THE CASTING CALL
Thrill of the catch, cash, sponsorships keeps Ocamica chasing the big one
LAKE CONROE — Darrell Ocamica surged past 60 mph on a hammering tear through 3-foot swells that churned the water Friday morning at the 2017 Geico Bassmaster Classic.
With $1 million of total prize money and far more in potential sponsorship earnings dangling on the line, each of the 52 anglers has three days to reel in the 15 biggest bass he can catch.
Ocamica, making his first Classic appearance at age 40, sensed the fish slipping away every moment that passed without his bait in the water.
Shortly after the slow launch from Lakeview Marina at 7:20 a.m., he was far enough to stomp on the accelerator in a breakneck race to reach his favorite fishing area 20 miles away.
His drive took on the feeling of a high-speed chase. He squeezed the steering wheel like an outlaw gripping the reins of a mustang. He hooted like one, too, after the boat went completely airborne and continued slamming through the cavalcade of waves.
He briefly took his hands off the wheel and clasped them for a prayer that inspired him to shout over the wind: “I just hope nobody’s found my fish!”
This year’s Bassmaster Classic is the 47th in history and first visit to Lake Conroe, the 21,000acre impoundment of the San Jacinto River in Montgomery and Walker counties.
More than an institution for outdoorsman, the “Super Bowl of Bass Fishing” has turned the leisure activity into a teeming spectacle. On Thursday, 52 bass boats lined Texas Avenue downtown like a fleet of sports cars—only the boats are more expensive.
By Friday morning in Conroe, cars backed up 1.5 miles on Highway 105 from the hundreds of fans arriving before dawn to see the launch. Electronic music thumped as a master of ceremonies hyped up the crowd.
In a Geico-sponsored boat, an alarmingly realistic-looking, 6-foot-tall gecko held its hand over its heart and waved an American flag during the national anthem.
The days end with boxing-style weigh-ins in front of thousands of fans each night at Minute Maid Park.
Anglers can catch up to five fish per day over an eight-hour period and keepers must be a minimum of 16 inches long. Only the top 25 anglers through two days advance to a final round Sunday.
Finding the magic spot
The scramble to find fish and the struggle to catch them made Ocamica’s dire sprint necessary. After 17 minutes of full-throttle action, the boat curled left and crawled toward the north end of the lake. There, Ocamica arrived at his spot.
“This is a magic tree,” he said, wide-eyed and nodding.
He had relied on it during a qualifying tournament for amateurs in November.
The tree loomed over the water, which he said cooled and concealed a bass hole.
“We about to put a hurtin’ on,” Ocamica crowed.
He knelt and neatly arranged four rods on each side of the bow. The rods varied in tension and bait type, which enabled Ocamica to switch his approaches quickly. He made his first cast at 7:45 a.m., and tried three rods in six minutes to get a feel for the conditions.
As the only angler in sight by the magic tree, Ocamica created a soothing soundtrack as he cast his bait near the shoreline and reeled it back. Whiz. Plop. Swish. Over and over again.
The sport demands voracity. Ocamica’s cast rate — about one every 10 seconds — paced him for around 2,500 flicks of the wrist that day.
“There will be guys that will bring in none or one or two today,” Ocamica said. “I don’t want to be one of them.”
The Classic is a dream come true for the Idaho boy who snared river fish at 8 years old. When a game warden stopped him once, he thought he was in trouble. It turned out the warden wanted to take a photograph of Ocamica holding up his catch to show off to other officers.
“It’s dang near bigger than you are,” the warden said.
‘It’s what we do’
Ocamica grew to a lean 6-4. He starred in high school track and basketball.
Still athletically built, he considers himself “a West Coast kid,” with a soul patch and a calf tattoo of himself on a dirt bike to commemorate his younger days as a bicycle motocross racer.
When he met wife Marni, he took her on a date to Olive Garden and then showed her his BMX trophies and fishing rods.
“He didn’t put a move on me for a couple weeks,” she said. “All he wants is to show me his stupid fishing poles.”
She laughed at the memory. She does not consider his fishing rods trivial anymore. In 2001, she brought him to tears — a rarity, she swore — when she bought him tickets to the Classic. She keeps a photograph of him covering his face, overwhelmed with emotion. He wound up not going. He pledged he would only go the day that he made the cut as a competitor. By then, Marni understood why.
“It’s kind of magic to me to watch him fish,” she said. “It feels so much bigger than just an obsession because it does something for all of us.”
Before the Classic kicked off, Ocamica and Marni took their three sons — Fisher (who was named three days before his dad’s first pro tournament) age 11; Jackson age 8 and Jared, 5 — to the Downtown Aquarium.
“I found Dory!” Jared exclaimed as he pressed his face against a tank with surgeonfish.
The grandmothers took a tour of the aquarium, too. A total of 12 family and friends eventually gathered in Houston to support Ocamica’s fishing dreams.
“It’s our life,” Marni said. “It’s what we do.”
A tough day
In his eight hours Friday, Ocamica floated and raced around various spots on the north side of the lake. He whipped his baits through dry thickets, dropped them in buck brush and flung them against docks in a display of precision that suggested he could land bait in a shot glass if necessary.
Despite his accuracy and confidence at the start, more than 99 percent of the time Ocamica finished his fishing rod symphony flat, without a bass dancing on the end of his line.
Classic winners reach their daily limit and exceed 60 pounds of accumulative weight. Lake Conroe was particularly challenging for many anglers because of 30 mph winds that chopped the water and the 16-inch minimum length, which is longer than most competitions.
Of the 52 anglers, 26 caught their limit. One competitor did not catch any fish on Day 1.
“That’s not normal,” said Casey Ashley, the 2015 Classic champion and a competitor in 124 official tournaments. “This is the roughest lake I’ve ever been on.”
Ocamica reeled in several fish that were within one-quarter of an inch of making the cut. He caught only three he could keep, for a total of 9 pounds, 3 ounces.
Anglers were penalized if they arrived at Minute Maid Park with dead fish.
In addition to Classic officials, more than 7,000 fans, who filled sections 108 through 118 of the ballpark, wanted to see the fish alive and twitching.
Weigh-in spectacle
Anglers sat in the back of their boats, while a truck towed them around the warning track like a parade float.
When they reached a spotlight along the third-base side of the field, the fishermen hoisted their largest bass by its gills and shook it defiantly to ignite roars from the crowd.
Entrance music of their choosing blared as they then walked across a runway toward a scale for their bass sacks and podium for speeches.
Ocamica rolled into the spotlight with lyrics from rapper Eminem: “You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow/ This opportunity comes once in a lifetime.”
“I chose it because it depicts the moment,” he said. “If you don’t grab hold and run, you will get left behind.”
Unlike most of his competitors, Ocamica skipped his chance to preen and did not flaunt his bass. He knew his catch was lightweight. He ranked 35th on the leader board.
Ocamica was proud of himself. He did not consider the bass in his live well the only measure of success.
In his Friday speech, he told the story of a family friend who suffered blood cancer and for years believed in Ocamica as an angler.
“He said someday you’re going to make it to the big stage,” Ocamica said to the crowd, which suddenly became quiet.
In section 111, row 19, Ocamica’s sons held up hand-drawn signs with images and cheers for “Daddy.”
When he started his speech, Marni’s blue eyes became bloodshot and she threw her hand over her mouth.
She could not keep from crying. Her husband had kept his Christmas pledge, which he made clear in his speech.