The Fishing Reports: 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.