You Go, Grandma

Yesterday was dues paying time on Blind Hog. There was a 120 nautical mile round trip to the Spur in a nasty 2 to 4 foot Gulf chop, with the Freemanator, Justin Goff, and Lisa Weber aboard, dodging thunderstorms all day to catch two - count'em, two - mahi.

The real fun began when, at 5 PM, the port engine shut down 12 nautical miles from the Destin sea buoy and could not be restarted. So, I lashed the port shaft to the engine mount to prevent the screw from turning and burning up the transmission, and on we came, at 6 knots, in a beam sea.

Steering on one engine in a twin screw boat is problematic, because you can only go straight by maximum over steering at a low speed to counteract the thrust of the one screw, which very much wants to turn the boat, in this case, to port. But I wasn't too worried, because I had actually come in on one engine in Blind Hog once before, and it had not been all that difficult getting him in the slip.

Upon arriving at the sea buoy two hours later, my relief was short lived. I realized that because of the steering challenge, the east wind, and a strong current, I could not get between the rock jetties and into the comparative safety of East Pass without significant risk of piling up on the west jetty.

I called Mary to report our situation, and she said she coud see us from the balcony, circling counterclockwise, trying to get enough easting and enough nerve to attempt the entry. But it was a no go on both fronts.

We called for a tow. They said they would be there in an hour, but they were not in sight an hour and a half later. It was dark by then and too rough to anchor with confidence off the beach, so I decided to chance going in, with Lisa in the tower and Justin on the bow to spot jetties and buoys that were almost invisible in the combination of overcast darkness and the glare of all the lights that are Destin at the height of the summer season. (My radar is, of course, in the shop, but, hey, I knew I wouldn't need it, because this was only a day trip.)  Freeman was standing on the gunwale, holding on to the tower leg, relaying info between me and my lookouts. I did not call Mary, because there was nothing she could do, and I did not want to worry her.

Creeping along at three knots, we made it through the jetties. All went well until I attempted the starboard turn into Destin Harbor, and, once again, I could not get my bow around against the east wind and the falling tide running out of the harbor. I was trapped in the 30 yard gap between Noriego Point and the docks at Harbor Walk. I could maintain my position by alternately backing and going forward, thus avoiding being carried down on the pilings of the nearby East Pass Bridge, but I could not get in the harbor.

"There is Grandma," Freeman said. Sure enough, there was all 22 feet of Honey's Money with Mary at the wheel and Bart and Pete Mitchell aboard.  They tossed us a line, but try as she might, Mary and her little boat could not pull Blind Hog's bow around, and she was in danger of me pushing her into the docks as I fought to hold my position. We had to cast off the line.

At that moment - and the timing could not have been better - the tow boat finally arrived and took us in tow.  Mary led the tow boat to my slip, where she and the Mitchells jumped out on the dock, tossed us lines, and pulled the Hog into his slip by main force. It was 10 PM.

An hour later, Freeman and I were sitting at the kitchen bar after a shower as Mary warmed seafood soup she had made for us earlier.

"Mary, what possessed you to come out in your little boat in this wind in the middle of the night," I asked.

She shrugged. "I saw you head for the jetties, and I knew you might need help.  Just part of my job.  Do you boys want hot sauce with your soup?"

Love me some Grandma.

What Time Is It?

I frequently have trouble finding crew, and Blind Hog often fishes short handed.  But this weekend was the exception to the rule. There were five - count'em, five - on the crew manifest yesterday: me, Wayne Lewis, Justin Goff, Lisa Weber, and Matt Gaetz. And Wayne, Justin, and Lisa are Curly Tails Blind Hogs of long standing to boot, so I not only had a surfeit of hands, I had experienced hands, Able Seamen all.

Blind Hog left the slip at first light. 

No, wait, that's not right. We were supposed to leave at first light, but Justin and Lisa, whose last names I condense into GoWeb, overslept due to a faulty alarm and had to be awakened by the High Hog his damned self pounding on their condo door. But they came sprinting down the dock to the boat in a matter of minutes, brushing their teeth with one hand and pulling up their britches with the other. We only lost fifteen minutes of daylight, but this uncharacteristic faux pas on the part of the GoWebs was a portent - Time, and the means by which it is told, were going to be a problem on this day.

 GoWebs

We ran the 60 nautical miles to the Spur, had lines in the water by 0815, and began to troll south. We soon found blue water and a good weed line where expected, but it was a good weed line being beaten to death by ten first rate boats spaced out to the horizon, which was not expected, but should have been - another tournament weekend. So, we headed west into the Dumping Ground and found more weed lines. And more boats. But no fish.

Plan B: live bait.  In the early afternoon, we pull in our trolling spread and ease up to a series of large weed patches with birds perched on them, taking a break, and small schools of bait darting about. I am steering from the tower. Justin puts a medium size hard tail on a spinning rod and casts it to the edge of the weed patch. Five mahi immediately emerge from the beneath the weed patch, and one is a sho' 'nuff stud bull dolphin, with a head the size of a trash can lid. The big bull inhales the hard tail.  Everyone can see what I see, and we are all yelling, "Let'im eat! Let'im eat!", as if Justin has never  fished live bait before and has no idea how a circle hook works.  And, just in case he is indeed an idiot, in a few seconds more we are all yellng, "Lock it up! Lock it up!" In his own good time, Justin takes the reel out of free spool, the line comes tight, the circle hook corkscrews into the corner of the mahi's mouth just as it is designed to do, and, as you can see, our quarry gets air right behind the boat.

Going Vertical

He is big, 50 pounds, maybe even a little more. Not quite the biggest mahi I have ever seen, but certainly the biggest mahi ever caught on a Shoat Boat by far.  If we can catch him, that is. 

The fish jumps and twists, trying to spit the hook, but can't. He digs down, but Justin pumps him up. He makes for the weed patches, but I drag him away with the boat. And he greyhounds straight away from the transom of the boat, leaping three, four, five times, with me backing Blind Hog hard after him.

  

Going Away

After half an hour, our prize is under control.  Justin is wielding the rod with skill and confidence. I have not screwed the pooch by backing over the line.  Twice the fish is close enough to the boat for us to see color in the water. Then he is at the boat, but 20 feet down. Justin is pumping him up. Wayne is at his side with the long gaff.  Matt is waiting behind the fighting chair, prepared to back Wayne up with the short gaff. I am ready to bump the boat ahead to straighten the fish out for the gaff shot when he comes to the surface. At that moment, Time, and the means for its telling, intervenes, as was foreshadowed by the GoWeb sleep-in.

With the rod bent almost double as he lifts the fish, Justin somehow hits the free spool switch on the rear of the Penn spinning reel. A big loop of braid line leaps off the spool and lassos his watch, a Rolex Submariner with a black face. And the braid line breaks.  We snatch defeat from the jaws of victory in a split second.  Everyone is stunned, speechless.

Justin is devastated, but undoubtedly grateful that it was the line that broke rather than the band of his Rolex, as he was leaning out of the boat over the water and the watch would have been lost. I understand his perspective, but there are two other Rolex Submariners on the boat, both with a blue face, which is prettier than black in my opinion, and there ain't no fish in the box. Given a choice, we are long on watches and short on fish. Know what I'm saying?

We put our trolling spread back, half heartedly dragging our lures and baits around for another hour, as if the day does not lie in ruins, but we finally give up the pretense and begin the long run home. About 15 nm from the house, Lisa, who has the eyes of a young eagle and is the only crew member other than the High Hog who is actually awake, says, "I see grass."  Sure enough, there are two large grass patches to port. In 247 feet of dirty green water.  The odds are long and it's late, but what the hell? 

I back up to the smaller of the two patches, and Justin casts a small, live cigar minnow to the edge of the grass.  The bait is hardly wet before there is a swirl of water and the drag on the spnning reel begins to sing. It's 5:45 PM Central Daylight Savings Time.

"Lisa!" Justin yells.  "Take off my watch! Take off my watch!" Really? The watch again? Lisa fumbles with the watch as Justin holds the rod with one hand.  "Hurry, Lisa! Hurry!"  But Lisa doesn't wear a Rolex, and she cannot negotiate the safety catch on the watch band.  A brief but spirited exchange occurs between them as Lisa struggles with the watch and Justin fights the mystery fish at a considerable disadvanage.  I am thinking the watch is bad luck, like having bananas on the boat; it has already cost us a trophy fish, and now the GoWebs are butting heads over it.  Lisa throws up her hands in frustration and walks away. But Wayne, who wears a Submariner, steps in, flips the safety catch, and removes the watch.

The opportunity for redemption has arrived, and everyone is ready. Lisa climbs into the tower to call down what she sees as the fight progresses.  Wayne is again at Justin's side, gaff at the ready, giving me driving instructions by hand signal in deference to the combination of my indifferent hearing and the rumble of the engines.  Matt is at his post, armed as before. I am at the lower helm, spinning the boat, surging forward, or backing down into a following sea with water sluicing into the cockpit through the scuppers and splashing over the transom, soaking Justin. I am determined that this fish will neither dump the spinning reel nor get under the boat and cut off.

A big mahi again? Probably not; the mystery fish never jumps.  Shark? Cobia? Most likely a shark. What a disappointment that would be. The early excitement fades as the fight lengthens. And lengthen even more. The spinning rod and reel, a relatively light rig, are overmatched, but Justin is a capable angler, and he is determined to get the Mahi Monkey off his back. And we have Blind Hog, whose transmissions I am prepared to wreck if that is what it takes to to catch this fish.

Half an hour. An hour. An hour and fifteen minutes. It feels as if I am getting a blister on my ass rubbing against the wheel as I face aft and work the throttles in the rolling boat. Justin is made of stern stuff, but he is slowly wearing down. Is the fish wearing down? Hard to tell.  Then we, or at least Lisa, start seeing color every now and then.  And the fish's runs are getting shorter. It's shaking its head, circling. Tuna? Yes, a tuna. One hour and thirty five minutes after hook up, Wayne gaffs a 30 to 40 pound yellowfin tuna caught on a Shimano 8000 Baitrunner strung with 60 pound test line and leader and set with too little drag, about eight pounds, no more than ten.

That's right, the Fishing Gods put a little yellowfin where it shouldn't have been out of pity for us, and let us catch it. And they know their business; it's amazing how big a difference one small fish can make in everyone's attitude when the skunk is still in the boat at the end of a long, frustrating day.

This morning, while we were cleaning up Blind Hog, I suggested to Justin that on future trips he leave his watch at home. Or at least get a blue face on the damned thing.

The Black Banana

There's Nothing Like A Big Girl

The fact that there have been no Fishing Reports this year is, for once, not due to my laziness.  There was nothing to report.  In May and early June,  I made four offshore trips - three on Bella Maria and one on Blind Hog - and the total catch was one wahoo that was nothing to write home about, so I didn't write home about it. In the beginning, the water, although cobalt blue, was too cold, unseasonably so.  There was no bait, so there were no fish.  When the water temperature finally reached the mid-70s, there was some bait but still no fish to speak of. Some folks caught some wahoo, including a few studs, but not my kith and kin.

But that was then. A week ago this past Saturday the Hog headed for the Spur with its core crew of the usual suspects - yours truly, the Freemanator, and his father, Eric Songer. We were accompanied by an 11 year old friend of Freeman's who had never been out of sight of land, one Maurico Hyde. The water was still blue, but the bait was sparse, and we found nothing to fish on - no color breaks, no weed lines, no floating debris.  Yet the action began almost immediately with open water bites. There were four good knockdowns by mystery fish during the first couple of hours, but no hookups. 

Then the left long line, a skirted ballyhoo, goes off with a bang and a billfish goes vertical behind the boat. "White marlin! White marlin!" The Freemanator dives for the rod and goes to work. In short order, he brings the fish to the boat, and Eric gets his hand on the wind on leader but the fish is too green, so he dumps it.  Before long, the fish is back at the boat, and Eric takes a wrap on the leader, officially completing the catch preparatory to releasing the fish. No need. As soon as Eric applies pressure on the leader, a nice sized and very angry white marlin goes postal right at the transom, and pulls the hook. Score one for the Ancient and Honorable Order of the Blind Hog, whose ranks Maurico Hyde has just joined.

An hour later, something smacks the long center line, a lure.  The Freemanator, who is lolling on the helm deck half asleep, feels the bite before I hear the clip go and is up and on the rod like a jack in the box.  "Fish on! Fish on!" 

Another white, but this one is a tougher customer. The Freemanator is now fighting the eighth billfish of his career, but he is still only twelve, so Eric reaches around him from behind and snaps on a kidney harness, and hooks it to the reel. As he pulls his hands back, he inadvertantly knocks the drag into freespool. 

"Bird's nest!" Eric yells. The line is backlashed into a knot impossible to sort out in the heat of battle. If the fish makes a run and comes tight against the knot, he will break off.

"I'm backing down," I shout to Freeman. "Reel! Reel!" And he does, gaining line as I back the boat, water surging into the cockpit through the scuppers, spray blowing in over the transom.  But then the fish sounds, and I cannot back anymore without backing over the line.

"Freeman, it's all on you," I shout to him over the rumble of the engines. "You cannot let him get to the knot. If he keeps fighting down and starts taking line, tighten the drag, son. Don't give him anything.  Stop him or pop him."

And Freeman does stop him. The line angle slowly increases as Freeman pumps and reels, and then the marlin is back on top, cavorting behind the boat.  In a few more minutes, Eric has the leader, and the fish you see in the photo, not as large as the first, but feistier, is at the boat, angry and lit up neon blue. That's two billfish for the day.  Anything that happens after this is gravy.

We almost added a ladle of gravy when we hooked up a 30 to 40 pound mahi, but he jumped himself off before we even had the teasers in the boat. And then the tantalizing possibility of a hat trick offers itself.  I ask Eric to check the condition of the ballyhoo on the long right line. I turn my back to look ahead as he pops the line out of the clip and begins to reel the bait in. 

"Fish on! Fish on!"

I wheel around, and Eric has a bowed rod in hand, with line peeling off the reel.  There is an out of place rod sitting in the transom rod holder, but it does not register with me.  Suddenly, Eric's rod straightens. Fish off. Eric drops back as I keep the boat in gear, and then reels furiously.  The fish attacks again. I see him clearly. Another white.  It misses the hook. Eric repeats the process. Now I notice the rod in the transom, but its meaning still doesn't sink in.  The fish attacks a third time, misses the hook once more, gives up, and swims away.

Too late, I finally get it.  While Eric was reeling in the ballyhoo, a natural bait that is the equivalent of a Hershey bar to a white marlin, the fish hit a large, plastic blue marlin lure running on the right short line.  Eric stuck the rod with the ballyhoo on the line into the nearest rod holder, and grabbed the rod with the lure.  That is when I turned around.  White marlin are notoriously finicky eaters, and the size and texture of the artificial lure was not to his liking.  But he clearly wanted to eat something, anything.  All I had to do was step into the cockpit and drop that nice smelling, nice tasting ballyhoo back to him, and we would have had him.  But I thought Eric had the rod with the ballyhoo. Coulda, woulda, shoulda. But a great day all the same.

Fired up by going two for three on whites, we were more ambitious this past weekend.  Blind Hog departed on Friday afternoon for some overnight swordfishing and a day of trolling.  Aboard were moi, the Freemanator, Tenser Mallette, who is one of my good luck charms, and Bobby Leger, an intense fishing fool who makes me look like a piscatorial dilettante.  Bobby believes in live bait like a Southern Baptist believes in the Resurrection, so he arranged with Jughead, the bait man, for us to have a dozen or so medium size hard tails in the live well, just in case.

That night, we did nothing to deplete the stock of Xiphias Gladius in the Gulf of Mexico. We only had one bite, and no hook up.  But - drum roll, please - the Freemanator saw a school of big hard tails swimming in the light around the boat and managed to catch a couple, including a hoss, that joined its brethren in the live well to await its appointment with destiny.

At dawn, we began troll, but soon came upon yellow fin tuna feeding in the water ahead.  Tuna are big on eating an early breakfast, and we decided to serve hard tails on circle hooks.  Almost immediately Tenser hooked up. On a big spinning rod, mind you, which made the fight much more interesting than it might have been otherwise. After some time, a lot of effort, and a fair amount of chaffing from the rest of us, Tenser had a nice 90 pound tuna boatside, from whence it went into the fish box without further ado.

As we were readying more hard tails for tuna, we saw a big blue marlin chasing his breakfast - the yellow fin tuna trying to eat their breakfast.  Out comes the hoss hard tail.  Bobby bridles it with a circle hook, drops it back, and puts it in the left long line clip. I begin to bump the boat around, slow trolling the live bait, trying to entice the marlin to eat. For an hour and a half we scour an area no bigger than a football field, seeing the marlin, still feeding, four more times.  But nada.

As I lack a poker face, Bobby sees that I am ready to move on. He pops the line out of the clip. "I am going to drop this hard tail way back," he tells me. "If nothing happens in ten minutes, we'll go." The second he begins to drop the hard tail farther back, the marlin appears from nowhere, lunges at it and misses. Bobby puts the reel in freespool, his thumb on the line to prevent a backlash. The hard tail has seen the marlin as clearly as the marlin has seen it, and literally runs for its life. That provocative dash for survival seals its fate. In a whirlpool swirl of water the marlin inhales the hard tail. Bobby waits. And waits some more. Line is running off the reel. Swallow fish, swallow. Bobby pushes the drag lever forward. The line comes tight. The circle hook corkscrews into the corner of the marlin's mouth. And all hell breaks loose. It is 9:18 AM.

As you can see in the photo, Bobby is harnessed and focused, with Tenser just behind him to grab the harness and  keep him in the boat if necessary.

 Line is screaming off the reel now, as if 25 pounds of drag was but a bagatelle. In what seems like only seconds, the monofilament is gone and the marlin is in the power pro backing on the reel.  "She's gonna dump us!" Bobby yells to me. "Chase her! Chase her!"

It is common to back down on a big fish, but chasing one with the pointy end of the boat is something else altogether, at least in my limited experience.  As I am spinning the boat with one engine in forward, the other in reverse, and my heart in my throat, Bobby is yelling, "Hurry! Hurry!" 

After an eternity, I finally get the boat headed in the same direction as the fish, but at a slight angle, so that I do not run over the line.  I push the throttles forward, and we're off.  There is a big center console outboard boat dead ahead, also live baiting, that has to have seen our hook up and the resulting Chinese fire drill, but has made no move to give us room, as courtesy requires.  I start blowing the horn.  Freeman and Tenser are hanging out of both sides of the boat, waving their arms. I ain't turning, and I ain't slowing down.  I won't hit the boat, which is crewed by five startled looking men and one wildly gesticulating woman, but I will plow through their baits if I must, chewing up lines and snapping rods. They pull away in time.

Bobby is now reeling. He is gaining line, and some of the color has returned to his face, so I conclude that the first crisis has passed. We are not going to be dumped. I slow the boat, and spin it once more to get the line behind the boat and the fight back within the usual parameters. 

In half an hour the fish is coming to the boat. Tenser takes my place at the wheel, and I pull on the gloves to leader the fish, worried that it is too soon, that she is too green, that I might screw up and get my old ass snatched out of the cockpit. I needn't have worried. As soon as I touch the leader, she makes a long run, fighting down. Twice more she will come to the boat, and twice more she will take off,  always fighting down.  We never see her. Time slows to a crawl. Bobby, who is young and strong, is being tested. From time to time, we hold a bottle of water to his lips for him to drink, and then we pour the rest on his neck and shoulders to cool him off. The battle seesaws back and forth.  She takes line, Bobby takes line. But we have an advantage. We have the boat. We back down when we can.  We try to plane her up by pulling her down sea. We circle her to change the angle of the pressure. Anything to break the stalemate. Slowly, Bobby begins to gain on her.

At 11:38 AM, two hours and twenty minutes into the fight, I take a wrap on the leader and pull a really big girl to the boat. Bobby gets rid of the rod and bills her, so I can cut the line away from the hook, which will rust out.  She weighs more than 400 pounds, maybe as much as 500. She is exhausted.  We may have killed her. Tenser keeps the boat moving forward as we pull her along, passing water over her gills.  Her mouth is opening, closing, opening, closing. Have we done enough to undo what we did to her? When Bobby turns her loose, she noses over and sinks away.  I see her belly, a bad sign. But then she rolls upright, and, just before I lose sight of her in the depths, I see her kick her tail, once, twice, and then swim. The best possible ending.

Blue marlin more than twice the size of this fish have been caught in the Gulf, and tournament winners are almost always bigger, but this is the biggest fish I have ever seen in person, and a school boy and three regular guys with day jobs caught her on Blind Hog. Glory days.