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Bottomfish Bounty By Mark Freeman Jun 10, 2022 01:00 AM A A Point St. George Lighthouse Reef densely populated with diverse species Mark Freeman /Mail Tribune. Michael McGahan holds a lingcod and halibut caught at Point St. George Lighthouse reef. [Photo by Andy Martin] Point St. George Lighthouse is located between Bookings and Crescent City, California. BROOKINGS — Brent Foster feels the simple tapping of what feels like a small black rockfish on his line 100 feet below the charterboat Kraken, and Foster would rather parlay that rockfish into a monster worthy of the boat’s name. “I’ll leave it down there a bit to look for a hitchhiker,” Foster says. Within minutes, a huge lingcod attacks the black rockfish. Much to its lingcod’s chagrin, it bites into the small rockfish and embeds itself on the hook. After a bit of a street-fight, Kraken Capt. Michael McGahan gaffs the big ling to complete the great bait-and-switch. “Check out that hook,” Foster laughs. “It’s going through both fish. “How lucky,” he says. “How beautiful.” Luck and beauty combine regularly for those on board the Kraken during special trips just over the Oregon border to what bottomfishers know as perhaps the Pacific’s most fertile near-shore fishing reef among the lower 48 states. The Point St. George Lighthouse Reef halfway between Brookings and Crescent City, California, features a series of deepwater rocks and roiling currents that are home to a dense and diverse collection of bottomfish. Named for the famed lighthouse erected 150 years ago after a storied and deadly ocean liner wreck, the reef is well-known for its lingcod bounty that come to the gaff either conventionally by biting a plastic squid jig or more ceremoniously via the hitchhiking route. But it’s also home to a cornucopia of bottomfish species that highlight the size and rainbow color spectrum of the briny deep. Vermilion. Canaries. Quillback. Blacks. Blues. And, of course, the occasional deep-water denizen, Pacific halibut. They all congregate over the fertile rocks and bait-generating currents that converge right around the storied lighthouse. “We have the potential to catch so many species here,” says McGahan, who skippers the Kraken out of Brookings for Brookings Fishing Charters. “Even I get surprised by some of the species we catch out here. “Every now and then, I have to pull out the species chart to see what we’ve caught,” he says. The reason is that these deep-water caverns intermixed with pockets of sandy shoals are awash in krill, sardines and other baitfish that make it an attractive spot for everything from gray whales and sharks to massive schools of black rockfish that can cover 75 feet or more of the water column in some areas. The goal is to drop an 8-ounce jig through those rockfish clouds — sometimes anglers can feel the jig knocking into black rockfish on the descent — to the bottom after the larger and more desired lingcod. Anglers can keep two lings over 24 inches per day, and most will tell you their bonus-fish status is such that legal-sized lings are rarely released. But it’s not uncommon for Kraken customers to release two, three or more smaller lings just to stay in the game for a much larger hitchhiker. “This place is so fertile,” McGahan says. “You would not believe how much life is out here.” But strangely enough, not much of that life is of the two-legged ilk. The Kraken rarely has to share the reef with many other boats, given the geography. The lighthouse’s location — smack-dab between Brookings and Crescent City — should generate heavy interest from both ports. But those motoring out of Crescent City rarely venture past the reef’s rocks well south of the lighthouse. Those motoring in from Brookings are in for a 40-minute ride and must pay $18.40 — California’s one-day angling license fee — for the privilege. But skippers like McGahan typically fish from the lighthouse north and away from their Southern brethren. “Often, we have this place to ourselves,” McGahan says. Also, the run from Brookings can put off anglers with less seasoned sea legs. The currents and winds are rowdy enough that they can make for tough conditions for jigging that requires a lead jig and plastic skirt to dangle directly under the idled boat. “It can be difficult to get here — and difficult to fish,” McGahan says. Back in the 1800s, the reef was difficult to survive. But when ocean factors align, the spot produces big fish and lots of them. With one last group of rocks to jig, McGahan ends his lighthouse day on the Kraken with the reef’s piece de resistance: a Pacific halibut tipping the Toledoes at close to 40 pounds. “I guess it’s time to leave,” McGahan says. “We’re definitely not topping that.” Mark Freeman covers the outdoors for the Mail Tribune. Reach him at 541-776-4470 or email him at [email protected]. Shipwrecks gave rise to lighthouse The Point St. George Lighthouse is on North West Seal Rock on the line of the so-called Dragon Rocks named by explorer Sir Francis Drake after numerous shipwrecks here. But none were more famous — or history-changing — than the wreck of the overloaded Brother Jonathan July 30, 1865. History buffs might remember the Brother Jonathan as the paddle steamer that first brought smallpox to Canada’s Vancouver Island in 1862, triggering the pandemic that wiped out much of the Northwest’s Native peoples. Three years later, in perhaps a moment of karma, the ship was overloaded with 244 passengers and crew as well as a large shipment of gold valued today at roughly $50 million while headed from San Francisco to Portland. It struck an uncharted rock and sank, killing all but 19 people. The wreckage wasn’t found until 1993, and some of that gold was recovered three years later. The wreck elicited calls for navigational aids. But this is a tough place to build a lighthouse. The lighthouse and caretaker’s residence are on the rock, plus 50 feet of foundation, to soar 144 feet above the water. It’s on just 1.6 acres and is one of the most exposed lighthouses on the Pacific coast. That’s why it was built to look like a medieval fortress. It finally came online in 1892 and cost $752,000 to build. That’s the most ever for a U.S. lighthouse. Because of where it is, it takes hits from water on all sides. The storms here are crazy. One in 1952 broke the windows of the lantern room 150 feet above sea level. It was decommissioned in 1975 and replaced by a floating lighthouse buoy. — Mark Freeman