Paying Dues (9/5/09)

The weather this Labor Day weekend was unsettled - and unsettling. My original intent was to fish on Saturday on the Hammerhead with the largest crew ever, five and a half men: me, Eric, Ronnie, Bobby Cresap, and Mose, a friend of Ronnie and Kaley. But the forecast was 10 to 15 knots out of the east, with seas 1 to 3 feet. My experience is that 10 to 15 knots out of the west means 2 to 4, not 1 to 3, and an east wind is worse than a west wind for reasons unknown to me.

The few boats coming in from offshore reported conditions worse than the forecast. Rick Moulton, who had been fishing to the SW in a 48 Viking, went in at Pensacola and came home on the inside rather than make directly for Destin in a beam sea. "One to three my ass," he said. "More like six to eight."So, we decided to wait for better weather and try to go on Sunday, which knocked Bobby off the trip, as he had business elsewhere on Sunday.

But nothing changed for the better. Same wind, same overcast, same forecast, and the same reports from two boats that came in from just outside, not even offshore."It's pretty sporty," reported a captain of a dive boat. "Bumpy big time," said Mike Ginn. So, we decided to delay until Monday, Labor Day, when the forecast was good - wind around 10 knots out of the NE in the morning and going around to the SE in the afternoon, with seas 1 to 2 feet. This additional delay knocked Ronnie and Mose off the trip, so instead of having crew aplenty on board, we were short handed, really shorthanded - me, Eric, and eight year old Freeman.

We eschewed a pre-dawn departure on the theory that there would be no early bite on a nearly full moon - that and who wants to get up at 0330 for no good reason? So, we slept late; we were not out of the Pass and up and running until 0630, heading south for the Squiggles. My plan was to ride the north wind out and the south wind home.

And things went well in the beginning. As promised, the wind was out of the NE, and seas were 1 to 2 feet. But the day did not feel right, and there were ominous portents. Scattered around the southern horizon were three large storms, gun metal blue cloud banks leaking columns of gray rain into the sea. And interspersed between the storms were tall, climbing stacks of white cumulus clouds stained pink at the bottom by the rising sun.

As we approached the Squiggles, there was a squall squatting right on top of it. I say squall rather than thunder storm because there was no lightning, although the Creator had amply provided this miniature low pressure system with wind and rain. At first, I decided not to be knocked off my game plan; I resolved to bore right in like HMS Glowworm going in after the Admiral von Hipper. But as I got closer, I decided that I and East Pass Marina did not have quite as much at stake today as Lieutenant Commander Roope and England did on April 5, 1940. So, I turned west, then south, and slipped around behind the squall, which was moving north. We put our lines in the water at the Squiggles at 0845.

Undaunted by our paltry numbers, we ran six hooks and two teasers. The water was as pretty a blue as I have seen all season, and there were flying fish aplenty, two things that remained true all day. But there were no breaks, no pushes, and no weed lines. And the weather began to deteriorate apace. The wind picked up and stayed in the NE as seas kicked up to 2 and 3 feet.

There being no reason, not to do so, I let the weather dictate my fishing strategy; I turned down sea and trolled west, planning to cut the east wall of the DeSoto Canyon about 10 nm south of the Spur, where I would turn north and troll up the wall to the Spur. Going down hill was the ticket to a decent ride, but conditions continued to go down hill as well. By mid-day, the waves were 3 and 4, a squall was closing in from the south, and we had not had a single knockdown. I am a poor judge of wave heights, frequently guessing wrong in both directions, but I can offer a frame of reference. By 1300, I could stand in the cockpit and the tops of many of the waves were at eye level or higher.

So, naturally, at 1330, just as we entered the Canyon and you could not stand up without holding on, the right long, a skirted, large regular ballyhoo on a 30 (actually, a Penn International 20 strung with 30 pound test), went off. ZZZZZZZ! "Fish on! Fish on!" Eric shouted. He quickly put on a belt, grabbed the rod, braced himself against the roll, and waited for the end of the fish's first run. I pulled back the throttles to idle speed, hit autopilot, and started to clear.

Suddenly, Freeman, who had been below in the salon, where he had spent much of the day with no ill effects, came leaping into the cockpit shouting, "Fish on! Fish on!" "Well, duh. Where have you been," I thought. But he went straight to the left long, where the rod was bowed and the line was sizzling out against the eight pounds of drag on another Penn 20 strung with 30. We had a double something on with only me to steer and clear in really snotty seas.

Freeman took the rod out of the rocket launcher, buried the butt in his hip, and held on. I put his fighting belt on him, but never touched the rod. He spread his feet, braced his back against the rocket launcher, and commenced to open a can of whup ass on his fish. Pump up and reel down. Pump up and reel down. "We'll take Freeman's fish first," I said as I finished clearing.

The boat had been knocked off autopilot and was wallowing badly, so I had to leave the cockpit to go to the wheel to straighten her up, a process that was repeated several times. At one point Freeman said, "My back and my arm hurt. I need to rest." "If you rest, the fish will beat you," his father told him. "He is fighting for his life, and will not rest." Freeman's only response was pump up and reel down, pump up and reel down. Freeman had to go under Eric. Then Eric had to go under Freeman.

I saw a flash of brilliant blue deep in the water. "Dolphin," I said. "It's a dolphin." "No, Papa. It's a tuna," Freeman said. "He's shaking his head." How the hell Freeman knows tuna shake their heads, I know not, but a tuna it was, a skipjack lit up a bright blue. Freeman got the wind-on on the reel, and I leadered the fish with my left hand, the gaff in my right. The tuna started its death circle just below the surface. The boat, beam to in the trough by now, was rolling like a mother. I waited, waited, then took my shot, and, yes, Steve Roddenberry, I hit him dead bang in the middle.

After we put Freeman's fish, about a 15 pounder, in the box, Eric brought another shipjack to the boat, and we released it. As soon as we put the lines back in the water, we saw a frigate bird just to the northeast, working low, so we headed that way. As we approached, the right long went off again. A dolphin. By now, sea conditions were so bad, with the boat pitching more in the head sea than it was rolling, that I was slow to leave the wheel. The dolphin was relatively small, so when he came to the boat, Eric did not wait for the gaff; he grabbed the leader, and swung the dolphin into the boat.

As soon as the fish hit the deck, the hook fell out of his mouth, and a real, by God goat rope began. The flailing fish chased Freeman around the cockpit as Eric crawled after him on all fours. I say they did at least one 360 around the cockpit, if not two, although they deny it. Finally, Eric dove onto the fish like it was a loose football, and wrestled it into the box.

We started to troll again, because within a mile of each other we had a working frigate bird and skipjack tuna, which are to marlin what small dogs and Seminoles of any size are to gators - tasty as marshmallows. And if I had been at the heel of the Bella Maria and had one more deck hand, I might have persevered, but I was afraid we would break something on the Hammerhead. The roll was so bad as we tried to troll north toward the house that the outriggers were swinging up and crashing back down with big metallic bangs. Drawers in the salon popped open and spilled their contents. We were taking water over the top and into the cockpit. So, at 1445, I turned downsea and we picked up our lines and brought in the outriggers without me falling overboard.

To my surprise, we made 22 knots on the ride home, with the wind still coming from north of east and the seas just forward of the starboard beam, but the ride was a bitch. Pitch, roll, water over the bow. Pitch, roll, water over the bow. If you wanted to move, say to get a drink, you had to sit on the deck and slide on your ass.

In about a thousand feet of water, Eric saw first one, then a second, whale spout rise 20 feet into the air. We headed that way, but did not sight the whales.

This was the trip on which Freeman really proved he has the Right Stuff to fish offshore, demonstrating not only the grit to catch a hard fighting fish without any help in deplorable conditions, but also a tad of offshore attitude. We were slogging in, with Freeman sitting high in the co-pilot's chair. Eric was sitting on the deck in the corner of the bench seat. I was wedged in behind the wheel, holding on like I was riding the mechanical bull at Gilley's. Freeman, who is too small to take the nausea medicine he apparently does not need, looked down at his father, and then over at me. He smiled, and said, "Good thing y'all took your sea sick pills this morning, or you'd a been throwin' up all day, I'm guessing."

I love fishing.