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