As a 90-foot, multi-level fishing vessel named the “Native Sun” bobs on the Pacific Ocean, Kevin Kim pierces a hook through the nose of a live sardine. Minutes after he throws his line into the sea, the tip of his rod bounces, bends and pulls. While clenching a cigarette between his teeth, Kim quickly reels up.

 

“Color!” he yells, as a blood-orange rockfish emerges from the glassy depths. The fish is flung onboard. It lies on the floor, expanding its gills for one last breath. Its bulging eye glares upward.

 

Kim grabs it and dumps it into a burlap sack.

 

It’s a small fish compared to what Kim is used to catching. But on this September afternoon, nine miles from a landing in Long Beach, Kim, along with Joe Koyanagi, 34, and Bob Lee, 27, is merely polishing his technique for future outings off of Catalina and San Clemente islands, where more substantial fish roam.

 

Kim, a 28-year-old angler from Lomita, Calif., is part of the No Banana Union, a crew of sport fishing enthusiasts that sets out to the deep blue at least once a week in pursuit of “exotics” such as tuna, yellowtail and halibut. Founded a year ago by Kim and Koyanagi, the NBU’s core members include Lee, Sammy Kim and Mike Min.

 

The name of the group is a nod to the nautical superstition held by anglers that having a banana on board will result in a bad day of fishing. The root of the banana myth is unknown, though it’s been linked to transatlantic crossings in the 17th century, when boats transported banana crates that contained deadly spiders.

 

The NBU is no stranger to fishing with the unlucky fruit. “It pisses me off!” says Kim, who works as a technical advisor for Keating Dental Arts in Irvine. “It’s usually ‘newbies’ who bring their food on board. You go out and catch nothing. Then on the way home, some harabeoji will break out a banana.”

 

Once, before an overnight trip, NBU honorary member Brad Bush slipped a banana into Kim’s backpack. “But I found it,” says Kim. “And I smashed it in his face.”

 

***

 

As the Native Sun tears through the ocean, seals follow its path, doing summersaults. A school of dolphins splashes near the bow of the boat, signaling the proximity of tuna. The captain, Jason Rico, steers with one foot while watching the Dallas Cowboys vs. Cleveland Browns game on a miniature television, and downstairs in the galley (the kitchen), a group of chain-smokers play 50-cent poker. A cook named Sue grills cheeseburgers for the roughly 45 people on the boat.

 

Rico parks, and a 65-pound anchor plummets into the water.

 

The anglers claim their territory. The lines come out, luring in rockfish, bass and sculpin. “Mac Daddy,” a veteran fisherman with leathery, freckled skin, acts as the boat’s de facto cheerleader. “Listen up!” he yells. “Fish hard.”