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.