“DAMNATION,”  CAPTAIN DAVE TRIMBLE MUTTERED WITH CONTEMPT.  HE HOOKED THE TEASER TO the reel and placed the rod in the holder before rattling through the stuff on the console. He finally laid his hands on the ammo container. He shook it. The tell-tale silence indicated that the container was empty.

The mako was being hassled by two furballs.

Trimble had decided not to even cast the teaser; the furballs would steal the strip of tuna belly that was attached to it anyway. They would probably scare the mako away as well.

Furballs, dawgs, Zalophus californianus. California sea lions are lithe and agile in the water. At about six feet in length, they weigh over 600 pounds. Although makos can grow to over eight feet, the shark that circled our boat was only about four feet long. The two furballs taunted him with impunity.

A larger adult mako would scare the living daylights out of these dawgs. This late in the season, though, the larger makos were well out in the Pacific while we were only a couple of miles outside of Mission Bay fishing the 100 fathom curve. I had hoped to catch a mako on the fly, bring him to the boat, and touch him before releasing him back to the sea. With these furballs hanging out in the last chum slick we would set for the day, it began to look as though my ceremonial touch would never happen.

The frustration was palpable; it hung over the boat and was as thick as the fog that had blanketed Point Loma earlier in the day.

I tapped my finger impatiently against the 10/0 hook while biting my lip. The eye of the Trimble Shark Fly looked at me peevishly through its red super hair.

“Damnation,” Trimble stammered, repeating himself, “should’ve stopped to get some ammo before we left.”

California sea lions are protected under the Marine Mammal Protection Act. Their numbers, though, have been growing, if not thriving. They lounge on docks and guard them as if they are their own; they follow anglers and steal their catch right off the hook. The state of California does allow non-lethal means to control them and many boaters and anglers, as a result, will be packing. A wrist rocket or a paintball gun is the weapon of choice.

Dave searched the deck for a something to shoot at the furballs. He found a few pebbles near the chum bucket. He loaded one in the wrist rocket and waited for the furballs to surface.

“I just want to hit him in the ass,” he said, “I don’t want to put his eye out or anything.”

The furballs surfaced. Their heads bobbed about ten yards off port. Dave drew the wrist rocket, aimed for the larger furball’s rear, and fired. The pebble hit him in the butt.

Smarting from the impact, the furball dove quickly. His mate followed suit.

We waited. Dave and I stared at the blue water in silence. The furballs did not reappear. The shark didn’t either.

We watched for an hour. No furballs, no sharks. Both of us were too frustrated to speak, neither of us wanted to be the one to break the silence.

“Shark!” Dave finally broke in with the trump card.

A six foot mako circled below the boat. He surfaced and attacked a seagull. The seagull escaped and  set down, rather nonchalantly, a few feet away.

If we still harbored frustrations, we quickly let them go and got to work.

I drew the line off my fly rod and draped the loose coils in my left hand. I felt the 30 lb, wire leader between my fingers as I grasped the hook in my right. The eye of the fly looked at me as if to say “you better mean business this time.”

Dave hooked a fresh strip of tuna belly to the long, purple, squid teaser. He cast it out about 100 feet.

“Be ready,” he commanded and retrieved the teaser slowly.

The shark, feeling no embarrassment for having whiffed on the seagull, spotted the teaser, and followed it.

“Now,” Dave barked as he accelerated his retrieve.

I cast the fly out about 50 feet. It landed right next to the teaser. The shark looked at my fly and rose but missed it by several feet.

Dave pulled the teaser all the way in; I retrieved my fly, the shark circled below us.

Dave tossed the teaser out again.

“Now!”

Dave retrieved the teaser rapidly as I cast my fly right in its path. The shark gave chase. Dave pulled the teaser out of the shark’s line of sight.

Confused, the shark looked left and right for the teaser. He circled, spotted my fly, rose, and engulfed it violently in the right side of his mouth.

I paused and countered with a hard strip strike.

I felt resistance. To keep tension on the line, I rushed forward in the bow as the shark quartered away from the stern.

I realized that I had driven the hook home when I looked at my reel. The shark had taken all of the line and a good chunk of the backing. He had made a run away from the stern, turned, stormed away from the bow, turned again, and was now well past the stern. He was still taking line.

He took a deep dive and then shot out of the water like a missile. From where we stood, it looked to be about twelve feet.

He made another run, another jump, and then went straight down to the depths.

I worked him back and forth. My muscles trembled. He gave line, I took it. He took line, I gave it.

As I got him close to the boat, Dave noticed that the line had wrapped around his tail. Dave grabbed the line and asked me to let some line out.

“When the shark is free,” he instructed, “let him take the slack and make a run. This will keep him from jumping into the boat.”

Dave reminded me of the safety procedures to follow in case that did happen.

“Jump on the center console and get the heck out of the way.”

Dave unwrapped the line from the shark’s tail. The shark took the slack and made another run.

Although my muscles burned, I summoned the energy to reel the shark back to the boat. Dave grabbed the line and got him under control.

This shark was wasn’t angry, he was downright pissed. He shook his head left and right violently. Any thought of a ceremonial touch was out of the question. This mako would unceremoniously ravage any appendage that was draped in his way.

Dave carefully slid the release tool down the line. The mako snapped at it but Dave managed to pop the hook free. The mako gave a strong kick with his caudal fin and splashed saltwater on us.  “Probably the shark’s equivalent of saluting us with his social finger,” I muttered as the shark returned to the blue water.

My sarcasm belied the respect that this mako had earned. I collapsed on the seat, exhausted. Dave gave me a high five. We had both forgotten about the furballs that had dogged us earlier.