As you know, the Hammerheads' motto is, "If it ain't blowin', we're goin'." The principle is simple enough, but the question is what exactly constitutes blowin'? The obvious answer is wind that produces waves such that people who truly love to fish would prefer to be on the dock rather than on the boat. But this in turn depends on the individual, the boat, and the trip.
There is no bright dividing line here. Wayne Lewis on the Bella Maria, a 52 Viking, has brought home sea weed on his outriggers, picked up when he dipped an outrigger into the back of a wave while wallowing in a heavy beam sea. Pete Mitchell of the Anonymous, a 54 Hatteras, says, "If it's 4, stay on shore.", and he means it. Outta Here, a 65 Viking on C dock, and Just Teasing, a 60 Hatteras on B dock, crush waves that shiver the timbers of Hammerhead. And it's one thing to slog 8 nm out from Stuart on a 53 Bertram in 6 to 8 foot rollers to sailfish, as the Hammerheads did December before last, and another to slam into a 4 foot chop on a 35 foot Cabo for the 90 nm from Destin to the Double Nipple.
Which brings me back to this past weekend. The forecast was for wind 10 to 15 knots out of the south , seas 2 to 4 feet. And this had been the forecast for four or five days, meaning rollers with some wind blown chop on top. But the Pensacola weather buoy, 115 nm to the southeast was reporting waves of only 2 feet. But this type of report is the average of the highest 1/3 of measured waves, meaning that every third wave could be twice the reported height. But... But ...
No buts; I decided to give'er a go. Hammerhead departed around 7 pm Friday with yours truly, Eric Songer, and a friend of his, Mike Esser, aboard, bound for a reported hard color break 85 nm to the SSW.
Things started swimmingly as we pushed into 2 foot swells at 7 knots. We divided the watches into 2 1/2 hours each beginning at 2100. I went first. Eric relieved me at 2330, just as the moon was rising. The wind had picked up, and the sea was getting lumpier, but nothing to write home to mama about. As I slept that half sleep captains sleep when underway at night, I was from time to time conscious of a shudder when Hammerhead slammed into a particularly large wave or of a bang when she fell off a big one into the trough.
At 0130, Eric woke me up. "You better come on deck," he said. Mike was already there. "It's pretty snotty," Eric said, " and it's been getting worse ever since I came on watch." He was right. The seas were not 2 to 4, they were 4, then 4, and 4 again, right on our nose, and three to five seconds apart. Hammerhead was laboring. I slowed to 5.5 knots. Better, but not good. We were 35 nm from our intended destination, still north of the Spur and 50 nm from the house. To give you a feel for the conditions, below is a photo we took of a nearby boat. Alright, maybe not, but it is what I would have expected to see if there had been a nearby boat and if I had been able to see it, but then I am a tad melodramatic.
There were three choices. Push on, take the beating, and hope it did not get much worse as we moved farther and farther out. Or turn tail and head for home in a more comfortable following sea, arriving back in the slip in time to take Mary to breakfast at the Donut Hole. Or split the difference by seeing if there was a heading we could tolerate and stay out and fish without going too much deeper into the Gulf.
Roffs showed a possible color break between blue and blue-green water east of the Squiggles, some 30 miles to the east, but still only 50 nm or so from home, so we turned due east, taking the 4 footers on the starboard beam. Hammerhead rolled like a pig. You had to press your feet against the aft bulkhead and jam your elbow and forearm between the cushion and the starboard bulkhead to avoid being rolled out of the rack as you tried and failed to sleep. But it was tolerable, and tolerate it we did until the sun came up.
We had our spread out in blue water by 0600, trolling to the east. But we did not find a color break. After a couple of hours of a lot of nothing, rolling and rolling, we back tracked, fishing north of west toward the Nipple. We eventually came on a north to south weed line to die for in cobalt blue water. It was at least ten yards wide and a mile and a half to two miles long, with bait, birds, and flying fish. We dragged our wares up and down it four times without even a knock down.
So, perhaps impatiently and unwisely, we set off once again to the west. A little after mid-day, we came upon a legless chair with a white vinyl cushion on the seat floating upside down in blue water, covered in barnacles and covered up with mahi. I am ashamed to admit that we only went one for four on mahi bites. I have no excuses, but I do have explanations, lame as they are. One mahi was lost to bad angling. One to bad luck. And the third, a bull in the 20 to 30 pound range, was lost to bad judgment, as we intentionally left him in the water to attract others until he finally came unstuck right at the transom as I reached for him with the gaff.
Lesson Number 1 For The Trip: If you have a fish hooked that is bigger than a loaf of bread, stick it at your first opportunity and put it in the box.
Lesson Number 2 For The Trip: If you have a live bait, put it out when you stop in a school of marlin food hanging out on something that has been floating in the water for some time.
This lesson was learned when we pulled in our spread, backed up to the chair, and began tossing lures on spinning rods at the chicken dolphin, just playing around. Eric and Mike were casting, and I was standing in the cockpit watching, when it happened. No more than 20 yards from the transom, a 300 to 400 pound blue marlin exploded out of the water, spraying chicken dolphin skyward in a veritable fish fountain, then fell back in a great splash, creating another, smaller geyser of terrified schoolies. It was a real Guy Harvey moment.
I was so surprised I almost soiled myself. By the time I had recovered my wits, gotten underway, and put the spread back out, the marlin was gone. And there definitely wasn't a mahi with a lick of sense within 10 miles.
It was then I remembered there was a marlin snack size juvenile ambejack swimming around in the bait well, waiting for a close encounter of the worst kind with The Man in the Blue Suit. I let him go.
We were in the slip with one small mahi, mildly bruised bodies and badly bruised egos in time to console ourselves with a few Cuba Libres before eating a wonderful dinner Mary had waiting for us.
Next time out I hope for fewer lessons and more fish.
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