The Fishing Reports: Are We There Yet?

During this past weekend (Friday, June 10, through Sunday, June 13) the fishing planets in the northeastern Gulf of Mexico aligned as well as can be expected in the lengthening shadow of the Deepwater Horizon calamity. There was a new moon; the marine forecast was for light wind out of the south with seas 1 to 2 feet and only isolated thunderstorms; and both Hiltons and Roffs showed a roughly rectangular pocket of blue water outside the fishing closure zone. The Pensacola weather buoy was at the southeastern corner of the pocket. The western edge of the pocket was the eastern edge of the fishing closure zone. And the northern edge of the pocket petered out into blue-green water south of the Squiggles.

Your correspondent decided the best plan of attack was to begin the fishing day at the weather buoy and troll a zig zag pattern down sea toward the house, looking for a weed line. The challenge posed by this strategy was that the weather buoy is a nice, round 100 nautical miles from Destin on a heading of 167 degrees. That's a right fer piece for a little boat for which fuel on long outings is an issue. But, undeterred, the Hammerhead Fishing Team accepted the challenge.

The crew this trip remained the same as the last offshore expedition - Tenser Mallete, his son, Nicholas, and the indefatigable Freemanator. These are ruthless men, double tough, and fear don't enter into their thinking. (Not really, but it just seemed like such a perfect place to drop in that line from True Grit that I could not resist it.)

We left the slip at 6:15 PM on Friday, and by 6:30 PM we had cleared the sea buoy and were running at 24 knots. I swung east to avoid an oil plume that Roffs showed extending east of the Ozark into the open fishing area. After an hour of running at cruise, I pulled the throttles back to 7 knots, calculating that we would be putting our lines out in the crepuscular light of Saturday's dawn as we approached the weather buoy.

There was the usual beautiful sunset, which I value for its aesthetics, but deem emotionally and philosophically inferior to the seductive promises of sunrise,

a sentiment many of you may remember from last season's posts. The Mallettes supplied dinner, which was of the comforting, rib sticking Southern barbecue variety; Freeman and I supplied the alfresco dining room.

Four is the perfect number to fish the Hammerhead, but as Freeman at nine years old is too young to stand a watch, the three adults experienced a little more sleep deprivation than would be the case with a complement of full grown hands. Not surprisingly, Freeman did not seem to be heavily burdened with guilt about taking advantage of the privileges of youth.

After ten thankfully uneventful hours slogging along under a canopy of stars seizing their monthly opportunity to strut their stuff without competition from the moon, the rising sun found us bearing down on the weather buoy as expected, with only one other boat in sight. We dragged our wares past the buoy a number of times, and four knock downs announced potential buyers, but the combination of the relative inexperience of the new crew and the novelty of circle hooks resulted in only one mahi in the fish box. But with time and testing came experience, and with experience came greater success, as you will read.

Abandoning the weather buoy, we headed west by north pursuant to our plan, and within minutes came upon half a door, or something that was the size of half a door, floating in the water. Quicker'n a jackrabbit, Tenser hooked up. Then Nicholas. And, finally, Freeman. With a triple on there was a little under and over with the rods as yours truly cleared in a solo frenzy, but it was all done well enough. Nicholas was first to the boat with a large oceanic hard tail, which, being nothing to write home about, he swung in sans gaffe. Freeman was next in with a decent sized mystery fish that was identified later at the dock as a big rainbow runner, said by old hands in the marina to be quite tasty, a doubtful contention the Freemanator means to put to the test. Tenser was last in the boat with what was to prove to be the biggest,

fish of the day, a decent bull dolphin.

Shuffling on off to the northwest, we had not gone five miles before our prayers were answered. (We are simple men who do not burden the Almighty with complex requests.) We came upon a north-south weed line with a clean edge that stretched for miles in water so blue it was almost purple. To the south, our colleague from the weather buoy, a fine looking boat with Carolina flare,

was working up the line in our direction, so we turned north to make him fish in our wake.

The action was steady, although not spectacular. Knockdowns and hookups kept the crew busy throughout the morning, and the learning curve began to flatten in terms of clearing lines and getting them back in the water without undue delay. Freeman saw his fair share of the action (alright, maybe more than his fair share), and he and his Papa had the opportunity to once again work together catching and gaffing memories. Did I say memories? I meant fish.

Four creditable mahi later, we headed north into open water, hoping to replicate the big open water bite of two weeks ago or to find a virgin line. But it was not to be. At 1:30 PM, with the crew bored, the Captain tired, and all hands conscious of the journey and work yet ahead, we picked'em up and headed for the house, some 75 nm and three hours away. Upon our arrival 22 hours and 220 nm after our departure, Tenser and Nicholas volunteered to wash the boat, while Freeman and I tackled the fish cleaning, a task for which I do not care, but one that he

likes and works hard at to improve his skills. Hopefully, he will continue to like cleaning fish, and increase apace in proficiency, so that sooner than later he will lift this burden in its entirety from my aged shoulders.

For those who care about such things, our spread most of the day was lures on the short lines and the long center, with skirted medium ballyhoo on the long lines and a swimming select ballyhoo on a short center line. Every fish we caught hit natural bait, and all but one ate a long line offering. But is this undeniable pattern, noted on prior occasions, a matter of position or of presentation? I suppose I could move the lures to the long lines and bring the ballyhoo in on the short lines. Or I could fish all meat. Or all lures. But I am loathe to tinker with success in pursuit of a little more success at the risk of a lot less success. Know what I'm sayin'?

This was the second offshore foray for the Mallettes, who probably think that every trip out of sight of land ends with a billfish flag flying on the outrigger or a fish box full of pelagic delicacies. I fear that time and my rudimentary fish finding skills will teach them otherwise and build their characters with ample doses of piscatorial adversity. But for now they are happy blue water anglers with unimproved characters. May it always be so whenever they sail in the Hammerhead.

The Fishing Reports: Even A Blind Hog ....

A new trolling template is emerging for the East Pass Marina mariners, presumably based on the realization that we have more time than money. In order to go fishing on a given day, we have been leaving the night before and bumping along at seven to ten knots during the night, arriving at the desired location at dawn for the morning bite after having cut our fuel consumption by 50% to 60%. Thus, the first outing of the season for the Hammerhead began Saturday night, May 29. The crew was your correspondent, Freeman Songer (the fishingest grandson a man ever had), Tenser Mallette, and his twenty five year old son, Nicholas. Both Tenser and Nicholas are fisherman, but neither had been trolling offshore before this trip.

We departed around 10 PM, bound for the Squiggles, some 55 nautical miles to the southeast.
The forecast was wind out of the south at 10 to 15 knots and seas 1 to 2 feet, with isolated thunderstorms and a full moon. This translated in practice to intermittent heavy rain, pervasive heat lightening plus the occasional bolt, and pitch black darkness until just before dawn. We nonetheless arrived on station on schedule, and had our baits in the water before we could see how far back they actually were.

The Bella Maria (Wayne Lewis, Maria Falduto, the indomitable George Hendricks, and one more) had also followed the new program and greeted the sun at the 131 Hole, some 40 nm to the west, where they began to troll east toward the Squiggles in blue water while we trolled west toward them in search of a push, a line, an edge, a board, a gum wrapper, anything that might hold fish. We were running two squid teasers chased by lures on the short lines, two skirted medium ballyhoo with circle hooks (my experiment for this season) on the long lines, and a skirted select ballyhoo with a J hook behind a bird on the long center line.

By mid-morning, anticipation had given way to boredom, and the young'uns, Freeman and Nicholas, were resting below while Tenser and I were on watch despite our advanced ages. At 1030, we were were about 8 nm west of the Squiggles in blue water. I was studying the chart plotter, when Tenser said, "Hey! What's that?" I looked back and saw the left short had been knocked down, but the rod was not loaded up. As I began to step down into the cockpit to investigate, there was a boil of water behind the left long, which was 30 pound line on a Penn International 20 reel, and out of the clip it came. The drag, which was almost in free spool per the circle hook protocol, began to howl. I put it in free spool, flicked the clicker off, counted to four (Or was it three?) and eased the drag up to 10 pounds of strike.

The line came tight, the rod loaded up, and line continued to smoke off the reel without pause. Thinking it time for all hands to be on deck, I raised the battle cry: "Fish on! Fish on!" As Nicholas opened the sliding hatch from the salon, Freeman was climbing up his back and over his shoulders. Which is when I saw a billfish greyhound out of the water heading away from the boat.

"Billfish! Billfish! Freeman, get your fighting belt on! Clear! Clear!" (The boat was still in gear on autopilot, and your correspondent was a tad excited, as you might surmise.)

I helped Freeman get the rod butt in the belt gimble and went to the helm while Nicholas and Tenser cleared just as if they had done it before. Far behind the boat, the fish greyhounded to the right once, twice, giving me a good look at its profile. Blue marlin.

I began to back slowly, sensitive to the fact that we had a blue on a 30 with 10 pounds of drag and no more than 600 yards of line. Once I started back, the fish still took line most of the time, but not at a dangerous rate. Every now and again the fish would pause, and Freeman would pump and reel and gain some line before the fish took it back. Because we are primitives and renowned light tackle sportsmen, there is no chair on the Hammerhead, and Freeman is too small for our kidney harness, so after about 20 minutes his left arm and back were shot. He handed the rod over to Nicholas, and he began to stow the rods and lures (save one, as you shall learn) that had remained in the gunnel rod holders.

At my suggestion, Nicholas backed off on the drag to compensate for the pressure being exerted by the water on all the line that was out. This was the last thing I would do right in this fight until I touched the leader.

At about the 40 minute mark, I decided that backing slowly down the line was inferior to turning and driving ahead of the fish like I had recently read about in a Peter Wright how-to piece in Marlin Magazine. Mistake. Here is a tip: the direction of the line from the rod to the water says nothing about where the fish is if he is fighting down. I turned and began to make a wide clockwise circle to get on the up sea side of the assumed location of the fish. As I did so, the line went forward as expected, but then began to close on the boat, and it was closing faster than I could turn away. The fish was swimming a large counter clockwise circle and was about to take the line under the boat. (Actually, I was in the process of driving over the line if you want to be technical about it, but I prefer to blame the fish. In any event, Peter Wright, my ass.)

Grimly and without much hope, I told Nicholas to put the rod in the water and try to walk the line around the stern when it went under the boat. He did. More rod in the water, please. He put the rod in up to the reel and began to ease it around the corner of the transom.

Disaster. The line hung in the running gear. Despair. Surely the marlin had broken off.

"Look," I said as I opened the tuna door, "if we want to have any chance of catching this fish, someone is going to have to go in and try to clear the line. I am 61, and I am staying in the boat." Without a moment's hestitation, Nicholas handed me the rod, went into the water, and disappeared under the boat. As he surfaced, the line rose; it was clear. And glory be to God, it came tight; the fish inexplicably had not broken off. I gave the rod back to a dripping Nicholas, and the struggle resumed.

It was then that I remembered that I in fact have a kidney harness that I had not broken out (another mistake), so I sent Tenser below to retrieve it. While he was gone, the marlin behaved as a marlin should. He tail walked, greyhounded, and tail walked some more. "Look, Papa! Oh, look at him go," Freeman cried. That moment, the sheer joy and wonder my grandson voiced and I felt, is why I go fishing.

With the kidney harness on and the fish tiring, Nicholas began to gain line. Which is when I backed over my brand new $50 Zacatak Mouse lure, which had been left dangling in the water, and wrapped it around my starboard shaft. I did want to lose it, so I did not order the leader cut. Instead, I tried to handle the boat on just the port engine. But the fish - undoubtedly out of spite - went to the right. I had to tell Tenser to cut the leader so I could back on the starboard engine.

The fish came ever closer to the boat. Not more than thirty yards away, he rose to the surface, shaking his head, wagging his bill like a windshield wiper. And he did it again. Then he disappeared and began another run that quickly slowed. Then the line stopped going out. It went slack.

"Oh, my God, he's gone," Nicholas said.

"Reel, reel, reel," I shouted, jamming the boat in forward and goosing the throttles. The boat surged, Nicholas reeled like a mad man (I do not have two speed reels. Did I mention we are primitives?), and the line
came tight. The fish had been swimming toward the boat. He was almost done, snaking on the surface. I took hold of the leader, and applied pressure. He pulled away, so I dumped the leader. Nicholas brought him back. I leadered him again, and it was over. A beautiful blue marlin of about 200 pounds lay on his side by the boat, exhausted, an hour or so after deciding to snack on a random ballyhoo. I billed him, and removed the 9/0 Eagle Claw circle hook from the roof of his mouth, not the hinge of the jaw. (Go figure. If you think about it, this had to be one unlucky fish to be caught by the Keystone Cops.) Tenser put the boat ahead to get some water passing over the fish's gills, and in no time at all he righted himself, and shook his head. I let go of his bill, and he swam away, down into the depths from which he had come so unexpectedly to make us so happy.

Hand shakes and high fives all around. Taking advantage of this outburst of good will, I said, "Uh, Nicholas, would you mind taking a look under the boat again for my Mouse?" Back in the water he went without complaint, emerging with an undamaged lure that had been dangling from the starboard shaft, held only by a few loose wraps of the leader. We certainly were hip deep in luck this day.

Not long after we released the blue, the Bella Maria caught a wahoo that pushed 60 pounds, and picked up a dolphin here and there as the day wore on. The marlin was our only bite of the day, but it certainly was a good'un.

After consultation with the appropriate authority (Pete Mitchell, the senior fisherman

in East Pass Marina) on the radio on the way in, it was decided that both Freeman and Nicholas had participated in the successful capture of their first marlin and that both needed to take the traditional dunking in the marina to propitiate the Marlin Gods and ensure good fishing luck in the future.

It was a wonderful beginning to a season clouded by the prospects of oily interruption.