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.