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.

Xiphias Gladius: The Gladiator

There is no short cut to telling this story.  It's long. It's arcane. And, unless you like fishing, it's tedious.  So, if you are in a hurry or don't like fishing,  then move along. There's nothing for you here.

It began innocently enough. Just a little fishing trip in another brief weather window, the first overnighter of the season. The plan was to run the 20 something nautical miles out of Destin to the Knuckle late Saturday afternoon, put our spread in the water, troll toward the Spur until sunset, pick'em up and run the rest of the way to the Spur, swordfish during the night, run SSW about 25 nautical miles at dawn to look for a big temperature and color break shown on both Hiltons and Roffers, fish the break until mid-afternoon, and be home around Miller Time on Sunday, with Mary having dinner waiting. Piece o'cake.

We were a man short of a full crew with just me, Tenser Mallette, and Bobby Cresap aboard Hammerhead.  Well, there was a woman too. Tenser brought along his wife, Jenny, but her inexperience in blue water fishing was matched only by her charm, sense of humor, and pluck in going at all. But a woman not being a man by definition, we were still a man down. And this time it would matter.

The run to the Knuckle was as uneventful as the couple of hours of trolling that followed were unproductive. We picked up at sunset as planned and ran to the Spur in the gathering night. For reasons of habit rather than careful analysis, I wanted to be right on top of  the Spur at first light without having to move the boat in the middle of the night. So, after figuring out the direction and velocity of the drift, we ran to the spot that I calculated would produce the desired outcome. That's all there was to it. No parsing thermoclines on the temperature gauge. No squid layers showing on the bottom machine. Just a little math and a lot of luck. Admittedly, no Fish Whisperer am I.

The star filled sky was clear and there was a waxing ( I do not care for the word "gibbous".) moon more than half way to full that would not set until after midnight. The seas were comfortable enough and the drift was slow enough that I decided not to deploy the chute, which always is a good thing, because you do not have to take the time and divert the manpower necessary to recover the chute before being able to maneuver the boat in the event of a fast moving bite.

By 9:30, we were putting baits in the water. It is at this point that I need to pause and explain a bit about the mechanics of swordfishing the way we do it.  It is my hope that your patience will be rewarded with a better understanding of what follows.

Weight up, hook down, and that's all there is to it. Just kidding.  There is a tad more 'splainin needed. 

Swordfishing for us is much like bottom fishing, 'cept there ain't no bottom.  Well, there is, but it's 1500 feet down, which means there ain't none for any practical purpose. The rig begins with a triple ring swivel. The main line attaches to one ring with a snap swivel. An 18  or 20 ounce flat weight attaches to the second ring with a piece of copper wire that breaks on a bite, allowing the weight to fall away. The leader attaches to the final ring, and at the other end of that leader is an 11/0 Mustad circle hook on which a large squid, a Boston mackerel, or a live bait is impaled.  On the main line, attached just above the snap swivel with a long liner clip, is a pulsating multi-colored light that attracts fish, who apparently cannot resist the novelty and the implausibility of all this rigamarole. This light and the fact that my leaders were at least 12 to 15 feet long both play significant roles in this tale. For tackle, we were using Shimano TLD reels strung with 500 yards of 50 pound test line on 30 to 80 pound rods.  Now this isn't the big stuff, but it ain't light tackle either.

The engines are off, the generator is running, and the cockpit is lit up by the spreader lights that are way bright. Our deep line is a squid down at 300 feet  and fished from the left long outrigger clip. The medium line has a Boston mackerel on it at 200 feet, and is being fished out of the gunwale rod holder on the left side of the cockpit (starboard side of the boat). The short line is another squid, this one at 100 feet  and fished out of the right long outrigger clip (port side of the boat). The deep line and the medium line are out, and Bobby has the short line down at depth and is putting the line in the clip to run it up on the outrigger when it gets bit.  It is 9:30 PM.

The fish that hits the short line does not hook up, just crushes the bait.  Probably a swordie. New bait. Back down it goes, and the line makes it in the clip and up the outrigger this time, but only for a few seconds. Pop goes the clip. The rod loads up.  ZZZZZ goes the clicker on the reel. Fish on! Bobby soon boats a small sword that makes the legal length of 47 inches from the tip of the lower jaw to the fork of the tail after I step on him a time or two and then measure him with my good eye closed. The night is starting out OK. 

We barely get the little swordie with the recent growth spurt into the box and the short line back in the water when the medium line goes off.  The Boston mackerel has been eaten by about a 30 pound yellow fin tuna. Tenser makes short work of the tuna.  We cut his gill latch, bleed him out in the scupper, toss him in the fish box, and put the line back out.  

Uh-oh, the short line is down again.  This time there is no hook up. In fact, there is no hook.  200 pound leader bitten cleanly through.  Shark. One of Hemingway's infernal galagos. Or one of its kissin' cousins, anyway.

This is a lot of action in not much time. Good stuff. I look at my watch.  It's 10:20.  

I am just about to tell everyone to hit the rack, that I will take the first watch, when it happens. I feel the bite more than I hear it or see it, which isn't to say that you can't hear it.  Crack!  The long left is down in a big way. Why in a big way? I don't know. I can't explain it. It just came down in a big way. The reel is spinning, the clicker complaining. There is nothing unusual about that. But it feels different just the same. 

"You take it," Bobby says to me.

"No thank you."

"Tenser, you want it?"

"No, you take it, Bobby."

"OK, ladies, somebody needs to pick up that rod," I say in my do your homework voice. "I 'm firing up the engines. I think we may need the boat on this one."

Bobby is the man.  He leans back on the rod, and in the distant darkness we see the pulsating light arc though the night.  Once. Twice. Big fish jumping.

And so it begins.  With high hopes and chock-a-block with confidence, Bobby still doesn't have a harness on after thirty minutes of  gaining no ground in a see saw battle with his unseen opponent, as you can see in the photo below. But the light has long since disappeared into the depths, and, if you could zoom in on this photo, you would see in Bobby's face the dawning realization that this is not business as usual.

The fish was taking a lot of line, and the smaller the diameter of the line remaining on the spool, the greater the drag.  This has something to do with physics.  I don't understand it, I just believe it. Hebrews 11:11 and all that. Back off on the drag on the reel and get after her with the boat.  Try to keep the angler braced in the corner of the cockpit and the line straight behind the boat, minimizing line loss in the process.  She goes left, back on the port engine.  She goes right, back on the starboard. The angle of the line is decreasing. Is she going under the boat, will she cut off on the running gear? Ahead on both. Increase the angle, try to get her up on the surface. She sprints right and comes forward. Spin the boat, going forward on the port engine, astern on the starboard engine.  Most of the line is on the reel. Dial up the drag.  Make her work for it. Again and again. Hour after hour.

And then there is the tease: The Light.  Whenever she is close to the boat, you can see the pulsating light. Blue. Green. Red. Diffuse, flickering in the black water. Like the ominous lightning in the even more ominous black cloud in a science fiction movie, only in pastels.  Far behind the boat. Or far below.  "I see the light" becomes the cry of hope.  "The light is gone" is spoken though clinched teeth.

After Hour Two, I begin to ask Bobby, who had long since put on a butt bucket and snapped into the reel, if he wants some help.  "No, I've got it." For four hours he soldiers on.  Pump, reel.  Pump, reel. Take line.  Lose line.  "I see the light!" Put on the wiring gloves.  But she doesn't like the boat.  "Oh, Jesus, she's taking line again. This run's a big one. Go back. Back down!" The Light is gone. Bobby has had about as much fun as he can stand. How many times does she run? Not smoking line off the reel like a wahoo or a marlin, but steady pulling, like a plow horse. Then stopping, dogging it, fighting down. A dozen times? More? It wears on you. You can see it in this photo of Tenser at the helm.

At the beginning of Hour Five, Bobby turns over the rod to Tenser, and takes the helm.  I move into the cockpit, to coach, to exhort, to annoy.  In the picture below, you can see me chirping in Tenser's ear. And we must see The Light, because I have on the wiring gloves.  Is this it? Is this the end, finally? No, not by a long shot.

At about 3:30, I call Mary on the Sat phone to tell her we are by God tied to a bad ass. "Don't kill it," she says.  "Whatever it is - sword, tuna or shark - it's fighting you guys and the boat to a standstill. Please don't kill it."

"Alright, honey. Go back to sleep. We won't kill her." I hate lying to my wife, but she makes me do it. Of course we're going to kill this fish. 

 Hour Eight.  The sun is coming up, and Bobby takes another turn on the rod. Tenser goes to the helm. We will not see The Light in the daylight, but we don't need to.  She's coming at last. Bobby is gaining line quickly. Gloves on. "Tenser, get the gaff! Quick! She's coming!" The leader is out of the water.  She coming up on the left side of the cockpit. 

 "Bobby, back into the corner. Tenser get in behind me. This is probably a one shot deal. Just reach  over her shoulder and stick her. Then hold on for all you're worth.  I'll get the other gaff and help you. If it's a sword, watch that bill." Why, oh why, didn't I bring the flying gaff? 

I've got the leader, take a wrap with my left hand.  She's under the boat.  I try to pull her out, but she pulls me down on the gunwale instead, my left hand almost in the water.  I can't get my right hand on the leader. She's pissed. I'm either going swimming or I'm dumping the leader. I dump the leader. Down she goes.  And we still haven't seen her, still don't know what she is. Technically, from a catch and release perspective, she was caught when I touched the leader. Before it's over, we will catch her three times.

At Hour Ten, we reach the bottom of the personnel barrel - Papa his damned self takes the rod. Tenser is at the helm. Bobby in the cockpit, speaking in tongues from exhaustion.  That's yours truly styling in a butt bucket in the photo below.

At around 9:00, I am gaining steadily on her.  She's coming in again.  Left side again. Bobby on the leader.  Tenser on the gaff. Nobody at the wheel. Damned missing man. Same drill: Bobby grabs the leader, and she bolts.

"Bobby, did you see her?"

He nods. "It's a sword. A big one."

We are down to the short strokes.  I can feel it. "Bobby, can you leader this fish?"

"I'll try. I haven't done it before, but I can try."  

"No, put on a fighting belt. Give me the gloves.  When the leader comes out of the water, I'm going to hand you the rod. Just hold on if she runs."

The leader is up. Bobby takes the rod. Tenser moves into the cockpit with the gaff, boat dead in the water.  This is it.  After an eleven hour battle it will come down to the next few seconds  I get a wrap on the leader with my right hand and pull.  Big girl. Might go as much as 300 pounds after a long lunch. Not huge. but a warrior, an Amazon. She shoots ahead, toward the bow.  This is when the absent fourth man would have been at the helm, powering ahead, keeping the fish behind the boat, tension on the leader. I get my left hand on the leader and with both hands I pull her head around, but she isn't done yet.  A flick of her big rudder like tail sends her gliding back toward me.  Too fast. The leader is too long for this situation. No tension, no control.  I make a dangerous mistake, wrapping and wrapping as fast as I can on my right glove, trying to gather up the slack.  Too many wraps. One is caught in the cuff of the glove.  It's under a couple of other wraps. I see it and realize that if she kicks, I may be in serious trouble. Bobby sees it too, and grabs my harness with his right hand, the rod in his left. 

For a split second, she is ours for the taking, on her back, exhausted. The photo below captures that moment.  It is not a good picture and there is nothing to give any perspective on size, but you can see she is on her back, pec fins spread on the left of the photo, the indistinct outline of her bill under the water, the leader going back from her head to my unseen right hand, and her big tail in the air on the right, just about to kick.  And kick she does, rolling upright toward the boat, diving down. Not good.

I brace against the coming pressure. Her head goes under the right corner of the boat and .... she cuts the leader on the prop blade. She has released me, an undeserved act of mercy from which I should learn a lesson about compassion, but probably won't. Down she goes, alive, free, and victorious.

 Mary will be happy. I am content. It's 9:32 on a gorgeous Sunday morning. Time to go home.