THERE'S SOMETHING FISHY ABOUT A MISSING DEPOSIT.

Byline: Brett Pauly

Ever have one of those trips that completely turns you off to fishing for . . . well, for a good day or two anyhow?

More than just getting skunked. Seems like that happens to me every other outing. No, save for illness or injury, everything goes wrong.

Then here's a sob story you may appreciate:

Our party booked a private charter out of Ensenada after hearing of a promising yellowtail bite. Twenty-three anglers had boated 45 yellows a couple of days earlier. And though it was getting late in the season, water temperature was 69 degrees, still plenty warm enough to expect to hook into plenty of jurel - the Mexican name for the tasty, torpedo-shaped game fish with the golden stripes.

An acquaintance of mine who is a travel agent and avid angler made the arrangements, wired down our payment and lent me the appropriate rods and reels.

All was swell until we got to the landing and found that the vessel we had chartered looked more like a plaything when compared to the rest of the fleet. Sure, it may have been the advertised 36 feet in length, but it was about 5-feet wide and definitely would not do. We upgraded for another $100 to a 55-foot fishing platform that still looked empty after our party of five boarded. Now that was extremely sweet.

But here's where it got strange. At that point the proprietor informed us that he only received a little more than half the sum that was to be wired down.

Can't be, I said; it was sent well in advance. Perhaps the money was lost in the transaction, the big boss man countered. Perhaps not, I retorted; the travel agent assured me everything was set.

``We have a problem,'' said the jefe, ``and you must help me straighten it out.''

Will do, I responded, but let us first fish while the fishing's hot; in the meantime, you should call the travel agent to get to the bottom of this.

Turns out we would have had better luck from shore.

We motored out to Islas de Todos Santos, the twin islands outside Ensenada's formidable bay that had recently produced the big scores of yellows. But try as we might - baiting size No. 1 hooks through the snouts of large, active sardines and fly-lining them on 15- and 20-pound lines, occasionally toward boils of baitfish - our targets would not bite. Even huge barracuda jigs - chrome and green was the color of choice - wouldn't lure them in.

The one hookup we had - mine - peeled off line in such a rush, it rocked me on a jagged outcropping before I even had a chance to get a single crank on the reel.

Ensenada deckhand Raphael Villa blamed it on the radical temperature change. The north side of the islands registered 64 degrees; the south side, a frigid 55. ``The water is crazy,'' he said.

Some of the party switched to tossing weighted cut bait and managed to raise a decent range of bottom dwellers, including ling cod, red snapper, whitefish and a variety of rockfish. I, however, didn't catch anything.

The real bummer came when we returned to dock and the jefe called me into his office. He immediately dialed the travel agent and handed me the phone.

``Do me a favor,'' the hurried voice on the other end requested, ``pay this guy $100 so you can get out of there. I'll square up with you when you get back.''

In the moments it took for me to respond, a whirlwind of images raced through my brain while I sat in the stuffy office - a drab, barren space with the imposing portrait of the owner's father, who served as jefe before him, staring down at me.

Do we make a run for the border? No, this was a tad more serious than a Taco Bell commercial. The federales would surely chase us down, and I wouldn't get out of this country without seeing the inside of a jail cell - or worse.

What was the source of the missing dough? Had the travel agent skimmed from the top? Was the boss lying to me about how much he received? Could the wire service actually have misplaced part of the loot?

Mine was not to wonder why; mine was to pay the difference - or else!

``Well,'' I finally answered, satisfied with my solution to pay the money, ``you must be good for the money; I have more than $100 worth of your gear.''

At least we didn't have to declare any fish at the border.

MEMO: Outdoors Editor Brett Pauly's column appears Thursdays in the Daily News.