The Skunk Left Some Stink In The Boat

If you only read The Fishing Reports to learn of the latest feats of derring-do by the Merry Mariners of East Pass Marina, then you need read no further, for yesterday was what is known in the understated argot of offshore fishing as a slow day. A very slow day. We caught one barracuda that would have been a weehoo if it had been a wahoo and a blackfin tuna that went ten pounds, maybe.

If, on the other hand, you read The Fishing Reports for reasons other than glorying vicariously in bloody duels at gaffe's point with edible pelagic predators or the spectacle of old men not far from their dotage clinging desperately to a monofilament leader on the other end of which is a leaping billfish, then read on.

As the acknowledged leader of the Bisbee Bunch, it has been Wayne Lewis' goal to fish as often as possible with as many of the Bunch as possible in preparation for the upcoming Bisbee Black and Blue Marlin Tournament in Cabo San Lucas, where for a week we will dwell among the noble descendants of Cortes and Montezuma while testing our mettle in piscatorial battle against the dreadnoughts of California jillionaires crewed by the ruthless progeny of John C. Fremont and William Randolph Hearst. So off we went yesterday, convinced of the wisdom of Marshal Zhukov's training dictum that the more an army sweats in peace the less it bleeds in war.

The fishing platform of choice was Wayne's Bella Maria. The ship's complement were Wayne Lewis and Maria Falduto, George Hendricks, me, my Mary, and Zeke Frye, Wayne's usual mate. The forecast was NE winds 10 to 15 knots, veering into the SW in the afternoon, seas 1 to 2 feet. I know this will shock you, but the forecast was wrong once more. Although things calmed down a bit in the afternoon, all morning the waves were 3 to 4, and occasionally taller. It was four, four, four, thr..., no, damn it, five.

But the sunrise running out was beautiful, as it almost always is. This particular morning it was a blood red sun pushing through blue clouds banks in the distance and staining the under bellies of mackerel clouds nearer at hand rose and vanilla. At one point the sun, splashing shimmering red onto the surface of the sea out of which it was climbing, was hemmed in at the mid-point on both sides by obdurate clouds; it looked like a tomato hued mushroom, which was an effect I do not recall having seen previously .

There was no information available to us indicating that one place to fish was better than another - the data on altimetry and water color were uninspiring everywhere we might have gone on a day trip, and the reports from those who had been offshore recently were discouraging, so we decided somewhat arbitrarily to head south for the Knuckle and then troll down sea along the Edge toward the Nipple. And that is what we did.

We ran the standard Bella Maria spread: two big teasers, two big marlin lures fished off the tip of rods in the aft corners of the cockpit, medium sized lures on the short lines, and skirted ballyhoo on the long lines and the center line. We later switched out the big lures on the corners for diving plugs rigged on wire, reluctantly conceding that we were more likely to encounter wahoo than marlin, a concession that undoubtedly pained Wayne.

One novelty was that we used artificial ballyhoo. I had argued to Wayne that we should fish each time as if we were fishing in a tournament, and because all US tournaments require circle hooks with natural bait, we should fish with circle hooks if we use natural bait. He agreed in principle with my argument, but developed a facial tic and a stammer at the very idea of using circle hooks. Thus, the artificial ballyhoo, which, I might add, look good and run better than they look.

After a couple hours of a lot of nothing, I heard Wayne talking on the radio to the Monkey Man, who was farther west, near the Nipple, where he said the water color was more promising. The Monkey Man is the Monkey Man for two reasons. First, a few years back his wife owned a monkey that bit him with painful regularity on the neck, shoulders, and arms, leaving him looking like he had been in a hickey giving contest with an Amazon who could suck a golf ball through a garden hose. And, second, because he is of average height, with a smallish head, narrow, rounded shoulders, thinning hair combed straight back, and a wispy moustache and beard, he has a decidedly simian appearance, although I will admit that I have not seen all that many monkeys chain smoking cigarettes.

I was in doubt about the wisdom of relying on a man who was held in thrall by a monkey, and whose boat, a poorly maintained 50 something foot Southern Cross named the Outrageous, known throughout the northeastern Gulf as a fish raiser back in the days before the Monkey Man bought it, hardly ever leaves the slip. In fact, the last time I saw it underway was during Hurricane Ivan in'04.

I had taken the Hammerhead and followed the Mitchell fleet to "the ditch" between Choctahatchee Bay and Panama City to ride out the storm. I spent the afternoon sticking two bow anchors and one stern anchor, and tying off to a tree onshore. I was in the process of deploying my second stern anchor in my nine and a half foot Zodiac dinghy when the Outrageous appeared, probably making ten knots in what is, in effect, a canal not more than seventy five yards wide, a canal that was crowded that day with boats seeking shelter from Ivan. I was standing up in the dinghy (I cannot remember why, as this was a dumb thing to do.) trying to maintain my balance while holding a 45 pound Danforth anchor with 30 feet of 5/16 inch chain attached, when I heard the rumble of diesel engines. I looked up; the Monkey Man waved from the bridge as the Outrageous passed; his wake hit my dinghy; and head first into the water I went, firmly attached to an anchor.

It actually took me longer than it should have to realize that it would be a good idea to turn loose of the anchor. Once I did so, I kicked back to the surface, and managed to swim down my dinghy, which had drifted down tide with the outboard motor idling. I huffed and puffed and rolled in over he side no worse for the wear, other than that I was missing a new leather flip flop. When I made my way back to the Hammerhead, tied off the dinghy to the stern, and climbed into the cockpit soaking wet and covered in mud, Mary, who had been below when I had my little adventure, looked me up and down and asked, "Why are you wearing one flip flop?"

So, as I said, I had my doubts about relying on the Monkey Man, but conditions could not be worse at the Nipple than at the Knuckle, so off we went. And conditions were no worse. Nor were they any better. But we persevered. At 1330, we had a mystery bite, or bites, probably either a swarm of blackfin tuna or a surly marlin. Bang. Bang. Bang. The short right, the long right, and the center line were knocked out of the clips in rapid succession by the mystery biter. Immediately after it was clear that no fish had been hooked despite repeated drop backs and fast reeling, we went to work getting the lines back into the clips.

Zeke held the center line rod and reel up over his head in order for Wayne up on the bridge to put the line back in the fly pole clip. Wayne had the line in his hand, but Zeke had not yet taken the reel drag out of gear, when the mystery biter struck again. The line was snatched from Wayne's hand and came tight against the drag, whipping the rod tip down and forcing the rod butt up, where it dug into Zeke's bare chest . For a moment, I though he might lose the rod and reel overboard, but he thumbed off the drag and put the reel into free spool to relieve the pressure, saving the rod and reel but creating a monster back lash. And the mystery biter did not hook up this time either, which was probably just as well, given the backlash.

The best parts of the day were the vittles, which added to Maria's well deserved reputation for fine food prepared in difficult circumstances. The eating began with the usual BLTs and assorted fruit for breakfast. Lunch was strips of chicken breast marinated, grilled, and served with sauteed green beans and pancetta, all tossed in olive oil. There was penne pasta with marinara sauce. And grilled focaccia. And salad with fennel, apples, cucumbers, shredded cabbage, red onions, and iceberg lettuce, tossed in an orange vinaigrette. Good eats anywhere any time, but a special treat on a rolling boat on a slow day.

Later, around 1515, after the blood had returned to our brains from its digestive duties in our stomachs,we caught the barracuda and the tiny tuna, the former on my new Bob Schneider St. Thomas Prowler, which was running on the right short, and the latter on the artificial ballyhoo on the center line. And that was it for the day.

But the game was still worth the candle, if for no other reason than that the Fishing Madonnas, Mary and Maria, countenance no pessimism when lines are in the water, and they had ample practice sustaining the enthusiasm of moody men from 0800, when the lines went in the water, until 1600, when they came out, practice that will come in handy should the morale of the men in the Bisbee Bunch flag and their attentions wander during a slow day in the tournament. As we responded to their humor and encouragement, I was reminded of the answer T.E. Lawrence (as in, of Arabia) gave when he was asked why men go to war. "Because their women are watching," he said.


I love fishing, even when there is no complementary catching.