like all mature yellowfin, was no different. The fish circled and reversed direction more times than I care to remember. Then, as if someone ignited its jet engine, the huge tuna blasted off, breaking the surface off the stern port corner with its two-foot-long sickle glistening in shimmering hues of blue and gold.

Another hour of grunts and groans later and there it was, only a few feet away. On the outside of dozens of circles, the mega-fish was finally close enough to the surface to stick but just too far off, making implanting the long calcutta gaffs simply impossible. By now, I was completely out of gas. “I’ve had it,” I said to the deckhand. “Let’s just get the damn fish on the boat. You finish him off,” I muttered as I handed the rod off.

I turned to put a bottle of water to my mouth when at that very moment; I heard the dreaded four-letter expletive. Later the deckhand explained, “I took half a turn and he just came unbuttoned.”

It was disappointing, but no surprise. The end of the 80-pound leader was well chewed. That evening, skipper Sims instructed us in a the galley, “No more light line. Fish nothing less than 100 lb. test!”