By Paul Lebowitz

Our group of salt-stained kayak anglers had been off the water a couple of hours already, but the hair at the back of my neck was still standing on end. We were gathered around a table at lower Big Sur’s Kirk Creek campground, where we dipped fresh-fried tortilla chips into a rapidly diminishing bowl of creamy guacamole and sipped cool drinks. In spite of the relaxed setting, the sea still had a hold on me as we chatted about the day’s adventures.

It had been a day of rare fine weather. The surf overslept; that morning we’d launched our kayaks onto a quiet ocean that never lost its kindly sheen. The wind and fog had taken the day off. Instead, the normally boisterous seas around Lopez Point basked gently under a warm summer sun. The fish were on duty. Dusky coppers, brilliant vermilions, black and blue rockfish galore, and a couple of hitch-hiking lingcod came to play. A handful stayed for supper. In fact, a couple of them were bubbling merrily in the big kettle, soon to fill the tastiest of tacos.   

Big Sur had smiled kindly on us. Yet I still couldn’t shake a certain spooky feeling that haunts me every time I travel to this special place. I mentioned as much to fellow Big Sur regular Stephen Blackwell.

The tall gourmet chef thought a moment, pulled the crisp-fried fish out of the oil, and set it next to a big piece of glossy surf-smoothed jade he’d found on a remote beach the prior day. Seeing the precious stone, he found his answer. “That’s Big Sur magic,” Blackwell said.      

Blackwell was right. Big Sur crackles with natural magic. This is an untamed place.

Most visitors are confined to the narrow asphalt strip of Highway 1. Some pause for a while at one of a handful of small campgrounds or inns that perch precariously on small coastal terraces or ledges carved out of the precipitous slopes of the mile-high Santa Lucia Mountains. A hearty few don a pack and hike the thigh-burning trails of the Ventana Wilderness. Almost no one ventures onto the ocean.

The real Big Sur wilderness waits out on the often steel gray sea. Only the rare boat passes this way; the nearest harbors are more than 40 long miles distant. There are no more than a handful of easily accessible beaches along Big Sur’s rugged 100-mile long coast. The kelp beds and rocky reefs are the near exclusive province of the hand launched boat.  

Big Sur’s isolation protects an incredibly abundant rockfish population.

It’s also the source of that delicious shivery feeling reported by many of the hardcore kayak anglers who paddle here. All of us are acutely aware that we’re visitors at the mercy of the areas’s powerful and unpredictable forces of surf, swell, wind, and fog. Get in trouble here and you’re on your own. It’s an oddly empowering experience.

“You come away feeling alive,” is how Blackwell put it. Let’s take a look at how you can share the experience.

Getting on the Water
The main puzzle in Big Sur is not how to fish it. That’s straight-forward. It’s how to get to the fish in the first place! For that, you need an accessible beach. The best of those are clustered in the Pacific Valley area of lower Big Sur between the tiny hamlets of Lucia and Gorda.

The most northerly is at Limekiln State Park, a delightful but small seaside campground that boasts the only hot showers in miles. Campers only! They enjoy another benefit: early launching. Day use visitors are locked out until 8:00 a.m.  

Limekiln’s south facing gravel beach is usually the most sheltered of the bunch, but when the surf is big it’s very tough. The waves crash down shore-break style, but with a lot of surge up and down the steep beach. Once you take off here you’re committed, because the receding water will pull you right into the impact zone.

The fishing directly in front of the launch cove is poor, due in large part to the sandy debris that constantly pours off a nearby cliff. The good stuff isn’t far away. Head northwest. A broad zone of rocky reefs begins a bit past the distinctive reddish maws of the Jasper sea caves and extends to Lopez Point.

Big Sur’s favorite all-hours kayak launch spot is at the Mill Creek picnic area just south of the Kirk Creek campground. Don’t be discouraged by the rocky shoreline visible from the parking area. To find the launch, walk along the rough trail that sneaks a short distance past a shoreline cliff to find a hidden cove and sandy beach. Bring a friend; it’s a short but ankle-busting carry. The surf at this southwest facing cove is a crumbly beach break.

Fishing is mediocre around the launch, but quickly ratchets up to incredible a mile or so to the southeast. The golden zone offshore of the Pacific Valley coastal terrace begins at a prominent wash rock and goes on for miles. When fishing this area, pay careful attention to the weather. The landing zone is upwind. If the wind is too fierce for a safe return, there are a few suitable bail-out coves along Pacific Valley.

Sand Dollar Beach is a gorgeous crescent of white sand. The sheltered south end of the beach is a terrific kayak launch spot, but the tall access stairway and narrow trail lined with an over-abundance of poison oak discourage all but the determined. Most kayakers go elsewhere.

The final lower Big Sur launch beach is at Willow Cove. Drive a mile or so south of Jade Cove, cross the bridge, and head down the narrow spur to the beach-level parking area. Willow is a steep gravelly beach where the waves break powerfully right at the edge of the water. As you ready your gear, keep your eyes open for smooth, sparkly green stones. They could be jade. Here and at the aforementioned Jade Cove it’s ok to collect loose bits of the precious stone from the mean high tide line down to 90 feet. 

Respect Big Sur’s often punishing surf. Remember, there’s no lifeguard on duty. As Blackwell pointed out, fear is good. “It keeps us levelheaded. There are plenty of times I’ve stayed on the beach because the swell was too consistent or gnarly,” Blackwell said. 

What about Big Sur proper, the more visited area up north? Forget about it. The only drive-to sand is at notoriously rough and windy Pfeiffer Beach. Launching at this hazardous spot is strongly discouraged. A few diehards once put up with a mile long portage to launch at nearby Andrew Molera State Beach. No more; the area is part of the new Point Sur Marine Reserve.

Fun, Fun Fishing
Welcome to the best shallow water rockfishing found between San Francisco and San Diego. The big boys are here: prized vermillion rockfish in the 5 to 8 pound range and lingcod that reach 12, 15, even 20 pounds or more. There are absolute hordes of the smaller fry, and they average a zippy 2 to 3 pounds. Blues, olives, blacks, coppers – pick a color, they’re probably sitting on a reef or swimming in a kelp bed.

Finding the fish is usually simple. Paddle over to the nearest structure and drop your choice of rubber or metal. If you haven’t connected within three drops, move a bit and try again.

More often than not, the real challenge will be how to sneak your offering past the thick schools of aggressive blue and black bass. Use heavier weight to get to the bottom faster. Going big alone won’t deter the smaller attack bass – they’ll worry a swimbait, Scampi or grub down to a nub.

Favorite baits? They almost all work on these uneducated fish. Still, people have their preferences, and mine is a fast-falling narrow-bodied metal jig in black and chrome or blue and white. Start at a couple ounces for fooling around in the shallows, and go on up to 8 ounces or more.

Use a wide-gap Siwash hook instead of a treble to reduce the chance of snagging the bottom. In plastics, I prefer rootbeer, red and white split-tail Scampis and blue, white and purple swimbaits from 6 inches all the way up to giant sized (12 inches).

The little blues and olives are a blast. Oftentimes a whole school will follow a hooked fish up to the surface, competing all the while for that tasty bit of plastic or metal in its mouth. Once up top they’ll linger. Break out the bass gear, its topwater time!

Big Sur denizen Blackwell agrees frenzied olives and blues make for fun fishing. “They light up, boiling everywhere. It’s a fish a cast, and every one fights hard,” Blackwell said. 20 or 30 fish days are nothing to brag about.

Magical Big Sur is not an ordinary place. Said the chef: “People need to understand how special it is and treat it with the utmost of respect. Take only what you’re going to eat. Please don’t put it in the freezer.”

That’s a sentiment worth echoing. If we care for it, Big Sur’s supply of hair-raising goosebumps will be there every time we want to remember what it’s like to feel fully alive.

THE CHEF HIMSELF Stephen Blackwell at his special place, Big Sur.

FROM FRENZIED BITES to unsurpassed scenery, kayaking the Big Sur coast provides a never-ending parade of experiences. Above, hordes of blue and black rockfish will worry swimbaits to the nub.

THE JADE on the head of this gaff was legally collected from a Forest Service Beach . Below, Blackwell in front of the Jasper Caves, another of Big Sur's geological wonders.

THE JEWELRY worn by this vermillion rockfish is the always effective MegaBait Live Jig in black and chrome. Below, the launch at semi-sheltered Limekiln State Park on an unusually calm day. Kayakers should be prepared to face challenging surf at any Big Sur location and be equally prepared to call off the launch if conditions are too tough.