A day at the Imperial Beach Pier when it was new...
A day at the then new Imperial Beach Pier (1964) and some updated pictures.
There is absolutely nothing like a sunny winter afternoon on the new fishing pier at Imperial Beach. The skies are clear, the wind is fresh and the water is icy blue. Screeching birds swoop down over the rolling water in search of food. Strollers move up and down the long expanse of pier, looking into each bucket along the way to see what mysteries of the deep have been snatched from the water by fishermen.
Small boys form a line at the concession stand, are waited on, then scurry back to their waiting poles and munch potato chips or candy bars, patiently waiting for The Big One to take the bait.
A teenage girl steps up to the bait counter and orders “a bagful of barnacles,” but the young attendant just laughs and hands her what he knew her fisherman-father wanted: A bagful of clams.
The sun glistens on the water as the big waves thunder in under the pier and crash to the beach. A lone surfer, his board pointed to sea, wisely changes his mind, turns about and rides a wave back to the beach. “It’s too rough for surfing today,” one of the young experts says.
An older couple takes turns squinting through one of the two dime-deposit scopes and there are “ohs” and “ahs” as they scan the Coronado Islands, Point Loma and the San Diego skyline in the clear, bright skylight.
Cars nearly fill the parking lot at the approach to the pier and an occasional fisherman hurries back to his car to drop more coins in the meter, lest he get a ticket for over-parking. Because the meters, like the rolling waves, never cease. They’re in operation 24 hours a day, every day.
On days like this the pier attracts fishing buffs of every age group. They come alone, in pairs, threesomes and in family groups. Old men sit on the big benches, half asleep in the warm sun, their fishing poles beside them and the lines hanging limp into the deep water below. They look almost as if they were hoping the fish overlook their hooks and go bother someone else.
The grandmother-type is seated at a bench on the other side of the pier. She is alone, except for her big bag of lunch and a tackle box loaded with hooks, sinkers, lures and all the gear. She chats with everyone that passes by and you get the feeling she’s there more for the company than for the fishing.
A young man, obviously proud of his catch, is cleaning four medium size ocean perch at one of the sinks provided along the pier. He’s in no hurry to clean his fish and stops his work as sightseers stop by to look at his four beauties.
A young mother hurries along the pier in a vain effort to keep up to her young son. Then, on the way back, she has to pry him from each one of the convenient water fountains that line one side of the 1,200-foot long pier. As she nears the last one you hear her say to no one in particular, “I don’t know why they had to put so darn many of these things along the pier.”
The small family — man, wife, two youngsters and a baby in a stroller — make their way toward another bench. The little one is content with a bottle — at least temporarily. The father baits two lines, hands a pole to his wife and they settle down on the bench to fish as the two kids romp down the pier in search of adventure.
It’s cooling off now. The wind is stronger across the vastness of the Pacific and the sun is dipping lower in the sky. Heavy jackets are zipped up, hoods are pulled over heads and tied. Those less hardy reel in their lines, put away their gear and head for the parking lot and home. But the real fishermen stay.
The concession stand does a brisk upturn in hot chocolate and coffee as the sun drops all the way into the sea and a light fog rolls in to add a chill to the evening air. It gets darker, but fishermen — small boys, old men, the grandmother types and teenagers are — stay. Then the row of vapor lights sputter on all along the north edge of the pier and along the T at the end. The lights cut new shadows and turn blue jeans to purple and ruddy faces into an eerie bluish color.
It’s damp now and rain threatens. An occasional drop or two falls, and more fishermen round up their gear, reel in their lines, and head for the warmth of their automobile. But the next morning the skies will be clear again. The wind will be fresh and cool and the water will be ice blue. The sun will be back again and so will the screeching birds. And just as sure as the sun, the wind and the sea, the fishermen — all ages, all kinds — will be back too.—Lee Chilson’s South Bay Scene, Chula Vista Star-News, February 20, 1964
A day at the then new Imperial Beach Pier (1964) and some updated pictures.
There is absolutely nothing like a sunny winter afternoon on the new fishing pier at Imperial Beach. The skies are clear, the wind is fresh and the water is icy blue. Screeching birds swoop down over the rolling water in search of food. Strollers move up and down the long expanse of pier, looking into each bucket along the way to see what mysteries of the deep have been snatched from the water by fishermen.
Small boys form a line at the concession stand, are waited on, then scurry back to their waiting poles and munch potato chips or candy bars, patiently waiting for The Big One to take the bait.
A teenage girl steps up to the bait counter and orders “a bagful of barnacles,” but the young attendant just laughs and hands her what he knew her fisherman-father wanted: A bagful of clams.
The sun glistens on the water as the big waves thunder in under the pier and crash to the beach. A lone surfer, his board pointed to sea, wisely changes his mind, turns about and rides a wave back to the beach. “It’s too rough for surfing today,” one of the young experts says.
An older couple takes turns squinting through one of the two dime-deposit scopes and there are “ohs” and “ahs” as they scan the Coronado Islands, Point Loma and the San Diego skyline in the clear, bright skylight.
Cars nearly fill the parking lot at the approach to the pier and an occasional fisherman hurries back to his car to drop more coins in the meter, lest he get a ticket for over-parking. Because the meters, like the rolling waves, never cease. They’re in operation 24 hours a day, every day.
On days like this the pier attracts fishing buffs of every age group. They come alone, in pairs, threesomes and in family groups. Old men sit on the big benches, half asleep in the warm sun, their fishing poles beside them and the lines hanging limp into the deep water below. They look almost as if they were hoping the fish overlook their hooks and go bother someone else.
The grandmother-type is seated at a bench on the other side of the pier. She is alone, except for her big bag of lunch and a tackle box loaded with hooks, sinkers, lures and all the gear. She chats with everyone that passes by and you get the feeling she’s there more for the company than for the fishing.
A young man, obviously proud of his catch, is cleaning four medium size ocean perch at one of the sinks provided along the pier. He’s in no hurry to clean his fish and stops his work as sightseers stop by to look at his four beauties.
A young mother hurries along the pier in a vain effort to keep up to her young son. Then, on the way back, she has to pry him from each one of the convenient water fountains that line one side of the 1,200-foot long pier. As she nears the last one you hear her say to no one in particular, “I don’t know why they had to put so darn many of these things along the pier.”
The small family — man, wife, two youngsters and a baby in a stroller — make their way toward another bench. The little one is content with a bottle — at least temporarily. The father baits two lines, hands a pole to his wife and they settle down on the bench to fish as the two kids romp down the pier in search of adventure.
It’s cooling off now. The wind is stronger across the vastness of the Pacific and the sun is dipping lower in the sky. Heavy jackets are zipped up, hoods are pulled over heads and tied. Those less hardy reel in their lines, put away their gear and head for the parking lot and home. But the real fishermen stay.
The concession stand does a brisk upturn in hot chocolate and coffee as the sun drops all the way into the sea and a light fog rolls in to add a chill to the evening air. It gets darker, but fishermen — small boys, old men, the grandmother types and teenagers are — stay. Then the row of vapor lights sputter on all along the north edge of the pier and along the T at the end. The lights cut new shadows and turn blue jeans to purple and ruddy faces into an eerie bluish color.
It’s damp now and rain threatens. An occasional drop or two falls, and more fishermen round up their gear, reel in their lines, and head for the warmth of their automobile. But the next morning the skies will be clear again. The wind will be fresh and cool and the water will be ice blue. The sun will be back again and so will the screeching birds. And just as sure as the sun, the wind and the sea, the fishermen — all ages, all kinds — will be back too.—Lee Chilson’s South Bay Scene, Chula Vista Star-News, February 20, 1964