Against All Hope

Last Friday about mid-day I received a text from Plain Wayne, the owner of Bella Maria, a 52 Viking convertible renowned in our little corner of the world for both fishing and catching, which ain't the same things, asking me if I wanted to go fishing on Saturday and advising me that the Freemanator would be welcome as well, which is always a sure fire draw for me.   For those of you have not met him before in these pages, Plain Wayne is Wayne Lewis, successful restauranteur, accomplished raconteur, and compulsivel fisherman with whom I have enjoyed a lot of good times afloat and ashore. But in The Fishing Reports, because he lacks an official title like Cap'n John or a cool nickname like Freemanator, he is henceforth just Plain Wayne.

I was in Tallahassee, so I needed to get a green light from the War Department, pick up Freeman from school, drive to Destin, choke down a cheese burger and fries chased by a slice of pecan pie at Jim 'N Nicks, go to bed sober, and rise early in order to be on the boat at the appointed time of 0515. Miss Mary did in fact give us the green light, as she always does, and we were off.

Bella Maria left the slip before sunrise.  On board were Plain Wayne, Cap'n John (Tate), Justin Goff, the Freemanator, and me. We headed for the Spur to look for a push on a good temperature break shown on the Roffs Report we had ordered. 

You need to know that Plain Wayne is a no kidding troller. He occasionally swordfishes at the end of a day of trolling, but only to kill time while he is waitng for the sun to come up so he can troll some more. And his bottom fishing is limited to a couple of days each year at the beginning of red snapper season to accomodate family and friends whose attention spans are only good for a few hours on the water. But Wayne's optimism and determination notwithstanding, trolling in December is not a high percentage play, so my hopes were low - maybe a nice tuna or a wahoo or two - and my expectations were even lower. 

We had the lines in the water at 0800, with the Freemanator and Cap'n John on the bridge watching the spread and Wayne, Justin, and I working the cockpit. The water temperature was 73 to 74, which is alright, but nothing to write home about.  Not too cold for billfish, but almost. The water was, however, blue and clean.

At 1035, the left short rigger line went down with a bang, and the drag on the reel began to howl.  A nice blue marlin weighing around 200 pounds leaped into the air far back in the spread, fell back with a splash, and then grey hounded from left to right, giving us a good look at him.  Then he got serious, and made a run for it. Wayne took the rod and went to the chair. He settled into the bucket seat, and hooked into the reel. The fish was still taking line. But by the time Cap'n John made it down from the tower, where he had been steering, to the bridge, and took the engines out of gear, the fish wasn't taking line.  He was gone.  The hook had pulled. From bite to bitterness took five minutes total, maybe less.

Undaunted, we quickly put the spread back in the water and soldiered on.  At 1105, there was a monster knockdown on the shotgun line. The strike was so violent that the center rigger was whipping up and down as the mystery fish pulled drag for a few seconds. But there was no hook up.  Based on the bite, it probably a yellow fin tuna, a big one. Damn, damn, damn.

And nothing else happended from then until we picked up in the afternoon and headed home.  Nothing.  All in all, it would have been a pretty disappointing day had we not caught that other marlin early in the morning.

I'm sorry. Did I forget mention the first of our two December marlins?

At around 0840, Plain Wayne relieved Cap'n John on the wheel so that Cap'n John could go see a man about a dog. Just as John stepped off the bridge ladder into the cockpit, heading for the head, there was a knockdown on the left short rigger where we were running a Black Bart 1656 Angle with a lumo skirt. Justin went to the rod and reeled the lure quickly toward the boat, stopped, waited a moment, and then dropped it back, trying to entice the  fish, if there was one, to eat.  But to no avail. No fish.

Oh, well. Justin pulls down the rigger line. Holding the clip in his left hand and the line in his right, he is just about to close the clip and run it up the rigger when the line is snatched from his hand. The rod bows and the drag begins to sing its siren song.  I instinctively glance at my watch. It's 0843.

"Fish on!  Fish on! Clear, clear, clear."

As I rush to clear the left flat line, out of the corner of my eye I see a fish far behind the boat go vertical, then tail walk.

"Billfish! Billfish!" Wayne shouts from the bridge.  I feel, more than see, Freemanator sliding down the bridge ladder like a little fireman, heading to the right cockpit to help clear.  "White! It's a white!" Who said that? Justin? John?

Justin grabs the rod and goes to the chair, where he proceeds to open a big time can of whup ass on this fish. Justin is big, strong, and young, up on top of the reel, cranking, cranking, cranking.

This fish is not so big and, seemingly, not that strong.  It's a white marlin, after all, not The Man In The Blue Suit. Almost before we have finsihed clearing, Justin has most of the line back on the reel.  Freeman is driving the chair and taking photos. John and I put on our gloves. I will leader the fish, and John will bill him and retrieve the hook and lure before releasing him.

The wind-on leader comes out of the water. I take it and walk the fish around the corner of the transom to the right side of the cockpit.

I see color, a lot of color. A big white. But still ten feet down. So, I lift him. Damn, he's heavy. A really big white. I pull him to the surface. No, not a white. It's a blue, about 150 pounds. A rat blue, but a blue nonetheless.

In the photo below you can see the fish, the lure on his bill.  For those of you have never seen an angry  billfish all lit up and ready to rumble, note the neon blue pectoral fin.

 Cap'n John grabs the fish by the bill, and removes the hook. Freeman is taking photos, the camera strap dangling across the lens, as you can see. The fish kicks with his tail, once, twice, gathering strength, snaking alongside the boat as it idles forward. "He's coming alive! He's coming alive!" John shouts to no one in particular, sounding for all the world like Henry Frankenstein when he first sees the monster move in the original 1931 movie. "Well, turn him lose then," Wayne calls down from the bridge.

And John does. With a flick of his tail, a somewhat confused and highly insulted young marlin disappears into the depths. It's 0900.

Two blues hooked, one lost and one caught.   On December 8. The Good Book says, "Against all hope, Abraham in hope believed." Well, I'm here to tell you that ol' Abraham ain't got nothing on Plain Wayne Lewis when it comes to hoping.

CATCHING UP

Let me begin with a mea culpa. There is no excuse for it, but I am four fishing trips behind in maintaining the annals of the Ancient and Honorable Order of the Blind Hog.  Rather than boring the bejesus out of you by making you read four separate posts, I am going to catch up by condensation, relying more on photos than on my deathless prose.  I know it has been said that one picture is worth a thousand words, but it is said only by those who have never read The Fishing Reports, so I apologize for the deprivation you are about to endure. 

YOU SNOOZE, YOU LOSE

The Blind Hog made an overnight foray with the High Hog, Grasshopper, Garrett Simpson, Doug Richards, and Zack Jones aboard.  This is a real deal crew, as I was to find out to my chargrin.  We enjoyed a calm night and next day, catching a sailfish, tuna, mahi, and wahoo.  The smallest fish we caught was the sailfish below, which we actually bagged with a dip net while swordfishing. Like the sports we are, we released it rather than killing and mounting it. I did, however, want to fly a billfish flag upon our return, but those who decide such things - Wayne Lewis and Pete Mitchell, in this case - woud not sanction it.

The largest fish we boated was a yellowfin tuna that went about 100 pounds.  Doug hooked it, Zack fought it, and Grasshopper and Garrett leadered it, gaffed it, bled it, and packed it in ice, all while I was sleeping after my watch.  Wanna feel superfluous on your own boat?  Take those guys fishing with you.

BLUE HEAVEN

My next outing was another overnight on Drew Mitchell's Blue Heaven, a 45 Cabo Express, with Drew, Mark Yanora, George Alford, and Tony Delvecchio.  The fishing was slow going to say the least. There were a couple of mystery bites, including a double hook up that probably was a single big shark that ate both baits and eventually bit through one leader and, later, the other.  Not long after first light, Drew and I decided to pick them up. As I walked toward the 100 foot bait to reel it in , the tip bowed.  Fish on, literally at the last second. George, on the left in the photo with Tony, reeled in his first sword. A lawn dart of a sword, I know, but legal nonetheless. Honest. 

HOLY HAMMERHEAD!

The third trip was aboard the Blind Hog, crewed by moi, the Freemanator, Eric Songer, and Bobby Cresap. We saw a lot of action on this trip, but few results, thanks to an outbreak of human error and equipment failure that was probably caused by human error.  We boated a football blackfin tuna, lost a very nice yellowfin at the gaff, and broke off a decent - but not big - sword after I dumped the leader because he was so green and Eric decided "to stop him or pop him". The big catch of the trip was the largest shark I have ever seen in person, whether in the wild or in captivity.  It was a hammerhead that was at least eight feet long, and maybe more, with a girth as big as mine, which is saying something.

 Freemanator, above, gave it a go. (His mother will see this picture and blow a gasket, so let me assure my daughter that one of us held the back of his harness the entire time, but for the moment when his father stepped out of frame so I could take this photo.) But this shark was too much for the Freemantor standing up, and I did not have the footboard for the chair on the boat, so Eric had to step in and finish it. After being deep into the backing twice, Eric finally brought this stud shark to the boat, and I took a wrap and held on until he broke the 200 pound leader, which took about five seconds

MEET MABRY CHASE

This past weekend, Bobby Legier invited me to join him and Nate Marks on his boat, the Mabry Chase, named after his daughter.  It is a 45 Gillkin Express very much like the Blind Hog, both handsome, custom built Carolina boats.  We left for the oil rigs Thurday night and returned Saturday from the Spur around Miller Time. It was a great trip, well worth the time, effort and fuel. Below is a photo of the Petronius as we approached it at 0200 Friday to begin live baiting for tuna.

Here is the dividend our diligence paid - another 100 pound yellowfin, this one caught by Nate.

Then we fished for wahoo with high speed lures pulled at thirteen knots at the nearby Beer Can rig, and caught two 'hoos, one about thirty pounds and the other, pictured below with Bobby on the left and Nate on the right, twice thirty.

Our blood lust not yet sated, we ran to the Spur, and swordfished Friday night, catching the ninety or so pounder in the photo below.

And to make up for the recent dearth of posts, a special treat for my readers - a photo of the seldom seen High Hog maneuvering the Mabry Chase with a remote control in the cockpit as a fish is being fought.

The only hiccup in the entire trip was the ride home. Three to five foot seas at least, just forward of the starboard beam for sixty nautical miles. Kinda like being in a washing machine mounted on a roller coaster.  But this minor discomfort did little to mar a memorable adventure.

I will be a better correspondent in the future. Promise.

Houston, We Have A Problem

Sometimes there is more to a fishing trip than fishing, and that was the case during Blind Hog's second outing. The date was Friday, September 21. The crew was your correspondent, the Freemanator and his father, Eric Songer, plus Grasshopper (aka Andrew Dover) from the Outta Here and his roommate, Garrett Simpson. The plan was to depart at dusk, run for an hour or so and then bump along at seven and half knots through the night to meet the rising sun south of the Dumping Grounds about 85 nautical miles out. From there we would troll west toward the Steps and then north and east up the roll down past the Elbow to the Nipple. Which is what we did.  But it tells easier than it was.

First came some culture shock.  The Hog and its predecessors are accustomed to being crewed on overnight trips by older (old?) men, prudent, deliberate men who watched Bonanza on Sunday nights after The Wonderful World of Disney if their parents would let them stay up, men whose testosterone levels now barely exceed those of their wives. Grasshopper and Garrett, on the other hand, are in their early twenties. Both are good company and  excellent fishermen, which is not surprising, given the fact that they are professionals who were just fun fishing with me. But neither is a fancy dresser, a fastidious groomer, or a conscientious nutritionist. I told them to bring whatever they thought they needed for a 24 hour offshore trip, and they climbed aboard with a couple of favorite lures and three cases of beer. As they put away their essentials in every nook and cranny of the boat that would hold ice, I was reminded of the adage that nothing says a man means business like using a shopping cart in a liquor store. And these boys mean business. As you can see below, they look nothing alike, yet somehow both remind me of Bill the Cat. They are the kind of young men that fathers with daughters the world over fear.  I like them very much.

 At first, all went according to plan. At 10:30, we began our two hour watches, Hopper and Garrett were up first, Eric to go on at 2:30, and me at 4:30. I bedded down on the starboard lounge seat on the helm deck for six wonderful hours of uninterrupted sleep, a luxury on these types of trips. I may have been dreaming of dolphins and lions like Santiago in The Old Man and the Sea when I was jolted upright by alarms going off here, there and everywhere. There was no bang, and there was no smoke, but like Apollo 13, something had happened, and we were losing power 60 nm from the house. The bottom machine and the radar would shut down, power up, and shut down again. The autopilot had been knocked off auto.  The radios would not transmit because of a low battery condition.  If the saltwater washdown in the cockpit was used, the power flowing to the washdown pump knocked everything else off line. I turned off all the electronics but the chart plotter and the autopilot, and I turned off all the lights except the running lights. I grabbed a flashlight and began to look around just as if I knew what I was looking for, which I didn't, trying to act like Jim Lovell, but feeling like Chicken Little.

The first thing I notice is that no one is on watch. It is 12:30, yet I am alone on the helm deck, and there is no one in the cockpit.  Two possibilities present themselves to me. Either whoever was on watch  fell overboard, probably while trying to take a leak over the cover board in the cockpit while wearing beer goggles, or my two young crewmen are snuggled up together below. I am unsure which possibility I prefer, and decide not to investigate further at the moment because if one of them has gone over the side it is too late to save him, and if both of them are below it might be too soon to disturb them.  So I crawl around on my hands and knees with my flashlight, checking breakers, reading volt meters,  and turning things on and off in the hopes that I will find something.

And find something I do. I find four bare feet in the beam of my flashlight. Hopper and Garrett have appeared on the helm deck.  They have been in the tower, enjoying the evening air, the star filled sky, and a cold beer or four.  The tower. A third possibility that did not occur to me.

"We turned on the spotlight and shit started happening," Garrett says matter of factly.  Hopper nods in solemn confirmation, a man of many beers and few words.

What had happened was that the house batteries that run the electronics were wired to a 10 amp battery charger, and all the electronics, plus the live well, the helm deck lights and the spreader lights pull close to 40 amps, not to mention the spotlight.  The engines were running just fine, and turning out 13.75 volts each,  but there was no isolator switch that would allow the power from the engine alternators to charge the house batteries in the absence of sufficient juice from the house battery charger.  All these deficiencies have since been remedied, but for the balance of this trip, we minimized the use of power on the helm deck and checked the compass heading for Destin every 30 minutes in case we had to make it home the old fashioned way.  But we pressed on, because Blind Hog don't care..

We did find blue water come morning. And we did find some weed lines and occasional flotsam or jetsam to fish on. But the fish were either somewhere else or uncooperative.  Eric caught a large triple tail on a spinning rod off a floating bucket. We also caught two small mahi, one so small we tossed it back. Later in the day, a billfish, species unknown, knocked down the long right. Almost immediately, the short left went down too. We assumed it was the billfish, so Garrett dropped back a swimming ballyhoo we were running on the left corner.  A wahoo knifed in and cut it off behind the hook.  It was almost certainly the wahoo and not the billfish that knocked down the short left and then came back for the unexpected ballyhoo offering, because the skirt on the lure on the short left was chewed up pretty good and the leader was frayed when we checked it. A little excitement, but no cigar

The high point of this otherwise unremarkable day of fishing was being able to check off another thing on Freemanator's bucket list  He had never caught a wahoo, and now he has, a nice one too. For him, it was a good trip, and I am happy when he is happy, so it was a good trip for me, the cost of subsequent upgrades to the boat notwithstanding.

The bottom line is that we made it home in good order and in good time in the boat we left in, with no one requiring medical attention upon arrival. And we caught fish.  I'll take that every time.

First Foray, First Blood

I write to tell the story of the first fishing trip of the Blind Hog, which took place this past Sunday.  But first, a little background.  Mary and I closed on the Blind Hog on July 26, and it immediately went into the Jarrett Bay Boatworks yard in Beaufort, North Carolina, for survey remediations and upgrades, where it remained for two weeks.  The Jarrett Bay folks are first class craftsmen and nice folks; their considerable skills are matched only by their patience and desire to please their customers. I was very pleased.

Mary and I left Tallahassee on Tuesday, August 14 in a rented mini-van full life jackets, chain, rode, an anchor, charts, fenders, buckets, water hoses, towels, toilet paper, wine, rum, etc.  You get the picture. We arrived around noon on the 15th, and loaded the boat that afternoon.  The next day, the 16th, we sea trialed the boat in the morning and then moved it to the municipal marina in Morehead City. Below is a picture of the Blind Hog at the Jarrett Bay yard just prior to departing to our jumping off point.

At  first light on Friday, August 17, we were off.  I will not recount in this post our adventures during the trip, which were many and varied, and by no means all fun and games.  Suffice it to say, we were eight days on the water, and only  ran aground once before we finally made it to Carrabelle, just 120 nautical miles from Destin.  But there things came unglued for a while. Because of a hurricane followed by the death of my mother, it would be another two weeks before the boat made it to its new home. But, finally, just after noon on Friday, September 7, I backed the Blind Hog into its slip at East Pass Towers Marina in Destin Harbor.

Bringing home the bacon was kinda like my time in the Marine Corps: I am proud of what Mary and I acomplished. And I am glad to have the experience under my belt. But I ain't doing it again.

After another week of preparation and waiting for a weather window, it was time to put the new boat through its paces with hooks in the water.  At dawn last Sunday, the Hog went snorting through East Pass on the hunt for acorns.  The crew on this first foray consisted of me, Mary, the Freemanator, Wayne Lewis, Justin Goff, and Lisa Weber, a fine assemblage, as you can see in the photo below.

We headed for a pocket of blue water reported beyond the Ozark, about 30 nm due south, and we found it. While we were still deploying the outriggers, something ate a ballyhoo on the long center line.  And before you could say "first blood", a nice blackfin tuna was in the boat.  I pause here to note that the angler on this very first fish to be caught on the Blind Hog was my grandson, Freeman McKager Songer, aka the Freemanator, aka the Fishing Fool. This made his Papa very happy.

A half an hour later, there was a big bite on a medium Zacatak Sprocket with a lumo skirt on the short right rigger. Lisa went to the chair and fought this fish with skill and determination for some time until it finally chewed through the 300 pound Momoi Xtra Hard leader.  The leader was so frayed and boogered up that it would not go through the hook stop on the lure, which saved my Sprocket.  Undoubtedly, this was a big wahoo like the one Mary caught in June on the same lure.

Then things got slow. Real slow. So, we picked up and ran to the Spur, another 25 nm to the south, where we started to troll  down into the DeSoto Canyon. Again, slow going, nothing happening, the water not all that blue.  I chatted up a nearby boat that had been fishing the area for two days without any results that  the captain cared to mention.  Bummer. The only encouraging news was that we could see  and hear a boat about three miles to the west that had been fighting a big blue marlin for more than an hour when we arrived.

Wayne and the Freemanator climb into the tower to try and find something for us to fish on.  Nada. The boat is rolling in a three foot beam sea.  The diesel engines are rumbling. It's hot.  Looks like it's going to be a long ......

The long right goes off like a pistol shot.  Rod bowed, line sizzling off the reel against 15 pounds of drag.

"Wayne! Freeman! Fish on! Fish on! Get down here!"

Wayne comes lumbering down the tower ladder at flank speed while Freeman comes down the other side like a fireman sliding down a firehouse pole.

"Clear, clear, clear!  Lisa, get in the chair."

Lisa is in the chair with the rod, a straight butt with a Talica 25 reel spooled with 700 yards of 60 pound test, pumping and reeling. I take the boat out of gear, and begin to bring in the teasers while everyone is clearing the other lines. Even Mary, who is wearing a soft cast on her injured left hand, is in the cockpit.

"Fish, big fish!" she shouts, pointing beyond the transom.  And she is right.  I see color in the water, bearing down on the squid teaser that is almost at the left corner of the boat by now.

"It's a marlin," Wayne calls out.  "Put the boat in gear! Go forward!"

And I do. The boat surges forward, and the  marlin swerves left, suddenly attracted to the bird teaser on the right side, where there is a bent butt Tiagra 50 with a swimming ballyhoo on a circle hook in the corner position.  Justin has been clearing it, and the wind-on is already partially on the reel. That's how close to the boat the bait is.

"Feed him, Justin.  Knock it out of gear," Wayne yells.  Justin throws the drag into free spool, and, just like you draw it up, the marlin grabs the ballyhoo and takes off.  Wait for it...  Wait for it... One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven.

"Lock it up, Justin." Justin pushes the drag forward. The clicker wails against the drag as the line races off the reel .

"Fish on!"

Now we have a double, a mystery fish on a straight butt that Lisa is fighting from the chair, and a marlin on a regular bent butt that has to be fished from the chair. Rather, than switch people, we switch rods.  The Freemanator takes the straight butt and backs into the right forward corner of the cockpit to fight the mystery fish standing up.  Lisa takes the bent butt in the chair and goes back to work. In fairly short order, Wayne is leadering the second fish, a nice white marlin, on the left side of the cockpit.  You can see the ballyhoo still dangling from the circle hook that is improbably imbedded in the roof of his mouth. Wayne and Justin release this fish without difficulty, and away he swims, unharmed. One down.

Now for the mystery fish, which the Freemanator has been battling away from the main action.  Lisa quickly hops out of the chair, and the Fishing Fool climbs in. Here he is, checking his line level as he reels, a budding craftsman being coached by Wayne as his grandmother looks down range for a show of any kind that would reveal the identity of the mystery fish.

Probably not a tuna.  Maybe another big wahoo? Freemanator has most of the line on the reel.  I bump the boat to port to put the fish on the right side of the cockpit, our preferred side. (I wonder why?) Justin gets the gaff and moves into position.  Wayne is ready, still wearing the leadering gloves. Lisa is driving the chair.  Everything is going just as if we know what we're doing.

"Color! I see color. Big fish." Mary calls out.

"It's a marlin," Wayne adds.  Deja vu all over  again. A billfish double. 

Here is the mystery fish, pinned to a Black Bart 1656 Mini Angle with a 9/0 hook in a rainbow skirt.  All my lures that have caught billfish have names.  This is Judy Garland, as in "Somewhere over the rainbow...", and this is her third white marlin. It is the second white and the sixth billfish for the Fishing Fool. He and the Hog are both off to auspicious starts in what hopefully will be long careers in blue water fishing.

Wayne and Justin effect another clean release, and the marlin swims off while we put our wares back in the water and then go looking for more acorns.  And we find one about an hour later.  A white hits Little David, a dorado skirted small Cabo Shaker on the long left.  He knocks it down, but will not eat.  He is just playing, snaking around behind the lure with his tail and dorsal out of the water as we drop the lure back and reel it up trying to provoke him, all to no avail.  Finally, he gets bored and leaves.  

It's not late, but the Freemanator has school in the morning in Tallahassee, so we leave too, arriving back at the dock at around Miller time, where Lisa takes her obligatory dunking as a first time marlin catcher in order to propitiate the billfish gods. 

A truly great day, one that proved the Hog can raise fish and that those who crew him can sometimes catch them.  May many more flags like the ones below fly from his outrigger halyard before his days and my days on the water are done.

ACORNS GALORE

I have been remiss in keeping you informed of my fishing related doings, primarily because there has been so much doing going on.  And the result is big news, at least in the limited context of The Fishing Reports.  

But before the news, the fishing, what little there has been of it. 

GAFF THEM IN THE EYE, SON

On Saturday, June 30, sick of sitting in the slip waiting for the wind to stop blowing, Hammerhead sallied forth with your correspondent,  Eric Songer, the Freemanator, Tenser Mallette, and the grande dame of The Fishing Reports, Miss Mary aka Mama, aboard.  The forecast was 10 to 15 knots out of the SSW, seas 2 to 3 feet, but it had been blowing from that direction at that velocity for days, which means 3, plus some 4s.  No 2s. Rather than banging into a head sea for the 60 nm to the Spur, we decided to head for the Nipple and take our beating just forward of the port beam for only 45 nm and then ride a following sea home at the end of the day. But by the time we neared the Edge, some 20 nm out, it seemed like a better idea to go bottom fishing on the Edge instead of trolling at the Nipple.  

Wussing out was a possibility I had anticipated, so I had bottom rods and a box of cigar minnows on the boat. And not long after we headed for the Edge, we came upon a couple of large weed patches in about 150 feet of water. No mahi, but there was bait.  We broke out the sabiki rigs and started bailing what turned out to be juvenile amberjack.  Now we had dead bait and live bait, and were good to go. 

As we worked the Edge, the action was steady and the catch was a wonderful variety of species providing a consistently high quotient of fun.  We caught a really big Spanish mackerel, a couple of small kings, a shark, several bonito, and a keeper amberjack or two that we couldn't keep because the season was closed.  We also had to throw back 5 keeper gag grouper, as the season on them did not open until the next day. But we did keep a nice scamp and limited out on fat red snapper. 

All this action was an opportunity for Freemanator to practice his gaffing skills.  "Try to hit them well forward," I told him.  "Don't booger up the meat if you can help it." Freeman is a good boy, attentive and obedient.  He gaffed the very next fish to come to the boat right through the eyes. Not much meat damaged there.  "Was that OK, Papa?" he asked with a sly smile that said the gaff shot had been a fortuitous accident to which he would never admit.  "I've seen worse," I replied, as dead pan as I could manage. 

 We also caught one and a half red grouper, which we kept.  I say one and a half because while Mary was reeling in a handsome specimen of the breed, she felt a sharp tug, and voila, a toothy critter had helped itself to everything aft of the pec fins, as you can see below.

It was a good day. A great day, really. The fishing was excellent. The crew was the very heart of the Hammerhead fishing team, every one a member in good standing of the Ancient and Honorable Order of the Blind Hog, and every one at least a Curly Tail in rank.  This was as it should have been, because although we did not know it then, this was the last time we would ever fish on Hammerhead.

'HOO'S YER MAMA?

Between June 30, and last Saturday, August 11, I did not wet a line, on my boat or on anyone else's.  I was too busy, but more about that later.

Last Saturday, Miss Mary and I were the guests of the Mitchell Clan on the Anonymous, a 54 Hatteras. Aboard were the Clan captain - Mark Yanora, the patriarch and matriarch - Pete and Melanie, and their progeny - Drew and Bart.  This was a relatively casual outing, the plan being to wahoo fish at and beyond the Knuckle, about 20 nm south on the way to the Spur.

We left before dawn, and when the day came, it was distinguished by a clear blue sky and calm seas.  The opening spread was two teasers off the riggers, a strip dredge off the left corner, two marlin lures on the short riggers, a skirted ballyhoo down on a planer on the right corner, two skirted ballyhoo on the long lines, a skirted ballyhoo behind a bird on the long center line, and a naked dink ballyhoo fished down the middle at the end of the prop wash off the tip of a rod in a transom rodholder. Bart, like Wayne Lewis, believes you cannot have too many hooks in the water. Drew was basically hors de combat with pain from a bad back, for which his mother gave him a mystery pill that put him face down in the salon for much of the day.  Mark, Pete and Melanie were on the bridge. Bart and I were working the cockpit, and the Clan was kind enough to designate Mary as the angler de jour.

Early on, we had a knockdown on the long right, followed immediately by a knockdown on the center line, both baits crushed. Probably a white marlin picking his way through the spread, front to back. After that, nothing for a long while. 

The morning had almost dwindled away when we had big bite on the center line. Mary grabs the rod, one of my Talicas, and goes to work.  The fish makes a couple of good runs against 15 pounds of drag, but Mary is up to the challenge.  Before long almost all the line is on the reel.  The rod is bowed, the line tight, and the pressure constant as the knot on the double line comes out of the water just behind the boat. The the rod tip pops up. The fish is gone. Pulled the hook. It was a fast bastard with no quit that never jumped. Probably a wahoo. 

This was disappointing, but not devastating. It was still relatively early.  But later it wasn't early anymore. And, even later, it began to get late.  By now we were running all lures, and trolling faster to cover more ground. Were we going to be skunked?

Bart is in the salon,  and Mary and I are in the cockpit facing each other, talking with our backs to the rods, when Melanie politely calls down from the bridge, "I believe there is a fish on the long right." And sure enough, the long right is down, and line is ripping off the reel.  That is the only disadvantage of my light, tough Talicas: they might as well not have clickers for all the noise they don't make.

Again, Mary is on the rod, standing up without a harness, only a fighting belt.  Bart and I are clearing, and Drew appears and pitches in, back pain notwithstanding. The fish makes a long opening run.  Mary works it close t0 the boat.  He makes another long run, but not quite so far this time.  Will this one pull the hook too?  "Honey, the longer he is in the water, the more likely we are to lose him," I say to Mary, who gives me the stink eye as she leans back on the rod, pumping and reeling, sweat pouring down her face. Dumb ass thing to say. Bart gives me a well deserved you're-a-moron look.

We see color. Mary backs into the right corner. It's a wahoo, a nice one.  Mark bumps the boat ahead. Bart takes the leader and straightens the fish out. I lean over with the gaff. Be patient. Get it right. Don't miss. "Will you stick him, for God's sake," Bart pleads. And I do, but too far back, well behind the pec fins. Gaff him in the eye, stupid. As I lift him out of the water, he gets bigger. And bigger.  A 50 to 60 pound 'hoo. In da box.

 Zeros to heroes in 15 minutes. The day is made. It's OK to go home now.

That was Saturday.  On Wednesday, Hammerhead left its slip with a stranger at the helm, never to return.

"EVEN A BLIND HOG FINDS AN ACORN EVERY ONCE IN A WHILE."

A traditional Southern saying used to explain an unusually good performance from an
unexpected source. Urban Dictionary

For two years, Mary and I have been toying with the idea of buying another boat, a newer boat that might last me to the end of my active days at the helm of a sport fishing boat 100 nm offshore.  Something with more speed, more range, and a better, drier ride. Our search varied in intensity from desultory to desperate.  We looked at boats in Destin, Tampa, Orange Beach, Stuart, Ft. Pierce, and Ft. Myers twice.  We made offers on at least three boats and had contracts on two. But it just never worked out.  Wrong boat. Wrong time. Wrong price. And then there was Hammerhead.  I wanted a new boat, but I didn't want two boats, having accidentally owned two condos for four years, an experience I did not care to repeat.

But in early July, I saw a custom built Carolina boat on line that was for sale in Morehead City, North Carolina, and I fell in love.  Mary, Freeman, and I drove up to look at it, twenty two hours round trip.  I made an offer that was accepted.  Freeman, Marcus, and I drove up a week later for the sea trial and survey, twenty two hours round trip.  Damn the two boat problem; full speed ahead. We bought the boat.  Just like that.

Our new boat is a sea foam green 2008 43 Express with only 180 hours on 660 hp Cummins QSM 11s, a well equipped, well maintained, all but new boat at a used boat price.  Fast, fuel efficient, and a head turner to boot - tumble home aft, broken sheer, Carolina flare, and plenty of attitude. A small miracle.  

But that's not all. I do not know if miracles come in threes, but they definitely come in pairs. A broker in South Florida who I met when he lived in Destin knew a woman named Roxanna Collins in Ft. Lauderdale who was looking for a boat just like Hammerhead and was willing to pay a price I could stomach if not be wildly enthusiastic about. She and her intended, Tony, drove up to see Hammerhead, eighteen hours round trip. They liked it, and she bought the boat. Just like that.

After seven and a half years of distinguished service, Hammerhead is gone, my friends. Sic transit in gloria mundi.

Mais si le roi est mort, vive le roi! Mary and I leave on Tuesday for Morehead City to bring the new boat home.  With a one day lay off to rest in the middle of the trip, I expect it to take nine days, weather permitting and insha'Allah.  I will send email bulletins on our progress, and those of you who are interested can follow us on Google Maps through the Spot link I will provide.

Here is the new flagship of the Ancient and Honorable Order of the Blind Hog, the latest - and probably the last - Shoat Boat. 

But what to name it?

Oh, come on. Blind Hog, of course.

And here is the new logo. It's on the transom with the name, and it will be on the tee shirt I will give you after we go fishing together.

Now all Mary and I have to do is get the Blind Hog home safely. May The Force be with us.

The Children's Crusade

If you ask a man how his fishing trip went and his response begins with, "It was a pretty day", you can bet the ranch he didn't catch squat. Thursday was a pretty day on Hammerhead. But that doesn't tell the whole story.

In 2010, the problem that plagued offshore fishing in the northeastern Gulf was oil from the Deepwater Horizon.  In 2011, it was fresh water from the rain swollen Mississippi River. This year so far, it is wind from an apparently angry Aeolus.  There is day after day of 15 knot plus wind and uncomfortably high seas, at least for a 35 foot boat that weighs only about 25,000 pounds and is captained by an elderly gentleman with a low tolerance for suffering. But ever so often there is a weather window - a day and a night of calm, maybe two days.  When that window opens, well, carpe diem, not to coin a phrase.

Last week and this past weekend were particularly snotty, with three smaller boats actually capsizing in East Pass on Thursday, June 7, and two more disabled, forcing the Coast Guard to guard the coast, which so annoyed them that a warning was issued to the effect that anyone exiting East Pass did so at their own risk, which is kind of like the Fire Department putting out the word that it's too hot to fight fires, so you are on your on.  I was reminded of Major Major in Catch 22, who was always in his office if no one needed to see him, but always out if they did.  But I digress.

The forecast for Wednesday night and Thursday was for wind 5 to 10 knots and seas 1 to 2 feet.  Beginning Thursday night, the wind was going to pick up and be blowing like Billy B. Jesus again on Friday and through the weekend. I began early in the week to recruit crew so that when the diem came, I could carpe it. Which brings me to another bone stuck in my craw.

Folks say to me all the time, "Take me fishing. Call me. Any time. Seriously."  I ended up calling 22 people, and I got two takers. That's right, two: my 11 year old grandson, Freeman Songer aka The Freemanator, and Jonathan Coupe, a lanky 16 year old who moved to Destin in January and has fished a few times on the Bella Maria.  The other 20 all had an excuse, the most prevalent being, "I have to work", which dumbfounds me, as it makes a mockery of often mouthed words like "priorities" and "values".  The second place finisher in the excuse competition was, "Sorry.  I promised my wife I would (fill in the blank)", which is at least better than work as excuses go, self preservation being instinctive in all of us.

So, it was just me and the two boys or stay at home.  Did I mention the seas were going to be 1to 2 feet? The  Children's Crusade was on.

Hammerhead left the slip at 0430 and had cleared the sea buoy and was up and running at 0500, headed for a rumored weed line about 65 nautical miles out, just southwest of the Spur. The crew was excited, optimistic and alert, as you can see in the photograph below.

As we approached the Spur, I could hear Kevin Kaple, captain of Just Teasing, chatting with nearby boats, and, true to form, he was shredding every FCC regulation in the book relating to profanity on the radio.  Just Teasing had gone out Wednesday, and overnighted to sword fish and chunk for tuna. They released a white marlin on Wednesday, and, again true to form, pounded the tuna Wednesday night, catching five or six blackfin and a yellowfin over 100 pounds.

Kevin was working a weed line that was just making up, and he called me over to share the discovery, being as generous as he is profane.  Hammerhead pulled in behind Just Teasing and went to work, but nada.  Nary a knockdown.  Just to make it clear that the problem was me and not a want of fish, Just Teasing boated a nice mahi ahead of us as we watched, and then moseyed off over the horizon to the west, where it later caught and released another white.

Before trolling south toward our original destination, we did stumble across the FAD (fish attracting device) pictured below.  Think about it: a beer keg with a red float attached anchored in 1400 feet of water, one of four that marina gossip says someone has put out near the Spur. 300 feet, yes, but 1400?Amazing.

And we still didn't catch squat, although there were numerous reports on the radio of sails, whites, mahi, and what not being caught here, there, and everywhere but where we were. Discouraging. Emasculating even.

But we persevered. All the live long day, we persevered. To no avail.

So we tried Plan B.  There were about a dozen hard tails in the live well that Jughead on the bait boat had dropped off for me Wednesday afternoon.  Back to the FAD we go, lickety split. It is mid-afternoon when we arrive.  Tuna are busting in the area. Now we're talking.

I back up to the FAD, and Freemanator free lines a hard tail on a spinning rod. Big bite.  Line screams off the reel.  I have to back down.  Cut off.  Once more with feeling.  Another big bite and fight.  The Child Crusaders have the cockpit all to themselves, and they work it like naturals, Freemanator on the rod, Jonathan standing by with the gaff and calling out directions to Papa on the wheel.

Tuna? Wahoo? Mahi?  The excitement and the anticipation mount as the fight continues, and it lasts a good while.  "We have color," Jonathan shouts as the fish nears the surface.  Shark.  A big one, maybe five feet long.

I put on the gloves and leader him, telling Jonathan to cut him off, close but not too close.  The shark is caught, but not defeated. As we lean over the gunwale, me holding him and Johathan preparing to cut the leader, the shark goes postal.  Jonathan's hand is tail whipped, skinning his knuckles. I hang on, wanting to break him off. The shark goes vertical at the transom, and we are literally eye to eye for a split second. "Jesus, he's coming in the boat," I think, but the shark straightens out a pretty heavy live bait hook and is gone with a splash.

Break out a hard tail.  Freeman hooks a nice mahi in the 20 to 25 pound range that goes airborne with a shark on his six like the Red Baron on a French Spad.  Mahi don't like to be caught, but they damn sure don't like to be eaten by sharks.  Twisting and turning, he pulls the hook and flees with the shark in hot pursuit.

Now it's Jonathan's turn.

Cut off.  Then another big shark. And so it went until the boys tired of the game.  They wanted to spend the night and sword fish, but we listened to the marine forecast on the radio, and prudence dictated that we call it a day, so we began the three hour run home around 1600. Below is a photo of the Crusaders taken as we ran in.  I think you can see a pattern - ennui induces narcosis in young males.

But it ain't ever over 'til it's over.  The leading edge of the weather that had made me decide to call it quits was between us and the house. This is a photo taken as we approached East Pass, about three miles from the sea buoy, the coast line and the condos hidden by the thunderhead.

It was like being in a washing machine. Water was coming over the bow, onto the top and cascading into the cockpit.  It was leaking - no pouring - in around the zippers in the stratoglass enclosure.  The boat was pitching and rolling.  The Crusaders were the ideal antidote for tired, old eyes, picking out the buoys for me in momentary gaps in the sheets of wind driven water. They were imperturbable.  All in a day's work on the water if you are young, I guess.

When we entered the harbor, the wind was blowing hard out of the east.  We picked our way around a few anchored family cruisers that were waiting for a let up in the storm before attempting to get into their slips. I was too tired to be patient, so I just put my transom into the wind and went for it, one Crusader on the bow and one on the gunwale to grab the lines.  And into the slip Hammerhead went, first time, no problem.  Not a big deal for Pat Dineen, Kevin Kaple, John Tate and the other pros in the marina, I reckon, but a confidence builder for Papa.

We had no fish to clean, no flags to fly, but it was a pretty day nevertheless, one I believe the boys will remember. I know I will.

Snappa Time!

Red snapper season in the Florida Panhandle has become a no kidding phenomenon.  You don't need a big boat to snapper fish; you don't have to go far to find them; women and kids can catch them as well as men; and they are sinfully delicious to eat. So it is not surprising that fishing for red snapper is the delight of Everyman. And as the size limit has been increased (16 inches), the bag limit has been decreased (2 per person per trip regardless of age), and the season has been shortened (40 days this year), while, perversely, the fish have become larger and more numerous, an Oklahoma land rush mentality has set in about the opening of snapper season.  People in these parts talk about its approach the way children talk about the coming of Christmas. The week before last, Nick at West Marine said to me by way of greeting as I entered the store, "Eight days and thirteen hours until snapper season opens." When I arrived in Destin this past Thursday around 2 PM, Terry Cloer,  the building manager, stopped me in the condo garage to remind me that snapper season would be open in ten hours.  As if I didn't know.

The fact that June 1 was blustery and the forecast was for 2 to 4 foot seas that were in fact more like 3 to 5 deterred almost no one. As the first hint of light signaled the approaching dawn, a veritable torrent of boats large and small began to pour out of East Pass into the Gulf of Mexico.  They came first by the dozen and then by the  score as I watched from my balcony. ( I said almost no one was deterred by the forecast, but I was, as my crew included a four year old girl and a sea shy seven year old boy.) In ten years of watching, I have never seen such a swarm of vessels of every size and description debouch from the Pass, nor had any of the locals to whom I have since spoken.  The photo below is a very thin slice of the very wide panorama of the hundred plus boat fleet that bobbed in the Pass or just beyond fishing for live bait on Friday morning.

And Saturday and Sunday were worse, as folks did not have to go to work and the weather was fine. At dawn on Saturday, Wayne Lewis called Jughead on the bait boat to see about picking up some live bait for Bella Maria, only to be told that the bait they had spent all night netting had sold out by 4:30 AM. Jughead said they were trying to net more, but had 57 boats on the wait list. There were even two sailboats intent on snapper fishing in the Pass catching bait, for Christ's sake. From East Pass Towers Marina alone, six boats joined the fray - Bella Maria, Just Teasing, Anonymous, Captain Kidd, Outta Here, and, yes, Hammerhead.

Aboard Hammerhead were Papa, his Miss Mary (aka Mama), the Songer grandchildren (Freeman, Marcus, and Daisy), and their father, Eric. We departed at a leisurely 8:00 AM, and headed for our go to secret spot (the Navarre Barge), which has never let us down and where we have never had more than one other boat for company, and then only twice in probably ten trips.  There were four boats on the wreck when we arrived, but we wedged in and went to work with a will. It was very slow going for the first hour and a half, during which time all of our neighbors but one moved on to look for greener pastures.  We were practically gunwale to gunwale with the remaining center console when the rod held by the obvious father and captain of the young family that was crewing the center console bowed over.  Nice snapper.  As soon as his bait was back in the water, deja vu all over again: fish on.  We were so close I could almost read the lettering on the pocket of the guy's tee shirt, but a whole lot of nothing was happening on Hammerhead.  What was wrong with us? Maybe we weren't holding our mouths right or something.

"I am beginning to get an inferiority complex" I called out to no one in particular. Mary responded with a grunt as a big fish inhaled her bait, bent her rod, and pulled drag.  And I noticed Eric was wedged into the corner of the cockpit pumping and reeling on what appeared to be a good fish.  The bite was on.

There then ensued some fine examples of Cooperative Fishing, a rapidly emerging family sport best practiced while bottom fishing. Below you see Mary and Marcus working in tandem to bring a big sow snapper to the boat, with Freeman standing by with the gaff.  Mary has Marcus wedged between her knees and is pumping the rod.  Marky has the rod butt in his fighting belt and is turning the handle on the reel.

The fruit of their labors, including the handiwork of the Freemanator on the gaff, is shown in the photo below.

Not to be outdone, Eric and Daisy used the same technique to achieve a similar result, Papa on the gaff.

And so it went until it was done, at around noon. Bang, bang, just like that.

When the weekend was over,  all the boats that had ventured out from East Pass Marina limited out on red snapper. The palm for the largest fish went to Bella Maria, which in addition to limiting out, caught an 80 pound cobia over natural bottom on half of a dead cigar minnow.

The nod for most fish went to Outta Here, a 65 foot Viking with 21 people on board, who caught 42 red snapper.  Below is the arm of Grasshopper (know to his mother as Andrew Dover), the mate on Outta Here, who kept score with a magic marker to make sure they did not go over the limit in the excitement of the slaughter.

But the Biggest Red Snapper Sweepstakes, which I just invented, was won by Hammerhead, which placed first with a 19.5 pounder, second with an 18.5 pounder, and tied for third with Bella Maria and Outta Here with a 13 pounder. Below are the first place fish on the right, the second place fish on the left, and the Junior Angler of the Day, Female Division, in the center.

Now, by my lights, snapper fishing don't hold a patch to blue water fishing when it comes excitement and satisfaction, but it's a ton of fun for all hands, and something to look forward to each summer. As I write, there are only 38 days and about one hour left in this snapper season, but you don't need to mention this anywhere west of Tallahassee. Everyone knows how much time is left. To the minute

Just Another Day At The Office

One of my readers observed to me this week that my style bears little resemblance to that of Ernest Hemingway, despite the Hemingway motif of The Fishing Reports, pointing out that Papa's prose was spare, painfully so for me, while my mine is prolix, convoluted, and profuse with punctuation, particularly commas.  To all of you who consider more than a single subject, verb, and object in a sentence to be unnecessary to the point of ostentation, and possibly un-American to boot, I must confess a dark secret: it is the subject matter of Papa's oeuvre that appeals to me, not his style. When it comes to style, I much prefer, and would like to think I have been influenced by, Marcel Proust. But a blog about offshore fishing in which Proust is the tutelary god is unthinkable, not to mention that I have absolutely nothing in common with him.  So, as an organizing concept,  I am sticking with Hemingway, the best novelist for 14 year old boys who ever put pen to paper. Nevertheless, here is a shout out for

my man, Marcel.

Every fishing trip is not a saga. Most are just fishing trips, and that was the case this past weekend.  Two boats from East Pass Towers Marina toed the mark  on Saturday - Bella Maria and Hammerhead. Aboard Bella Maria were Wayne Lewis, Maria Falduto, Captain John Tate, Captain Pat Dineen, Mate Extraordinaire David Perry aka Chopper, and Jonathan Goff, a 15 year old novitiate in the Ancient and Honorable Order of the Blind Hog. Aboard the ever short handed Hammerhead were Marcel's secret admirer and Tenser Mallette and Bobby Cresap, both of recent swordfishing fame.  

The intelligence from Roffers and Hiltons yielded an embarrassment of riches; there was plenty of blue water within striking distance and numerous temperature breaks and pushes from which to choose. After our usual consultation, Wayne and I decided to forego the low hanging fruit at the Nipple,  which is only 40 nm away and where the action has been good, because every boat from Orange Beach to Destin would be milling around there.  We decided to go a little further in search of something on which to fish that had not been flogged to a fare the well. 

Hammerhead left an hour before sunrise and ran almost 65 nm due south between the Spur and the Squiggles, looking for a push shown on both Roffers and Hiltons.  Bella Maria, which cruises at 30 knots compared to Hammerhead's 22 knots, left at first light, intending to work into the Dumping Grounds just east of the Spur and then fish west to the Elbow and on to the Nipple in a clockwise circle.  But they hit a well made up weed line north of the Spur in 750 feet of water and began to fish it west.  Their catch was one of quality rather than quantity.  They picked up two mahi: a 25 pounder, which is a good fish, and a 44 pounder, which is a money fish.  This big bull missed a Black Bart 1656 Mini Angle lure on the left long on his first attempt, skidded around in a 180 degree turn, and inhaled it on his second banzai charge.  The successful angler was young master Goff, pictured below with his catch, getting off to a proper start on his first blue water foray. The only other noteworthy event in Bella Maria's day, other than really fresh mahi ceviche and Maria's usual margaritas, was the total destruction of their bird teaser, which was rigged on 400 pound test line, as the result of a ferocious strike from what was undoubtedly a big wahoo.

 Farther east, Hammerhead, which did not see another boat all day, arrived at its target location at 0830 to find blue-green water and no push.  Where had it gone? Farther south?  Maybe it had curled to the west.  Just guessing, and splitting the difference, we trolled SW toward 29 degrees north and 87 degrees west.  We had one open water bite - sort of. The right long was knocked down and the rod bowed a bit, but because no line was running out, we assumed the culprit was grass. But it wasn't grass; it was a small mahi that hit a 10 inch Black Bart Tahitian Prowler and impaled himself on a 9/0 hook.  You have to give mahi their due - they ain't real smart, but they ain't skeered, and they think very highly of themselves.

After an hour of nothing, I decided to abandon the search for the push that wasn't and fall back on my old stand by - the east wall of the DeSoto Canyon.  We ran to the edge of the Canyon and turned north, trolling toward the house.  At about 1100 we came across a nice east-west weed line 15 nm south of the Spur, and turned west to fish it just as we were overtaken by a large rain storm that had been following us all morning. That's Bobby below,  checking a line in the rain, while Tenser admires his diligence from a nice dry vantage point.

Almost immediately, it was game on for half an hour.  We had a wahoo double, one on a skirted artificial ballyhoo run behind a bird on the center line and one on the Tahitian Prowler on the right long.    Tenser caught one and Bobby the other, with me gaffing both from a dead boat.  There was a bit of excitement and some dancing, with Tenser barefoot and Bobby in flip flops, when, after a warning from me, I shook Tenser's wahoo off the gaff into the cockpit and stuck Bobby's, which fell off the gaff once over the gunwale, producing a small adrenaline rush as two toothy critters spouting blood thrashed all around Hammerhead's cockpit, gingerly pursued by three aging, risk averse men.

A third wahoo also ate the artificial ballyhoo on the center line, and was caught by Tenser, but did not go into the box before giving Bobby a black eye.  I leadered the fish for Bobby to gaff, and damned if he didn't stick him right in the side, dead bang in the best of the meat. Next time, I'll take a pistol along, and Bobby can just shoot the fish a couple of times; it would do less damage to the meat. (I may be laying it on a little thick here, but I don't want Bobby getting too big for his britches, what with all the swordfish hoopla and everything.)

As you can see below, the three wahoo were alright, but nothing special, 15 to 20 pounds. Weehoos really.  But they ain't skunks, and with diesel fuel at $4.10 per gallon plus tax, not getting skunked is important.

 We did have three other bites during that hectic half hour on the weed line, all on natural ballyhoo rigged to swim with a circle hook that we were running on the long left.  One of these bites was definitely a cut off well  behind the hook, probably a wahoo.  Another might have been a cut off, rather than angler error.  And the third might have been bad luck, as the fish pulled drag for a bit before spitting the hook after doing a complete cartwheel in the air too far away to be identified by ailing eyes.

Or the failures to hook up on the left long may be proof positive that we have yet to master fishing with circle hooks.  I incline to the latter view, which, rather than enjoying the success we had, gives me something to worry about and talk about and analyze until Hammerhead sails again.

 To put a period to the day, we saw a  blue marlin jump just off the weed line some distance behind the boat, and we went around to try to coax him up, but could not raise him.  He will be there when we go back, and perhaps we will catch him on natural bait with a circle hook.