Of Fish and Men

A rare blog post by Tim

It was the best of times. It was the worst of times. It had all the makings of the greatest of fish stories, the kind everyone loves to tell and no one ever believes. But this story had one minor difference… evidence. And not just a trace of evidence either, it was more like… proof. Beautiful, shimmering proof you could hold in your hands. 5 foot 2 inches, 37 pounds of it. I wasn’t always sure it was going to end up that way. At the time, I was certain it was going the route of all great fish tales, especially as I watched the six-foot hammerhead swim between us and the beautiful green and yellow dorado … but… wait, let me back up a bit…

It started like any other day: a cup of coffee while pondering which of the things on the to-do list should be prioritized ahead of the rest. This important task often takes hours to sort through, considering all the data, all the options, parts/equipment availability, the needs of the crew, available time of the captain/mechanic/bottom-scrubber, etc. It’s a tough job, but someone’s got to do it. I was knee-deep into my analysis, and only halfway through my grande vanilla latte when the call came in, “Exodus, Exodus, Exodus… this is Lady Carolina”. I could hear the tremor in Steve’s voice, very subtle, but there nonetheless. At first I thought it was the typical drunken Canadian drawl Steve often sported, but then remembered it was only 8am and he couldn’t have had time to hit the rum yet, having only awakened minutes before. It must be something else. I’m sure he wasn’t even aware of it at the time, but somehow it existed, maybe as a sign of things to come. I answered the radio, “Exodus here. What’s up Steve-o?” He rambled on for a few minutes about kids, schoolwork, troubles with his head (I assume he meant his toilet, but knowing Steve, I wasn’t certain), something about a power drain on his battery bank, and, just as I was about to doze off to sleep, I heard the magic words, “dinghy fishing”.  It was like a cloud was lifted over my mind. Everything seemed crystal clear, vibrant, alive. “I’ll be ready in five”, I said, reaching for my pole. Once again, the list would have to wait…

With sleep still in one eye, but vigor in my step, I loaded up the dinghy with everything I might need for the day, including my entire tackle box, pole, fish stringer, and even the telescoping gaff given to me by my brother, who I think fondly of every time I impale and hoist a fish on board. As I arrived at Lady Carolina (the name of Steve’s boat), Steve was waiting at the step with gear in hand. I barely had to slow the dinghy down for him to step aboard before we were off. Like usual, I ignored his attempts at being a smartass- something about my gaff – and headed for the horizon, dreams of yellowtail and dorado filling my head.

We had caught a couple small yellowtail the day before and were keen to improve on past results. Thirty minutes had passed as we trolled along in the dinghy, circling the same area that had proven successful just 24 hours ago. Faster? No. Slower? No. The island? Yes! Steve nodded as if reading my mind. I accelerated and headed north, just half a mile, toward the small island abruptly protruding from the open sea ahead. Known as a sea lion hangout, we figured they must know something about fish, right?

As we skirted the guano covered isle with not even a bite and little interest in our task, I turned the dinghy away from the smelly landmark, heading for deeper water. Then, just as our conversation about radio interference sources had become interesting, it happened. “Fish on”, Steve said. Being the only such comment of the day, I should have been more excited, but it hardly sparked my interest. I looked at his pole, what a sad excuse for a pole it is and didn’t give much weight to the extreme angle to which it was being exerted. (Side note: Now, to be fair, it is a fine piece of fishing equipment- if you were fishing for foot-long trout in a small stream or quiet lake somewhere. Those who know the difference between a spinning reel and an offshore ocean rig will instantly recognize this as a “medium-sized” spinning reel, suitable for a good 2-3 pound steelhead or even a small salmon. Steve says he likes that it makes the fish seem larger when he fishes with this pole. Indeed, Steve. Indeed. ) As I looked at the reel silently paying out its payload of 20lb test line, I remembered him saying that it had stopped its telltale “ticking” sound the day before, you know, the vzzzzzzzzz sound as the fish runs away. Just then I saw a rather large fish jump off in the distance, some 250-300 yards away and thought to myself, “huh, interesting coincidence.” When I looked back at Steve’s reel, I saw the last of the line disappearing quickly. As I reached for the engine throttle, my thoughts of, “uh oh…” were disrupted by his shouts, “That way! Go that way, fast!” I revved the dinghy engine and we were off in the direction of his line, now fully extended from the reel and held only by a single knot onto the empty spool. As I outran the fish, he was able to reel in some line and give himself some room to play it again. We hadn’t lost it yet…

Playing a fish is half the fun of catching a fish. Any fisherman knows it’s a balancing act of tug-of-war: reel it in a little, let it run out a little to tire it out, reel it in some more. Reel too fast and it breaks the line. Don’t let run out fast enough and it breaks the line. Poised for his game of tug-o-war, Steve quickly realized that the now-silent reel had evolved yet a new feature. Not only did it not tick as the fish pulled the drag, the drag feature itself had ceased to function entirely. The only way to let the fish run away was to crank the handle backwards- or simply let it go and let the fish do it. (Upon later inspection, the strain of the fish pulling on the line so hard caused so much heat that the innards of the reel had completely melted, seizing its bearings into a solid mess.) Steve did his best balancing act while I kept the dinghy headed toward the catch. Somehow, ever so slowly, we were making way.

Fifteen minutes later, now just 30 yards away we could see the telltale yellow-green of the dorado as it battled on the surface. “Looks like a decent sized one”, I said obviously misjudging the fish’s true size at that distance. As the fight went on, Steve balanced on the fine line of give and take and the interval between the dorados side of the tug-o-war battle was increasing. We were gaining on it. (Also noted later, the 20lb test line was completely shot. It looked like that thin ribbon used to wrap xmas presents, that you curl with a pair of scissors, and if you do it wrong it doesn’t curl and turns out flat and wavy… You know what I mean…  Between that and the reel, it’s a miracle something didn’t break.) Engine in idle, we let the fish pull us in circles as it tried to slowly swim away.

Now just 10 yards off, we strained to see the catch beneath the water- but the dorsal and tail fins both broke the surface and we could tell… it was big. Steve kept reeling, ever so gently. Just then, to my right I saw a large shape and another dorsal fin appear and then disappear beneath the rear corner of the dinghy, heading below us and toward the dorado. I turned and watched as a hammerhead shark appeared on the other side, easily six feet long, headed for the fish now only 5 yards away. My comment, which I don’t remember exactly but was much more poised and reserved than, “Holy Shit! It’s a HAMMERHEAD!”, went almost entirely unnoticed by Steve. Why in the world he would think that I was joking at a time like this is beyond me. Just as I was sure this was going to turn into a three-way game of tug-o-war, the shark turned and slowly swam away. As I reached for the gaff to haul in the dorado, my head was spinning in all directions, watching for it to return (and ready to do battle, of course). For the record, we just wanted to get the dorado into the dinghy and back to the boat as quickly as possible to “maintain optimal freshness”.

Gaffing a writhing fish can be tricky. I don’t like to upset its stomach and all the yummy juices inside, so I aim for its back, just aft of the gills. Today I was fortunate to get a bullseye the first try. Once I had it on the gaff, its true length became apparent- this fish was fully half the length of the dinghy. Its head was over a foot tall, forehead to chin, and it took both hands to lift it out of the water. Steve’s comment as he got into the dinghy earlier that morning was now priceless, “What are you going to need a gaff for?”

I guess it isn’t a true “fish story” when you actually bring home the fish. But it’s still a fun one to tell…