The crew for this trip was the same as last week, sans Freeman: Wayne, Eric, Bobby Cresap, and me. The Hammerhead was the Argos that bore us o'er the billowing waves last week in our quest for offshore glory, but this week the honor fell once more to the Bella Maria. We left the dock around 0730 on Saturday, having delayed our planned Friday departure because of ubiquitous thunder storms.
We went back to the 131 Hole to fish, but the water color was uninspiring, there was no bait (Last weekend flying fish by the hundreds were buzzing about like mosquitos at summer camp.) and no chatter on the radio from the widely scattered boats about hook ups, missed fish, or any action at all, really. So, after a couple of hours of a lot of nothing, we picked'em up and ran 45 nm to the SE in search of a tongue of blue water reported on the Roffers and hinted at by Hilton's. And we found it, right where it was supposed to be, a little west of a lot south of the Squiggles. We put'em in and trolled to the SW with great expectations, and then ... more nothing. The blue water was an aquatic desert. No weed, no bait, no birds, and no bites.
As night fell, we decided to greet the sun at the Deepwater Nautilus rig some 50 nm almost due west, so off we went in pitch black darkness (new moon), motoring on one engine at idle speed, so we would not arrive too early and have to drift for hours or use the parachute.The stars were out, but it was so dark there was no horizon, and the boat was pitching and rolling a bit in two to four foot seas. It was not unpleasant, but itwas a bit disorienting without a horizon. Is that a light? Yes. No. Yes, definitely. Certainly not a star. A pinprick of light, a tiny breach in the black wall toward which we are cruising, a glimmer that grows hour by hour until it becomes the Deepwater Nautilus rearing up out of 6000 feet of water in all its technolgical glory.
We start chunking for tuna before dawn on the up current side of the Nautilus, fifty pounds of Boston mackerel going into the chum line in an hour and a half, but still nothing. Our bad luck is holding. Another sport fisherman joins us. And another. The three of us begin trolling at first light, weaving in and out between the Nautilus and the three large supply boats that are are standing by around the rig. One of the sport fishing boats, a pretty boat with Carolina lines, hooks up right under our nose, and then the other boat hooks up as well, adding envy to our disappointment and frustration."Wayne, I just don't know what we are doing wrong. I wonder if ..." A rigger clip pops and, as line scream off the reel against the clicker, the reel sings that siren song that lures us offshore. A yellow fin tuna. Then another. Then a fat barracuda. And another.
And in between the two tuna there was a mystery bite. The fish hit a skirted ballyhoo on one of only two 30s we were fishing in a seven hook, two teaser spread. Eric grabbed it and just held on. It would be wrong to talk about this fish's initial run, because it never stopped. I am standing next to Eric, clearing the center line. Bobby is clearing lines on the other side of the cockpit. Wayne is up on the helm. Half the 700 yards of line on the 30 is gone in a minute, despite eight pounds of drag on the reel. "Jesus, he's going to dump me if this keeps up," Eric said. "We may have to go after him, and soon." We have almost cleared the other lines and the teasers so Wayne can back down when suddenly the fish isn't there any more. Eric reels like a mad man on the chance that the fish has turned and is swimming back to the boat. But it isn't. It is just gone, almost certainly a big wahoo with broad shoulders apparently late for an appointment in Texas that finally remembered to close his razor wire teeth on our 200 pound monofilament leader.
The one that got away is often the best story of the day. But not always. After several more passes, we left the Nautilus and trolled NE looking for more blue water. And we found it again, but again, nothing. About mid-day the front that had been trying to move through for days finally did, and we saw blue sky for the first time in a week. At 1300, we had an open water bite and caught a small black fin tuna that we released. Surely, a harbinger of action to come on the heels of the weather change.
We are ready. An hour passes. A second hour passes. What's the point of continuing? I am in the cockpit with Bobby and Eric, talking up to Wayne on the helm about when we should pick'em up and start the 100 nm trip home when, without warning, the spread literally explodes. Rigger clips are popping like firecrackers. Reels are screaming all around me. Something is trying to eat the teaser. One fish is definitely hooked. No two. Jesus, four fish are hooked and something is still trying to eat the teaser. Pandemonium. Lines are crossed. Bobby, go over me. I go under Eric. Eric goes over me.
Wayne is now in the cockpit, clearing with one hand and fighting a fish on a rod still in the holder with his other hand. Is the boat on auto pilot or drifting? Who cares?No time to gaff. Eric swings a yellow fin into the boat by the leadet. Then Bobby. Then Wayne. There is blood everywhere; the cockpit looks like a slaughter house, and tuna are thrashing around on the deck in the blood like, well, like fish out of water.
And I am still hooked up. It's a bigger tuna. Bobby appears at my side with the gaff. I get the wind-on on the reel. Bobby leaders the fish with his right, pulling the its head forward, setting it up for the gaff in his left hand. Nice tuna. Not really big, but nice. Bobby is poised with the gaff. The tuna zigs away from the boat, and then tries to go under it as Bobby pulls him back. "Wait for a clean shot," I tell him. The tuna is in almost perfect position now. He rolls over on his side and looks right at me with his big tuna eye - and the hook falls out of his mouth. Did it wink before disappearing under the boat?
And as suddenly as it began, it's over - five minutes at the wire that made a two day trip worth every minute and every penny. The four of stand in the blood looking at one another, stunned. Wayne speaks first. "Let's get'em back in the water, girls. Where there's tuna there may be marlin." Eric gives me a bump, and I pass it along to Bobby. We begin to put the hooks back in the water.
I love fishing.
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