Ah yes, that moment at the dock when you spot the line of rental rods and know exactly how the day’s about to go. You can almost hear the chaos before it starts. They squeal when they touch the bait tank, drop half their sardines on the deck and step right on them, and somehow think casting across three other lines is a good idea.
They’ll wander down to the stern, flop their bait around like it’s auditioning for a bad seafood commercial, and try to squeeze into the one open spot right next to you. Let’s be honest — just move down the rail, please. But if there’s one thing these anglers have in common, it’s that they never, ever change their bait.
The result? A sardine with less life than your last houseplant. Every boat has one: the guy who insists his bait is “seasoning” in the current. Meanwhile, that poor sardine is dangling mid-column, looking like it got evicted from a sushi roll two tides ago.
And yet, on the right day, they’ll catch more fish than me. Last week, I went rockfishing. Determined to finally master my jigging rod, I failed spectacularly. I caught a grand total of zero fish while dropping down 600 to 700 feet every time. I have bruises under my arms, people. Winding up 300 grams of iron is not easy when you do it on repeat. Even after swapping to fresh whole squid caught the day before, my only victory was a single chilipepper rockfish that could have doubled as an aquarium goldfish. But the newbie with two dead sardines on her line? She pulled up double biters like it was nothing.
But come on, there’s a certain level of dedication required to do nothing for this long! It takes patience. It takes conviction. It takes ignoring every single sign of decay in front of you. The gills? Blown out. The eyes? Gone. The smell? Biologically weaponized. Even the sea lions have filed a restraining order.
Step 1: Deny Everything.
When the deckhand suggests swapping out your bait, act offended. Tell him, “It’s still good, she’s just… tired.” Bonus points if you give your bait a name. (“Hang in there, Carl!”) Nothing says “seasoned angler” like talking to your half-dissolved sardine while the guy next to you limits out.
Step 2: The Art of Stillness.
True masters know that a dead bait demands serenity. Don’t move. Don’t reel. Don’t blink. You’re not fishing anymore. You’re meditating. Become one with your decomposing chum. Picture it fluttering tragically in the current, scaring fish away with its existential energy. Fish weren’t put on Earth to dance, you know.
Step 3: Gaslight the Ocean.
When someone asks how long your bait’s been down there, respond with confidence: “This is what the big ones want.” Say it loud enough so everyone hears. You are rewriting the rules of marine biology one rotting sardine at a time.
Step 4: Pretend It’s Strategy.
When the guy next to you hooks up, nod wisely. “Yeah, see, I’m letting the small ones pass,” you’ll say, as if your bait hasn’t turned into biological mulch. Tell everyone you’re “fishing for quality, not quantity.” The only thing you’re actually fishing for is pity.
Step 5: Ride the Shame Spiral with Grace.
Eventually, you’ll reel in your masterpiece. It won’t have scales anymore. It might have some roadrash. It’ll look like something found in a tidepool crime scene. The crew will applaud your commitment. The captain will mutter something about “natural selection.” And you’ll stand proud, holding up your withered bait like it’s Excalibur.
In the end, fishing with a dead sardine isn’t about catching fish. It’s about catching attention. It’s about sending a message: I AM NOT HERE FOR THE RESULTS. I AM HERE FOR THE DRAMA.
So go ahead, keep that zombie sardine dangling. Ignore the sea lions, the deckhands, and the laws of decomposition. You’re not fishing for dinner anymore — you’re fishing for legacy.
Because, at the end of the day, it doesn’t matter if you’re fishing with a dead sardine — you’ll probably still catch more fish than I did that one frustrating day.
Turns out, anyone can catch a fish, but it takes real talent to make a corpse look more confident than me.
