July 15, 2025

Kings of the Mystery Dock

By Harry Arabian

It was one of those cloudless Southern California mornings where even the breeze smelled like salt and summer. I was waiting with my bike at the corner of San Onofre Street and Basilone Road, just a few blocks from the beach. The crossing signal blinked red, so I stood there, straddling my bike, watching surfers with boards tied to their car roofs drive past.

That’s when I spotted Paul.

He was wobbling down the sidewalk on his old blue Schwinn, a fishing pole sticking out like a jousting lance, and three big sea bass flopping against the handlebars in a tangled string. The fish were huge—each one bigger than a football—and clearly too heavy to pedal with.

“Hey, Paul,” I called out, grinning. “Looks like you hit your daily fishing limit!”

Barely catching his breath, Paul wheezed, “Hey, Bobby. I found a new dock, man! On the shore, early this morning—caught the biggest sea bass in thirty minutes!” He wiped sweat off his forehead and added, “Meet me at the crosswalk tomorrow. Six sharp. I’ll show you the spot.”

“You got it,” I said. “I’ll bring my tackle.”

We fist-bumped like true fishermen. The light turned green. As Paul shuffled across, he shouted, “My mom’s gonna be proud when she sees my catch!”

I laughed and called back, “My mom hates fish. She’ll complain until I eat the last bite!”

Then I pedaled off toward San Onofre Beach for a day of surfing and sun.

The next morning, I was up at 5 a.m., stuffing my backpack with snacks, my fishing rod, and my little red tackle box. I reached the intersection at six sharp and saw Paul already waiting, bundled in a puffed green windbreaker.

“Man, that must’ve been some sea bass,” I joked. “Looks like you’ve gained twenty pounds overnight.”

Paul laughed, unzipping the coat dramatically. “Windbreaker, Bobby. Morning’s chilly!”

We rode side by side for twenty minutes, bouncing over cracked asphalt and dusty trails, dodging sagebrush and salty old saltbush. The trail narrowed near the ocean, turning soft and sandy. Paul groaned and jumped off his bike.

“We’re close,” he said, breathless. “Gotta walk the rest.”

We pushed our bikes down a skinny path until a wire fence came into view, tall and rust-stained. Paul pointed.

“Behind that—mystery dock. Best sea bass in all of Orange County.”

I squinted at a sign nailed to a crooked post.

“Dude... it says NO TRESPASSING.”

Paul waved it off. “That’s for civilians. We’re proud Marines.”

I smirked. We weren’t Marines. We were ten-year-old kids. But we’d watched enough war movies and lived close enough to Camp Pendleton to fake it.

We ducked through a narrow gap in the fence. A faded blue sign hung sideways: WELCOME TO ONOFRE. A busted metal gate lay in the sand like a fallen shield.

We froze when we heard a distant bark—sharp, echoing off the hillside.

“Was that a dog?” I asked, whispering.

Paul nodded slowly. “Maybe. Or a coyote. Just stay low.”

He hustled toward the dock, trying to act braver than he looked. I followed, my heart thudding a little harder.

Paul set down his gear and opened a plastic tub of bait. Then, in the nerdy voice of our math teacher, Mr. Winslow, he said, “Yes, you can use your bait. No, you can’t borrow someone else’s.”

I cracked up. “Nice one.”

We got the lines set up by 7 a.m. and sat back on our backpacks, staring at the still water. By 7:30, nothing had happened.

I reached into my bag. “PB&J time,” I announced. “You want my goldfish crackers?”

Paul snatched them like he hadn’t eaten in days.

“Who owns this dock anyway?” I asked.

Paul puffed out his chest, older by six months and clearly feeling like a grown-up.

“I think it’s the old boat dock for Nuclear Nipple Ranch.”

I blinked. “What?”

“That’s what my dad calls that weird dome-shaped building behind the hill.”

I laughed. “We call it the Boobies of San Onofre. Every time we drive by, my dad points and says, ‘Look, boys. Nature meets nuclear.’”

Paul pointed behind us. “You can see the whole thing from the top of the water tank. Come on, race you!”

We dropped everything and sprinted toward the big round water tower. I took the stairs on the right, Paul on the left. My legs pumped like pistons.

I made it first, hands on hips, looking out over the morning coastline. There they were—the domes.

“Beat you!” I called as Paul panted up the last step.

Just then, he pointed down. “Dude! Our fishing poles!”

They were bending—something was tugging. We bolted back, leaping stairs three at a time. I got there first, gripping my rod just in time. I reeled hard and fast—my heart thudding in sync with the whir of the line.

Paul arrived, searching the dock frantically.

“Where’s my pole?!”

I looked up, still wrestling with my catch. “The sea bass took it,” I said. “Gone with the tide.”

Paul stared out at the surf. “Guess that’s the one that got away.”

We laughed until our stomachs hurt, two salty kids under a salty sky, kings of the mystery dock.

And future Marines, of course.