Sometimes we see bright lights at sea when looking toward the Channel Islands at night That is our intrepid squid fleet making their living.
One of the realities they deal with is that a major portion of their living comes during these cold winter months.
At times, the fleet is on the front (north) side of the islands, making it look from shore like a shimmering city of lights. At other times, the fleet works along the back (south) side of the islands and the city of lights seems to disappear.
Lately, they have been spending many nights working along the back side of Santa Rosa Island. That generally means a white seabass bite, but I digress. It is so easy to get me focused on fishing.
The image those lights create appears wild and exciting, and maybe even romantic. The truth however is quite different.
Those folks work cold. Those folks work wet. Those folks work long and hard. Sometimes they fill the boat and make good money. Sometimes they don’t even meet expenses.
Our community sure does depend on those crews. After all, they provide the bait we buy at the tackle shops. They provide the calamari (the name for squid when it is for human consumption) we take home.
They provide our tourists, and locals, with something interesting to watch, when they unload their catch. They provide the city’s Waterfront Department with funds for the coffers, and our local merchants with revenue because squidders shop like everyone else.
The squid boats provide a service at another level — out at sea. Fisherfolk are pleased to see the squid fleet at work, because that marks an area where squid are concentrated. Where squid concentrate, predator fish congregate.
It is feasible to drift or anchor near the fleet (without getting in their way) and jig up some live squid to use for bait. Sometimes we are able to trade or beg or buy a small amount of live or fresh dead squid from a squid seiner or a light boat.
One salty old captain told me he had surefire barter material. He had an oven on his boat, and he swears by his tattoo that there isn’t a squid boat crew out there who won’t trade a couple buckets of fresh squid for a hot apple pie, on a cold wet morning at sea.
Commercial squidding can be dangerous. The wet, cold, long and hard work frays tempers, and there are occasionally some royal battles among the fleet. Boats can be overloaded, seas can be treacherous, and accidents happen.
It helps to understand the process. A light boat (equipped with powerful downward-mounted lights) attracts large quantities of squid during the night. Then a seiner boat sets a net around the gathered squid, the light boat moves out, and the squid are hauled.
It isn’t always nearly that simple, but that’s the short version.
Then there is the long slow trek back to harbor. Things can go wrong enroute, as is evidenced by the wreck of a squid boat, the Miss Julie, sitting in 65 feet of water about a half mile from the harbor entrance.
I doff my well-worn hat to our intrepid squid fleet.