My friend Bob is Jerry Garcia. He looks exactly like the departed leader of the Grateful Dead, and has the same laid back mannerisms. He’s a good musician as well, which leads me to think that maybe Garcia, like Jim Morrison and Elvis faked his death too, and is living in relative anonymity on South Padre Island.
Bob’s the only person I’ve ever known who has run with the Bulls in Spain, and I have a great amount of admiration, and derive a certain sense of inspiration from him. Retrospective vicarious living can be a good thing. He was the quintessential world traveler gypsy vagabond who would probably still be studying flamenco guitar or folkloreco dance in Guadalajara Mexico…except that he inherited beau coup from his late father. His late father was a doctor, who married many wealthy women and subsequently purchased some prime real estate here on the island, and in other places, including a three room condo on the bayside and a fourplex over by Boomerang Billy’s club on the beach. Bob and his wife Stell own and manage these properties, dividing their time between Edinburg and here. His fathers ashes, and those of his final wife reside on Bobs piano at his house in Edinburg, one in a cardboard box, and the other in a four hundred dollar plastic urn that the funeral home soaked him for.
I’ve known Bob about ten years or so, ever since we met at a TPWD safe boating instructors course. We’ve conspired on about a dozen or so projects which have never taken off, but remain the best of friends. Projects ranging from offshore funerals involving mixing the ashes of the dearly departed with cement, then depositing them over the same location to eventually create an artificial reef to eco tourism adventures and the latest, bally-hooing. Ballyhoo are a prime bait species that are best collected at night using a small skiff, nets and a powerful spotlight. The bait shops pay about a buck and a quarter apiece for them. We’re supposed to go out for them over at Thompkins Channel this evening. We’ll see, Stell keeps a pretty tight grip on Bob, and he isn’t often allowed to play with folks like me.
Bob’s a sailor too. He’s sailed everything from windboards to pretty large craft, and tells a story of sailing a Sunfish out on the bay one afternoon, when he was struck by the divine notion to do a bit of tacking to windward au natural. So he tied the mainsheet off, and kicked back, sans speedo. As luck would have it, a side chop knocked him off of the boat, which kept sailing along. Trying to be helpful, a head boat pulled up alongside Bob who was frantically swimming towards the rapidly departing Sunfish. Assessing his condition, the captain swung to starboard and kept going with the fishermen now pointing and laughing on the stern. He said that hurt more than trying to catch up with the pilotless boat. The Sunfish eventually struck a shallow bar, and turned over on its side, Bob finally reaching it, naked, gasping and out of breath. I didn’t ask the final outcome.
But I did ask Bob what he was going to do with the ashes on his piano. He told me he was going to take Dorothy (His fathers’ final spouse) up to Kentucky where she has family. I suggested that we make a pilgrimage via motorcycle, just put the urn in a saddlebag and go, a la the great European motorcycle trip that he once took, but he said nah, he’d probably just go in a Winnebago. Then he briefly mused about going on a moped, for the sheer artistic bent of it, a trip that would be akin to sailing, but the Winnebago thing just finally won out. Creature comforts become important when we get old.
His fathers ashes were a different story. Bob said he once asked his father what he wanted done with his final remains, and he told him; “just do whatever you want”. So, Bob thinks that maybe he wants to spread part of him in the Pacific Ocean, out near Point Loma California where his Dad practiced medicine for many years as a hotel doctor, swimming in the ocean every night, and spread the rest of them at the top of a mountain peak in Montana where his father once stole a poem which resided at the summit, later lamenting the fact, and admonishing Bob to replace it. Bob says his father loved those places and deserves to be there, but Stell nixes the idea, concerned that if the ashes aren't in the same geographic location, then the eventual resurrection of the body might be a bit, problematic. She says it's unethical.
Hell, I’m too dumb to know anything about that, but judging from the stories that Bob tells, I’ll bet his dad wouldn’t mind his legs and arms stroking out in the night, in the cold Pacific water, and his heart and eyes looking down from a high vantage point in the northern Rocky Mountains, giving his blessing to all of this madness.
Monday, June 27, 2005
Wednesday, June 22, 2005
The Cussing Man Strikes Again
We had dinner with George and Scarlet the other night. They invited us over because they had a woman there from the Audubon Society who has done three years worth of Plover studies here, collecting data on nesting and distribution. They wanted us to meet her, and maybe share some professional insight.
Turns out this woman was the archetypical tree hugger type. She tried to deny it, but I knew different. First of all, she was wearing Birkenstocks. Then, although she professed a love of meats (beef in particular…but maybe it was just the beefstick that she was into….ah, but I digress), I noticed that she carefully picked out all of the scallops from the linguine, and openly left the mushrooms, so I figured, yea…it’s another damn vegetarian.
There were a number of conversational thrusts and parries, back and forth concerning philosophy of preservation, something only mildly challenging to me as a scientist. Judicious development of resources, and the idea that being a responsible shepherd to our environment entitles one to the privilege of living well. It’s just my position, but one I defend vehemently.
Besides, we make a living assisting clients interested in the prudent development of coastal areas, and I certainly won’t bite the hand that feeds me. This woman was bound and determined to speak with a realtor who is developing a large tract of land north of town here on the Island. The tract lies within federally declared critical habitat for Piping Plover, so at some point they will have difficulty with the project, but this particular realtor is well connected politically, and has pockets that are deep. Not the kind of person that I would want to challenge. So in the course of our conversation, I was asked; “How does Mr. F. feel about eco-tourism?” I snickered and replied; “He could probably sell one condominium unit and make more money than a bunch of bird watchers would bring him in ten years”. Well, this didn’t sit too well, and she told me rather belligerently that she would fight this guy tooth and nail to protect her little birdies (which aren’t even protected here at all). Fine. I asked her for her shoe size, because probably sooner or later with an attitude like that they might just be outfitting her with cement booties.
Now I’m as much of a conservationist as the next guy, and I’ve studied this place long and hard. My own reasoning is that, hey, it’s a sandbar. Sooner or later all of this shit will get blown off of it and they’ll have to start over again. Meanwhile, the species that can compete- will, new areas will be utilized and things will carry on.
So anyway, eventually the topic finally turned from the ethereal, from the controversial to the current and concrete.
The cussing man is at it again.
George told me that last weekend the cussing man was occupying the nice shady breezeway between the Laundromat and Jakes. He was trying to sleep, but the door to Jakes was squeaking. George said that the cussing man asked the management of Jakes to please fix the squeak, but they shined him on, so he got sort of loud with them. I guess the management called the police, and when they showed up, the cussing man cussed them out too. He’s had to find new accommodations now, but at least it wasn’t a hotel with steel bars. The cussing man told George that he “just hated it when things were left unfixed, like that door”…he also lamented having cussed out the cops, said he probably shouldnt’ve done that.
It’s the wrong time of the year to get evicted from anywhere shady. The daily temperatures hover in the mid 90’s, and the beachwater is as warm as soup, not even a chance to cool off here. The entire coast is holding its collective breath. Hurricane season is on us, full swing.
Turns out this woman was the archetypical tree hugger type. She tried to deny it, but I knew different. First of all, she was wearing Birkenstocks. Then, although she professed a love of meats (beef in particular…but maybe it was just the beefstick that she was into….ah, but I digress), I noticed that she carefully picked out all of the scallops from the linguine, and openly left the mushrooms, so I figured, yea…it’s another damn vegetarian.
There were a number of conversational thrusts and parries, back and forth concerning philosophy of preservation, something only mildly challenging to me as a scientist. Judicious development of resources, and the idea that being a responsible shepherd to our environment entitles one to the privilege of living well. It’s just my position, but one I defend vehemently.
Besides, we make a living assisting clients interested in the prudent development of coastal areas, and I certainly won’t bite the hand that feeds me. This woman was bound and determined to speak with a realtor who is developing a large tract of land north of town here on the Island. The tract lies within federally declared critical habitat for Piping Plover, so at some point they will have difficulty with the project, but this particular realtor is well connected politically, and has pockets that are deep. Not the kind of person that I would want to challenge. So in the course of our conversation, I was asked; “How does Mr. F. feel about eco-tourism?” I snickered and replied; “He could probably sell one condominium unit and make more money than a bunch of bird watchers would bring him in ten years”. Well, this didn’t sit too well, and she told me rather belligerently that she would fight this guy tooth and nail to protect her little birdies (which aren’t even protected here at all). Fine. I asked her for her shoe size, because probably sooner or later with an attitude like that they might just be outfitting her with cement booties.
Now I’m as much of a conservationist as the next guy, and I’ve studied this place long and hard. My own reasoning is that, hey, it’s a sandbar. Sooner or later all of this shit will get blown off of it and they’ll have to start over again. Meanwhile, the species that can compete- will, new areas will be utilized and things will carry on.
So anyway, eventually the topic finally turned from the ethereal, from the controversial to the current and concrete.
The cussing man is at it again.
George told me that last weekend the cussing man was occupying the nice shady breezeway between the Laundromat and Jakes. He was trying to sleep, but the door to Jakes was squeaking. George said that the cussing man asked the management of Jakes to please fix the squeak, but they shined him on, so he got sort of loud with them. I guess the management called the police, and when they showed up, the cussing man cussed them out too. He’s had to find new accommodations now, but at least it wasn’t a hotel with steel bars. The cussing man told George that he “just hated it when things were left unfixed, like that door”…he also lamented having cussed out the cops, said he probably shouldnt’ve done that.
It’s the wrong time of the year to get evicted from anywhere shady. The daily temperatures hover in the mid 90’s, and the beachwater is as warm as soup, not even a chance to cool off here. The entire coast is holding its collective breath. Hurricane season is on us, full swing.
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Al Qaeda T Shirt Shops
Like most Gulf Coast resort towns, the main street of South Padre Island is crammed with businesses and vendors lining the boulevard in a seemingly never-ending mass of gaudy Day-Glo facades. There’s the requisite head shop, surf shop, sandwich shop, shell shop and countless T shirt shops lining both sides of Padre Boulevard, separated by the black searing strip of asphalt that ushers the pasty white tourists in from their inland lives to frenetically spend their hard earned vacations in overpriced condominiums and hotels. They come from places like Dallas and Houston, San Antonio and Waco, leaving in a few days with souvenirs and sunburns.
T Shirt shops advertise things like “Going out for Business Sale”, “ 4- T shirts for $20”, and “Free decal with purchase”. Giant football field size edifices, they rarely have more than one or two customers at a time, you can’t help but wonder how they can afford to stay in business, how the hell can they even afford to pay the air conditioning bill?. All the same, exactly the same, only the names change, names like “Wings”, “Surf Stop” and “Jaws”
And business on the island comes in pulses. There’s the big two; Spring Break and Semana Santa, and then the weekend holidays; Forth of July, Labor day, Memorial day and a few others. Between the tourist invasions, the island is a quiescent place, lying in wait like some giant Venus flytrap until the next meal of fresh meat, borne in on Padre Boulevard on the petroleum tide.
The owner of On the Beach was wondering why his dumpster was always full, especially during that time in 2001 when the causeway was down, and there wasn’t hardly any business anywhere on the island. Curious, he checked the contents one day and found sacks and sacks of cash receipts from an adjacent T Shirt shop.
My friend George told me about fires set way out in the empty dune fields, fires set to bales and bales of T Shirts.
You see, the T shirt shops are all owned by middle eastern characters. Characters right out of a bad Hollywood conspiracy movie. Paranoid characters, speaking in hushed tones, eyes furtively plotting….plotting. Turns out these T Shirt shops are nothing more than money Laundromats. It’s common knowledge here. I have a friend who got into trouble punching out a banker during the bridge-out for putting up with this bullshit. I’m certain the government knows about this, and sometimes I wonder about how much they’re actually a part of it.
Call me paranoid.
And we’re not all Islamophobic. Far from it. But there’s too much conincidence, and too many stories
Yesterday a lawyer friend of mine (yes, I actually have a few friends who happen to be lawyers) told me a story about an incident that happened a couple of years ago. A friend of his, a federal agent about to retire was assigned Port Isabel as his final station. One dark evening, a boat came charging into the Pass between the Jetties, only to be intercepted by Customs. The boat was full of cases of automatic weapons, machine guns. The crew and cargo were transported to the Coast Guard base here on the Island until charges could be filed in Brownsville. When the agent returned to the base with the appropriate paperwork, the weapons were gone, and the crew had been released. He was told not to ask any questions.
On the evening of September 10th, 2001 my oldest daughter and I went up to the Circle Jerk to get a couple of items. While we were there, we both noticed a small compact car. Three mid eastern men got out of that car and entered the store. We both noticed their moods, moods so nervous that we were afraid that they might be thinking about jacking the place. We got out of there in a hurry.
We thought about that curious incident a lot over the course of the next few days when paranoina and speculation ran rampant. Coincidence or contrivance? You decide.
T Shirt shops advertise things like “Going out for Business Sale”, “ 4- T shirts for $20”, and “Free decal with purchase”. Giant football field size edifices, they rarely have more than one or two customers at a time, you can’t help but wonder how they can afford to stay in business, how the hell can they even afford to pay the air conditioning bill?. All the same, exactly the same, only the names change, names like “Wings”, “Surf Stop” and “Jaws”
And business on the island comes in pulses. There’s the big two; Spring Break and Semana Santa, and then the weekend holidays; Forth of July, Labor day, Memorial day and a few others. Between the tourist invasions, the island is a quiescent place, lying in wait like some giant Venus flytrap until the next meal of fresh meat, borne in on Padre Boulevard on the petroleum tide.
The owner of On the Beach was wondering why his dumpster was always full, especially during that time in 2001 when the causeway was down, and there wasn’t hardly any business anywhere on the island. Curious, he checked the contents one day and found sacks and sacks of cash receipts from an adjacent T Shirt shop.
My friend George told me about fires set way out in the empty dune fields, fires set to bales and bales of T Shirts.
You see, the T shirt shops are all owned by middle eastern characters. Characters right out of a bad Hollywood conspiracy movie. Paranoid characters, speaking in hushed tones, eyes furtively plotting….plotting. Turns out these T Shirt shops are nothing more than money Laundromats. It’s common knowledge here. I have a friend who got into trouble punching out a banker during the bridge-out for putting up with this bullshit. I’m certain the government knows about this, and sometimes I wonder about how much they’re actually a part of it.
Call me paranoid.
And we’re not all Islamophobic. Far from it. But there’s too much conincidence, and too many stories
Yesterday a lawyer friend of mine (yes, I actually have a few friends who happen to be lawyers) told me a story about an incident that happened a couple of years ago. A friend of his, a federal agent about to retire was assigned Port Isabel as his final station. One dark evening, a boat came charging into the Pass between the Jetties, only to be intercepted by Customs. The boat was full of cases of automatic weapons, machine guns. The crew and cargo were transported to the Coast Guard base here on the Island until charges could be filed in Brownsville. When the agent returned to the base with the appropriate paperwork, the weapons were gone, and the crew had been released. He was told not to ask any questions.
On the evening of September 10th, 2001 my oldest daughter and I went up to the Circle Jerk to get a couple of items. While we were there, we both noticed a small compact car. Three mid eastern men got out of that car and entered the store. We both noticed their moods, moods so nervous that we were afraid that they might be thinking about jacking the place. We got out of there in a hurry.
We thought about that curious incident a lot over the course of the next few days when paranoina and speculation ran rampant. Coincidence or contrivance? You decide.
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Sol Mate
My friend Gary called and invited us to go fishing on his new boat, Sol Mate. Gary was my first client with our bidness, and we became friends in the course of a three month long environmental study of his property. During that time he replaced his older version of Sol Mate with a brand new Australian custom offshore sportfisherman to the tune of about a million point two dollars. Nice boat. So when he called Monday afternoon and invited us to go fishing for yellowfin tuna, we didn’t hesitate to accept the offer.
Gary also owns the Blue Marlin, an IGA grocery store here on the Island. In fact it’s the Islands only grocery, and in my way of thinking, the only grocery store period. It’s an institution. Over in Port Isabel there’s a new Wal-Mart super center, and an HEB, both large impersonal conglomerates, both threats to the neighborhood grocery, and consequently the community way of life. That’s why we patronize the Blue. It’s the least that I can do to try and stem the tide of faceless big business, hell bent on slaughtering the American dream. And beside, the food at the Blue is better quality and a whole lot more interesting. The store is like the neighborhood bar, everybody who works there and a lot of the patrons know who you are. So that’s where we mostly shop for groceries, it’s a comfort zone for us.
We took off about seven AM in a glassy calm morning, heading east, offshore to the continental shelf break, an area called “the canyon”, about forty miles out. Sol Mate is the perfect vessel, powered by two giant Caterpillar diesels, she makes about 30 miles per hour over the sea. D and I sat up on the flying bridge with Gary and the two other fishermen that Gray had invited to go along.
Outside the Brazos pass, the morning dawns bright, cloudless and calm, the seas placid and blue, with no hint of whitecap. We talk a little and sip hot coffee, although like any fishing trip, pleasure or commercial, there’s always a sense of anticipation and uncertainty, and maybe even a bit of anxiety. Before long we are all lost to our own wonderings, lulled into a semi hypnotic trance by the throb of the big diesels, the slicing of the boat through the gentle groundswell and the warmth of the morning sun straining to climb the blue sky. We’re on our way out, out to the kingdom of turquoise water and the giants who dwell there. There’s no telling what might happen.
I think about the different stages of this disease we call fishing. In its initial stage, you want to catch every fish in the sea. As it progresses, you just want to catch the biggest fish. In stage three, one wants to catch the most special fish, species like sailfish and marlin, tarpon, snook, bonefish, permit and peacock bass. At this point, size is pretty irrelevant. Finally there’s the last stage of the illness, where it’s simply the experience that counts, and it’s not necessary to catch anything at all. Its fishing that’s important, catching is secondary. By this time someone else catching fish, someone in a lower stage of the disease, is as satisfying as actually catching fish, because we know that this creates the collective memories we share. That’s where I am, and so I feel blessed just to be out here, a player in this collage of memories.
….Still somewhere inside each of us lurks the predatory instinct that causes us to become fishermen in the first place. It’s man against the ultimate aquatic species, and I think we hold on to the idea of catching the fish of the lifetime somewhere within the course of this lifelong disease. We hold on to the idea of the zenith of the experience. Some try and force this with expensive adventures and trips, but I think it comes without warning, striking as suddenly as the fish of a lifetime, and the odds always remain the same.
At about eight thirty we’re in deep water adjacent to the canyon. Whenever I hear that sound, the sound of big engines slowing down, an instinct takes over from past days in the Alaskan seas. I instantly jerk awake, eyes wide open, body in high speed mode, ready to put out the gear. Today is no exception. Garys’ crew, Roach and Marcos are already rigging the outriggers and the five big game rods for trolling as I descend the ladder to the fantail deck.
We choose rods, and the baits are strung out with teasers and flashing lures in between, forming the spread. I tell D, “You never know what might come up and take a hold of one of those baits, so just keep an eye on the spread. Billfish slash at the lure with their bill, they’re real easy to recognize”. Inside though, I figured we’d be real lucky to hook into some tuna or maybe a Wahoo. It’s still early for billfish, and they’re certainly not a common critter anywhere on the planet. Some people chase them for years before even getting a flash at the bait.
The other two fishermen go topside to chat with Gary on the flying bridge, D and I stay below with the deckhands watching the baits skip along just below the azure surface of the water as we troll toward the canyon, still several miles to the east. My lure, trailing along on the port side in the middle of the spread, a big pumpkin colored skirted jig snags a small floating pile of Sargassum, and Roach unclips it from the outrigger, quickly reeling the thing in, shaking off the clump of golden weed, and then lets the bait drift out behind the boat again, to its designated spot. Just as he’s doing this, I hear D shout. “Billfish”….”There’s a fish on”. A moment of immediate confusion ensues.
And then…..
An eternal moment before I realize, Holy shit.... It’s MY rod sitting in the holder on the port rail, the same lure that Roach is putting back in the spread that this fish has decided to strike. The pool cue thick rod points in an arch toward the fish, as line tears off the reel at lightening speed. We all began to bring in the other baits and teasers. I flop down in the fighting chair and Roach hands me the rod like a priest passing a sacred torch. I place the butt end into the gimbel and I hear the snap, snap of the harness securing me to the whole setup, I have become a biomechanical extension of the gear, but still a very necessary part of the equation. Now glancing down at the reel, I see that it has been heavily hit. More than three quarters of the five hundred yards of one hundred thirty pound test has been stripped, the fish a long way off and heading rapidly, south. Gary works to slow the boats forward progress as the fish continues to tear line from the reel, then Sol Mate begins to back down and I reel the line in, gaining a foot at a time, sometimes less. The morning is already becoming hot, and I have gone from zero to ninety in a heartbeat. I lift the rod slowly up and down, pumping and gaining more line, but it’s like those dreams where you’re trying to run away from something, running in slow motion, feeling like you’re encased in gelatin. Only this is real, and it hurts. Every muscle straining, aching against a mass that feels like a runaway freight train, I hang on, throat dry, clothes soaked.
About thirty minutes into the fight, the fish wallows for just a split second on the surface and dives deep again, stripping precious line from the reel. My arms ache, hands almost losing grip, I cradle the rod, hugging it close, just trying to hold on as the fish throbs and strains, seemingly oblivious to the hook, moving away from the boat in a lumbering lurching dive as Gary keeps backing down. I hear people debating the fish. “Didja see it?”, “What was it?”.. “tuna?”….”No Marlin”….”I think it might be a shark”. No, it’s a fucking MONSTER.
I don’t give a damn. By this time, I’m hurting and tired, gaining little ground. I think about quitting, just handing the rod off to someone else. The hell with it, this fish will never break the water. It’s going to be a long time till I see the swivel that marks the leader. This is stupid. I’m already scheduled for elbow surgery at the end of the week, why hurt it any worse?
But, I dig down deep and find resolve. No fish has beaten me yet, and this one ain’t gonna be the first. And I’ve caught some big ones too, fish well over two hundred pounds. But this monster is like nothing I’ve ever hooked. So I fight grimly on, sometimes only gaining six inches. I rest, the fish rests. I press on, and so does he. It’s a stubborn battle. After almost an hour, the leader comes close, and Roach grabs it. They can see the fish below, but can’t quite make out what it is., but it’s big. I kick back in the chair, taking out the slack, anticipating….anticipating, ready in case the fish decides that this really isn’t the end.
And it isn’t.
The big fish dives again, and Roach lets go of the leader. More line peels off. Determined, I fight him slowly towards the surface. I can sense his fatigue too, hanging on the end of the line. There’s no manhandling this fish. It comes when it wants to. The leader breaks the surface again, it’s too far away, so I strain to gain a little more line…..just a little more and that’s it….and the fish sounds again, but less deeply this time. The leader breaks the surface one final time, and Roach has a hold of it.
It’s a Blue Marlin. All I can see the tail and about three feet of the creature behind the boat, iridescent blue, the most beautiful blue I’ve every seen, like an electric sky, almost neon, glinting in the sun. It’s about six or seven feet long, and the crew estimates its weight at around four hundred pounds.
I hold the rod ready again, but this time Roach and Marcos have a firm grip on the bill and pinning the fish alongside the boat, they quickly dislodge the hook just as several photos are hurriedly taken. The fish lies on its side, shimmering, stunned, finning in the Caribbean blue water for a moment then suddenly it turns upright, regaining enough energy to swim slowly off, back into the blackness of the deep.
I sit there also stunned for a moment, like the fish. Shaking, soaked in sweat, muscles crying in unison, in pain, hands stiffening like two claws at the end of my spaghetti like arms, I have become a sea monster without gills, attached to the element by monofilament line, connected forever to that Marlin, the memory of the struggle indelibly etched, tattooed in my temporal lobe. Finally, I ascend the ladder to the flying bridge to thank Gary for the experience of catching the fish of my lifetime, but words could never mean enough, never be enough, never even come close, though I try. Gary understands. He too is in the final stages of the disease we call fishing.
Coming back down the ladder I thank the fish swimming somewhere down there, far below us. I glance out at the spread, once again dancing along on the waves, pulsing in the sun.
Gary also owns the Blue Marlin, an IGA grocery store here on the Island. In fact it’s the Islands only grocery, and in my way of thinking, the only grocery store period. It’s an institution. Over in Port Isabel there’s a new Wal-Mart super center, and an HEB, both large impersonal conglomerates, both threats to the neighborhood grocery, and consequently the community way of life. That’s why we patronize the Blue. It’s the least that I can do to try and stem the tide of faceless big business, hell bent on slaughtering the American dream. And beside, the food at the Blue is better quality and a whole lot more interesting. The store is like the neighborhood bar, everybody who works there and a lot of the patrons know who you are. So that’s where we mostly shop for groceries, it’s a comfort zone for us.
We took off about seven AM in a glassy calm morning, heading east, offshore to the continental shelf break, an area called “the canyon”, about forty miles out. Sol Mate is the perfect vessel, powered by two giant Caterpillar diesels, she makes about 30 miles per hour over the sea. D and I sat up on the flying bridge with Gary and the two other fishermen that Gray had invited to go along.
Outside the Brazos pass, the morning dawns bright, cloudless and calm, the seas placid and blue, with no hint of whitecap. We talk a little and sip hot coffee, although like any fishing trip, pleasure or commercial, there’s always a sense of anticipation and uncertainty, and maybe even a bit of anxiety. Before long we are all lost to our own wonderings, lulled into a semi hypnotic trance by the throb of the big diesels, the slicing of the boat through the gentle groundswell and the warmth of the morning sun straining to climb the blue sky. We’re on our way out, out to the kingdom of turquoise water and the giants who dwell there. There’s no telling what might happen.
I think about the different stages of this disease we call fishing. In its initial stage, you want to catch every fish in the sea. As it progresses, you just want to catch the biggest fish. In stage three, one wants to catch the most special fish, species like sailfish and marlin, tarpon, snook, bonefish, permit and peacock bass. At this point, size is pretty irrelevant. Finally there’s the last stage of the illness, where it’s simply the experience that counts, and it’s not necessary to catch anything at all. Its fishing that’s important, catching is secondary. By this time someone else catching fish, someone in a lower stage of the disease, is as satisfying as actually catching fish, because we know that this creates the collective memories we share. That’s where I am, and so I feel blessed just to be out here, a player in this collage of memories.
….Still somewhere inside each of us lurks the predatory instinct that causes us to become fishermen in the first place. It’s man against the ultimate aquatic species, and I think we hold on to the idea of catching the fish of the lifetime somewhere within the course of this lifelong disease. We hold on to the idea of the zenith of the experience. Some try and force this with expensive adventures and trips, but I think it comes without warning, striking as suddenly as the fish of a lifetime, and the odds always remain the same.
At about eight thirty we’re in deep water adjacent to the canyon. Whenever I hear that sound, the sound of big engines slowing down, an instinct takes over from past days in the Alaskan seas. I instantly jerk awake, eyes wide open, body in high speed mode, ready to put out the gear. Today is no exception. Garys’ crew, Roach and Marcos are already rigging the outriggers and the five big game rods for trolling as I descend the ladder to the fantail deck.
We choose rods, and the baits are strung out with teasers and flashing lures in between, forming the spread. I tell D, “You never know what might come up and take a hold of one of those baits, so just keep an eye on the spread. Billfish slash at the lure with their bill, they’re real easy to recognize”. Inside though, I figured we’d be real lucky to hook into some tuna or maybe a Wahoo. It’s still early for billfish, and they’re certainly not a common critter anywhere on the planet. Some people chase them for years before even getting a flash at the bait.
The other two fishermen go topside to chat with Gary on the flying bridge, D and I stay below with the deckhands watching the baits skip along just below the azure surface of the water as we troll toward the canyon, still several miles to the east. My lure, trailing along on the port side in the middle of the spread, a big pumpkin colored skirted jig snags a small floating pile of Sargassum, and Roach unclips it from the outrigger, quickly reeling the thing in, shaking off the clump of golden weed, and then lets the bait drift out behind the boat again, to its designated spot. Just as he’s doing this, I hear D shout. “Billfish”….”There’s a fish on”. A moment of immediate confusion ensues.
And then…..
An eternal moment before I realize, Holy shit.... It’s MY rod sitting in the holder on the port rail, the same lure that Roach is putting back in the spread that this fish has decided to strike. The pool cue thick rod points in an arch toward the fish, as line tears off the reel at lightening speed. We all began to bring in the other baits and teasers. I flop down in the fighting chair and Roach hands me the rod like a priest passing a sacred torch. I place the butt end into the gimbel and I hear the snap, snap of the harness securing me to the whole setup, I have become a biomechanical extension of the gear, but still a very necessary part of the equation. Now glancing down at the reel, I see that it has been heavily hit. More than three quarters of the five hundred yards of one hundred thirty pound test has been stripped, the fish a long way off and heading rapidly, south. Gary works to slow the boats forward progress as the fish continues to tear line from the reel, then Sol Mate begins to back down and I reel the line in, gaining a foot at a time, sometimes less. The morning is already becoming hot, and I have gone from zero to ninety in a heartbeat. I lift the rod slowly up and down, pumping and gaining more line, but it’s like those dreams where you’re trying to run away from something, running in slow motion, feeling like you’re encased in gelatin. Only this is real, and it hurts. Every muscle straining, aching against a mass that feels like a runaway freight train, I hang on, throat dry, clothes soaked.
About thirty minutes into the fight, the fish wallows for just a split second on the surface and dives deep again, stripping precious line from the reel. My arms ache, hands almost losing grip, I cradle the rod, hugging it close, just trying to hold on as the fish throbs and strains, seemingly oblivious to the hook, moving away from the boat in a lumbering lurching dive as Gary keeps backing down. I hear people debating the fish. “Didja see it?”, “What was it?”.. “tuna?”….”No Marlin”….”I think it might be a shark”. No, it’s a fucking MONSTER.
I don’t give a damn. By this time, I’m hurting and tired, gaining little ground. I think about quitting, just handing the rod off to someone else. The hell with it, this fish will never break the water. It’s going to be a long time till I see the swivel that marks the leader. This is stupid. I’m already scheduled for elbow surgery at the end of the week, why hurt it any worse?
But, I dig down deep and find resolve. No fish has beaten me yet, and this one ain’t gonna be the first. And I’ve caught some big ones too, fish well over two hundred pounds. But this monster is like nothing I’ve ever hooked. So I fight grimly on, sometimes only gaining six inches. I rest, the fish rests. I press on, and so does he. It’s a stubborn battle. After almost an hour, the leader comes close, and Roach grabs it. They can see the fish below, but can’t quite make out what it is., but it’s big. I kick back in the chair, taking out the slack, anticipating….anticipating, ready in case the fish decides that this really isn’t the end.
And it isn’t.
The big fish dives again, and Roach lets go of the leader. More line peels off. Determined, I fight him slowly towards the surface. I can sense his fatigue too, hanging on the end of the line. There’s no manhandling this fish. It comes when it wants to. The leader breaks the surface again, it’s too far away, so I strain to gain a little more line…..just a little more and that’s it….and the fish sounds again, but less deeply this time. The leader breaks the surface one final time, and Roach has a hold of it.
It’s a Blue Marlin. All I can see the tail and about three feet of the creature behind the boat, iridescent blue, the most beautiful blue I’ve every seen, like an electric sky, almost neon, glinting in the sun. It’s about six or seven feet long, and the crew estimates its weight at around four hundred pounds.
I hold the rod ready again, but this time Roach and Marcos have a firm grip on the bill and pinning the fish alongside the boat, they quickly dislodge the hook just as several photos are hurriedly taken. The fish lies on its side, shimmering, stunned, finning in the Caribbean blue water for a moment then suddenly it turns upright, regaining enough energy to swim slowly off, back into the blackness of the deep.
I sit there also stunned for a moment, like the fish. Shaking, soaked in sweat, muscles crying in unison, in pain, hands stiffening like two claws at the end of my spaghetti like arms, I have become a sea monster without gills, attached to the element by monofilament line, connected forever to that Marlin, the memory of the struggle indelibly etched, tattooed in my temporal lobe. Finally, I ascend the ladder to the flying bridge to thank Gary for the experience of catching the fish of my lifetime, but words could never mean enough, never be enough, never even come close, though I try. Gary understands. He too is in the final stages of the disease we call fishing.
Coming back down the ladder I thank the fish swimming somewhere down there, far below us. I glance out at the spread, once again dancing along on the waves, pulsing in the sun.
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