But Crossbow Guy gives a hard yank and pulls the fish in.

Vietnamese Guy starts yelling at him, and a crowd gathers, and Crossbow Guy looks like he’s going to pound Vietnamese Guy into the pier, which he could easily do because he’s big, bigger even than Frank.

Frank steps through the crowd and stands between the two arguing men.

“It’s his fish,” Frank says to Crossbow Guy.

“Who the hell areyou?”

It’s an amazingly ignorant question. He’s Frank the Bait Guy, and anyone who frequents OBP knows it. Any regular would also know that Frank the Bait Guy is one of the pier’s sheriffs.

See, every water spot-beach, pier, or wave-has a few “sheriffs,” guys who, by virtue of seniority and respect, keep order and settle disputes. On the beach, it’s usually a lifeguard-a senior guy who’s a lifesaving legend. Out on the lineup, it’s one or two guys who’ve been riding that break forever.

On Ocean Beach Pier, it’s Frank.

You don’t argue with a sheriff. You can present your case, you can express your grievance, but you don’t argue with his ruling. And you sure as hell don’t ask who he is, because you should know. Not knowing who the sheriff is automatically labels you as an outsider, whose ignorance probably put you in the wrong in the first place.

And Crossbow Guy has East County written all over him, from the down vest, to theKEEP ON TRUCKIN ’ ball cap, to the mullet underneath it. Frank’s guessing he’s from El Cajon, and it always amuses him how guys who live forty miles from the ocean can get territorial about it.

So Frank doesn’t even bother to answer the question.

“It’s obvious he hooked it first and you shot it while he was reeling it in,” Frank says.

Which is what Vietnamese Guy is saying fast, loudly, continuously, and in Vietnamese, so Frank turns to him and asks him to chill out. He has to respect the guy for not backing down even though he’s giving away a foot of height and a bill and a half in weight. Of course he won’t back down, Frank thinks; he’s trying to feed his family.