Tuna Fishing in Washington and Oregon

Somewhere well west of the rivers and near-coast salt water of Oregon and Washington, which offer the salmon and steelhead that are so deeply-rooted in Pacific Northwest history, another bounty attracts sport and commercial anglers. Every year a band of warm water makes its way north from California, and with it comes a collection of aquatic species that many people would never guess could be found in the region. The most prolific and targeted of these species is the albacore tuna. While Oregon and Washington residents remain particularly fond of catching and eating salmonoids, the thrill of chasing tuna is becoming an epidemic amongst sport fishermen. Tuna fishing offers an experience unlike any other northwest species, and last summer I had the privilege of making another trip out to the tuna fishing grounds.

Before the sun comes up, we are already waiting in a line to launch our boat, just one vessel in a long line of boats anxious to stretch their legs in the salty Pacific. It does not take long before we are slowly motoring out of the Port of Illwaco on the Washington coast. There is a light fog and some coastal mist falling to the water and it mixes with the adrenaline in the air, which is thick like the smell of diesel flowing from the big charter boats, and creates an intoxicating breath only cherished by the sort you would find in each of the boats. A long line of white lights, each representing a boat is visible as we slowly motor past the Cape Disappointment Coast Guard station, and onward towards the Columbia River. We hit the river and start our journey west. We go west between the north and south jetties, where the mighty Columbia River meets the brewing Pacific Ocean, a notorious and formidable bar, widely known as the most dangerous in the world. Today there are only small swells, with glassy smooth tops, and we cruise past cautiously, heading west through the buoys marking crab pots, which are scattered precariously like so many land mines. We head west through flocks of diving birds feeding on masses of anchovies, west past surfacing blue sharks and mola mola, west past flocks of sheerwaters. We go past a known halibut fishing location 25 miles offshore, and we push farther westward. Maintaining a heading of north by slightly northwest, we motor towards the area that sea surface temperature (SST) and chlorophyll shots taken from satellites indicate the water will be clearest and warmest, and thus, most likely to hold the migrating tuna. We head west 40 miles, until the water quickly changes from a murky green color to a clear emerald blue, which looks more like Hawaii water than Washington, and the water spikes several degrees to a tepid 63.

As we slow to contemplate dropping the lines, there are a handful of boats in sight, ironic, since we are 45 miles west of land, and the nearest boat fishing between us and the river we left nearly three hours before is probably 30 miles away. There is a guy who looks to be working a rod aboard one of the boats, and I keep a careful eye on him until I see them slip a gaff through an albacore and drag it aboard. We are in tuna water. We put out the lines- five rods and two 200 pound lines tied directly to the stern, called "hand lines." Trolling can be done at many speeds, but with the large feather and rubber skirted jigs we are fishing, we pop them along the surface at between six and eight knots. It is between three and four times faster than you pull gear for salmon.

We troll for almost an hour with no action, while chatter on the radio indicates boats around us are having similar or only slightly better luck. Finally, we pick up and run 10 miles south to an area producing better reports. It is only minutes after deploying our gear in this second spot that the back middle rod doubles, and line begins screaming off the reel. Our lure was skipping across the surface at seven knots and a tuna has slammed it going twice as fast in the opposite direction. I grab the rod and hand it to the first-time tuna fisher on board, a nine year-old boy who is a family friend of the skipper. The fish shows no sign of slowing or turning after a minute of battling. The kid hangs on to try and tire the fish, but before he can gain any ground, the tuna snaps the 30 pound test mainline. In the mayhem the captain is attempting to clear a hand line when he discovers it is heavy with a fish on. He brings it in hand over hand and we hoist our first tuna of the day onto the deck. The 30 pound albacore, with sleek lines and beautiful blue-black color goes ballistic when it hits the deck. The process of subduing and bleeding it to keep the meat fresh is mayhem, and it leaves the white deck of the boat splattered with red- another sight only a tuna fisherman or woman can truly appreciate.

We end up hooking about ten tuna, of which we land five, before time and fuel begin running low and its time to head for port. It is a slow day compared to many tuna fishing trips where fish are landed two, three, and four at a time, and fishing stops when the boat is full and the ice needed to cool the fish has run out. But five 30-pound tuna still go a long way, and we are better off than some of the boats headed back to shore empty handed.

Reliving this story and reviewing the latest reports to see if anyone has landed the first tuna this year, my heart starts pumping just a little faster. Like all anglers that have caught the tuna bug, the fever intensifies in the early summer. It is the start of a new season, it is July and...the...tuna...are...coming.