Jim was one-of-a-kind, whose passion for our fisheries and love of fishing touched many of us. I regret acutely that I never got around to taking him up on his recent invitation to go fishing for Surf Perch, or learned a little of what he knew about steelhead in the San Lorenzo. Here are some recollections of Jim that tell us all why he was so special. - Kent Hull

* Seacliff Beach Surfperch
The first time I fished with Jim was one Spring, after he called to tell me about Barred Surf Perch running at Seacliff Beach. He gave me a couple "Motor Oil Charlies", a pattern of his own devise, and one he did not want me to share with anyone. Until today, I never did! "Don't worry about the barb. On these fish you'll need it to keep on to them." In an hour and a half, I landed five nice perch. Jim could cast more gracefully than a soaring Albatross and farther than Steve Young could throw a football - effortlessly. It was truly the most beautiful casting I'd ever seen. His six foot five inch frame towered over the breakers like a drilling platform. And I was having the time of my life. - Tom Hogye

* The Long Rod
Jim fished for steelhead with an immense, single-handed twelve foot rod he'd made himself. He would lob out a two inch purple flatfish of his own manufacture, and hand-twist retrieve it. "It doesn't look like anything," he'd say. "It just pisses them off." Whatever the reason, he caught a lot of big steelhead that way. - Tim Loomis

* The Wizard Gandalf
It was a cold, foggy day. Harry Petrakis and I were fishing the San Lorenzo, a particular hole where I'd had assured Harry there'd be steelhead. We fished it hard for a good 45 minutes using everything in our arsenals that was legal. Nothing.
We'd given up on the pool and prepared to move downstream. I thought I saw some movement in the brush, and soon, through the fog, came an immensely tall figure, with a high, floppy conical hat, leaning on a long staff, for all of the world like Gandalf looming out of the mist, his usual voluminous canvas waders draped around him like the Wizard's cloak. Jim Lazarotti's craggy face, measured words and ponderous habit of movement did nothing to dispel the image.
Seeing Harry and me leaving the pool, Jim asked if we'd mind if he fished it. Wishing him better luck than we'd had, Harry and I moved about sixty yards down into the riffle below. Mindful of Jim's difficulty with his worn-out knees, we made him promise that he'd holler out for help if he needed it to land a good steelhead. Not long after, I thought I heard something, and asked Harry if he did, too. Harry's answer, "What?" reminded me that, of course, Harry hadn't heard anything because Harry can't hear much of anything.
We hurried upstream to help, in time to see Jim in the final stages of landing a HUGE buck steelhead. And I could see two large hens that Jim had raised as well. All three (and maybe more) had been there during all of our fruitless efforts. Maybe there was more than just the superficial likeness of the Wizard Gandalf in Jim Lazarotti. - Tim Loomis

* The White Glove
As Jim brought the huge steelhead to hand, I was standing next to him to help land it. Jim reached into his jacket pocket inside his customary immensely baggy canvas waders, fished out a white glove, and handed it to me, "Here, use this." Of course, it was exactly the right thing to give me a secure grip on the "wrist" (base of the tail) to handle the fish. Just last month, I was out, gearing up for a day of steelheading, when I reached into the pocket of the wading jacket I hadn't worn since my last time out with Jim, only to find that same glove. It brought back so many memories. And if you see me donning a white glove to help me land a big fish, or if I offer it to you, you'll know who it really came from and its story. - Tim Loomis

* San Lorenzo Steelhead
It was a cold cloudy morning in December. The clouds lingered, preparing to add more rain. There had been just enough to raise the river and open the mouth a little deeper. The river had not muddied and the lower section was flowing pretty clear, all things considered. Tide would be going out just before 8:00 in the morning. Steelhead would be moving in. I was tying up some flies for them.
The phone rang. I managed to grab it after getting a few turns of thread on a hackle I just finished wrapping. "Hi, Jim."
We talked with some optimism about fish in the San Lorenzo that year. Never mind that Bev probably caught the only Coho in the river the week before. The Steelhead run seemed promising. We talked about changes to the DFG regs, our hopes for the future, and apparent recent successes in changing the mindset of fishermen, County and State officials at the DFG, after 30 years. "... I know, ...I can't believe we got the changes..." We talked about keeping up the good work, fighting the good fight as Lani Waller would refer to it later (strictly barbless lures, no bait and a zero limit), and about hooking a Steelie on a surface fly, as Manny Gutierrez had so often encouraged us to do. We talked about Pescadero, Scott and Waddell. Pescadero was Jim's favorite spot to fish for Steelhead early in the season. I didn't venture that far, with the San Lorenzo right in my back yard.
"Look, kid, I saw a few fish roll down by the Buckeye Hole this morning. I hooked one about 8 pounds with a Purple Woolly Worm." he said. "Do you want to fish there with me in the morning? But don't tell anyone about the fish."
"Are you kidding?!" I said excitedly. "What time?! Purple?! Woolly worm?! What size?! What other colors? Any Krystal Flash? "
In his quiet, calm, almost nonchalant way he said, "Oh, 'bout a size eight, with a little red tail. No, you don't need any flash. Just purple. I'll have plenty. Bring a sink tip. See you at seven."
I hung up the phone and got to work.
At the Buckeye Hole, the sky was just brightening from black to blue. A few guys were fishing farther downstream and one upstream. Jim had already been taken his spot, his distinctive silhouette just visible in the dawn. It was cold. Two fish rolled in front of him. "Come over here.", He called to me. "Come here. Fish right here." He stepped aside to give me his exact spot, which put me in waist-high water where it had been only thigh-deep for him. He handed me a Purple Wooly Worm, and I showed him a few I'd tied up the night before. Pretty close. "Wait 30 seconds then retrieve slowly."
We met in the "Gorge" a couple of times, which surprised me since he almost never fished there anymore because of his bad knees and the trouble his one good lung would give him on occasion. But he encouraged me to fish it regularly, as if he was handing a tradition on to me. "I heard there are fish at the Garden of Eden," he would call and say. I would return the call in the afternoon, or that night, excited that I landed fish. It seemed so unlikely and we enjoyed a good laugh at the success. Few could believe we caught steelhead in the Gorge on flies. But we did. - Tom Hogye

* Saving Coastal Rivers
We saw each other every month at club meetings. We met for breakfast at the Santa Cruz Diner. His rusty old Chevy Stepside was an icon. Just enough away from any Chevy symbol that it took a double-take to catch it, was a sticker, "I'd Rather Eat Worms Than Drive A Chevy Truck." He'd call me during the week and we'd talk about what more we could do to help save our coastal fisheries. When he spoke about the need to save our fish and to keep enough water in the rivers, he meant forever, not just this year's fishing. Our work, and that of the FFF and CSPA changed not only the San Lorenzo, Soquel and Pescadero - but every river from Malibu to far Northern California. We never thought the changes were enough, but they were a start. We never felt we could afford to let up. - Tom Hogye

* The Legacy
I don't know where the real Lazarotti Hole is today. Perhaps because there is so much of the San Lorenzo that reminds me of Jim. The lagoon will always remind me of Manny Gutierrez only because I still hope to stick a fish on a Waller Waker or a Steelhead Bee in there someday. When I do, it will be for Manny's memory. But the Lazarotti Hole: where is it? Perhaps it's somewhere on the Pescadero, or the Scott. Or maybe it isn't in the river at all, but is somewhere along Seacliff and New Brighton Beaches. Or maybe it's simply every place we have ever fished with Jim. Because fishing with Jim was more memorable than the fishing itself.
I hope we can all work hard to keep Jim's dreams alive and make them a reality - forever. - Tom Hogye

Back to Table of Contents