Deep Blue and Bright Orange

Our 20’ Seacraft took a while to get up on a plane, but that is expected when loaded down with ice, tuna, a mako and three kids. I glanced longingly at the massive school of bluefin tuna off to port as I pointed the bow to 10 degrees on the compass and pushed the throttle gently. I heard the familiar humming of the outboard engine as it reached 3000 or so RPM’s, a comfortable cruising speed of 22 knots for a 30 nautical mile ride home. I smiled contently, lips covered in sunscreen on the bow smiling back at me as my sister and friend Bennett seemed to share my happiness. It had been a good day full of fishing the bluewater, catching 9 bluefin on spinning gear and countless other species. I was proud to have put my buddies on fish and was even more excited to be bringing back sushi for our family. 7pm on the dot, a little late for an offshore trip normally, but I had told my parents we would be back late if we found fish. The sound of the chopper interrupted my thoughts 2 Chainz mid chorus of “I’m Different”.

The orange chopper was off the starboard side before I could process what was happening. They kept up with us, a jumper ready in the hatch. Clearly shocked, my sister and Bennett sat open mouthed. We questioned whether or not they were there for us briefly but turning on the radio confirmed our fears. According to the bird, there were people on land worried sick about us. With the chopper escorting us, the Environmental Police rolled up at 50 knots, nearly hitting us. Soon the 40’ Coast Guard cutters came into view, joining the small army ensuring we got home safe. We all knew it was going to be a long night.

Pulling up to the dock, my parents and Bennett’s parents were waiting with the Coast Guard chief, tears streaming down their faces full of disbelief and joy. They explained the search process to us, the dozens of boats getting ready to shove off and join the rescue mission and even the online fishing message boards started that were designated to the topic. I was beyond amazed. The whole day, we had been fishing with the radio off to avoid listening to the obnoxious, incessant chatter of other fisherman. We had therefore missed the radio calls from the Coasties asking if we were okay. It was a learning experience for sure and we had plenty of time to reflect while they searched our boat for the required safety gear and sent us on our way.

On that day, I learned about the importance of a flight plan and leaving the radio on. I was beyond grateful and moved to know how many boats were ready to go out and look for us on their own dime, springing into action without hesitation in the way one can only hope to see from family members. Reading the online forums later, I was also pumped to learn we had been one of only three boats to catch tuna that day, landing 9 of the 14 caught by the fleet. I fell in love even more deeply with offshore fishing after witnessing such a perfect day in the blue water. Even a year later, Bennett’s parents won’t let him fish offshore with me.

In The Trough

I was half asleep when Graham clapped me on the back, waking me up from my trance behind the wheel as we rounded the tip of the jetties. We had just woken up from two hours of sleep after surf casting all night, eyes still heavy despite the coffee that warmed our stomachs. The 6AM sunrise greeted us like a reliable friend as I nudged the throttle forward, starting our 9 mile trek to the south west point of the island. Old and nearly reliable as the sunrise, the bow of the Seacraft parted the ripples of the surface as I huddled behind the center console, escaping the crisp fall air.

The ride was uneventful, silent and sleepy. Graham slept mouth open on the bean bag in the bow, drooling as his head bobbed to the rhythm of the waves. If I hadn’t been so tired I probably would’ve videoed it. We rounded the south west corner of the island and the swells picked up. I pulled the throttle back, idling towards my GPS marks of the best spot in the area for false albacore and bonito. Approaching the ridge we would be trolling along, the rollers were so tall we couldn’t see the land on either side of us when in the trough. The salty spray that brought goose bumps with each drop soaked my jacket and coated my glasses, power of the ocean tangible around us. We nosedived when each swell passed under our feet. Grabbing the first rod and setting a line out, I called Graham to take the wheel as I set up our spread. The conditions were sketchy at best but we had already shelled a hundred dollars into the trip for ice, food and fuel so it was decided that we’d tough it out. I leaned against the console to avoid being tossed as I reached for the second rod, undoing the bungee cord that held it in place. Carefully removing the treble hook from the guide, my stomach churned with excitement and a bit of nausea as another swell passed under us. As the second deep diver left my hand, we sat atop a mountain of water. To my right was the biggest fin I’ve ever seen.

The gray shape next to us appeared out of the murk like a submarine, nearly the length of the boat and easily as wide. With a tail as long as me and an eye so beady it would turn a hawk hot with jealousy, the image is forever burned into my mind. My stomach dropped, hair standing on end as the wave rolled past us and we were once again in the trough, water the only sight once again. I yelled out for Graham but as we came up on the next wave, there was no beady eye staring back at me. Vanishing like an apparition as quickly as it had appeared, the 18 foot creature was out of sight and we were once again alone at sea.

November Albies

I rushed out of the house, screen door slamming behind me and jumped in the car. Micheal sat next to me as we sped down the bumpy dirt road. I hopped out of the car as it came to a stop and banged down the metal ramp to our 13′ Whaler filled with leaves from its short stay under an oak tree in the driveway the day before. Bow line, stern and spring undone I hit reverse hard and sped out of the slip away to the Texaco to gas up before heading out for the morning.

It was early November and nearing the end of the false albacore season. 45 degrees and rainy, the conditions were as close to perfect as they were going to get that day for a duck hunt. Perfect for us, because that’s just what we planned to do, with a cast or two for fish on the side. The wind increasing from 10 to 20 knots cancelled our albie hunting plans, or so we thought.
Micheal, seeing my obvious impatience, jogged down the dock and tossed me the Remingtons and our rods. We topped off the tank and pushed off the splintering wood dock. Halfway out of the harbor, I turned around to see white water and green footballs coming out of the water. Albies! We hadn’t even organized the gear and I was lunging for the rods, nearly slipping on the slick, wet surface of the boat and the fall leaves. Rigged with Hogy Epoxy jigs, an albie classic that is known to catch in the toughest conditions, we sped toward the busting fish. Forty yards away, our spirits sank when the fish suddenly disappeared as if they were never even there, like ghosts.
It was late in the season there wasn’t a single boat in the harbor, which allowed us to grab the plastic piping that was attached to the drive on dock. With a hand on the piping to keep us steady, I turned around and there they were again! Huge albies jumping clear out of the water down by the red can. We let go of the piping and the ripping current spun us around like a leaf in the wind. I started the engine and we were off, racing towards them a second time. Once again, the albies went down, just out of casting range.
Even more dejected but encouraged by their fast reappearance, we idled slowly up to the piping again. Micheal called out to me as I was tying up a rope, “They’re up!” I dropped the dock line onto the piping and sped off once again. They were staying up. I was punching it. Salt spray sung our faces as we squinted to see the fish through the rain and whipping wind. Forty yards, still up. Twenty yards, still up. “NOW!” We both launched our lures into them, close enough to see the sandeels being busted all around the school. Both hunched over in what I call the “in the albies” pose, we watched two giants simultaneously launch themselves out of the water in pursuit of our skipping epoxy jigs. Micheal’s rod doubled over, tight! The whirring sound of the clickerless Cabo 40’s drag filled the air. With a final jump, one of the albies following my jig landed on it, engulfing it in its hard mouth. Doubled up!
The fish took off, ripping line from my Penn Spinfisher 3500. Our reels harmonizing and with us seemingly in heaven, I looked over at Micheal who was clearly getting nervous. His Cabo’s spool was dangerously low and his drag was getting very, very sticky even at the light pressure he was forced to keep it at. Our boat and the fish stayed in the (approximately) 4 knot current. It was apparent we soon needed to maneuver out of it into calm water and away from the wooden pilings.
Thankfully, the old Mercury 40 started up quickly and we putted into the calm water of the harbor and safety. Somehow, Micheal had managed to get his fish within 20 feet and we saw deep color. It was definitely not a 5 pounder. This was a big fish. The powerful tail of the fish propelled it on one last run into the current and his drag locked up. POP! The sound of defeat filled the air.
Micheal’s jaw dropped as the fish sped off, free. However, he quickly picked up the camera to video the end of my fight. Thankfully in the calm water, the circling fish below us slowly made its way to the surface. Twenty feet. Ten feet. I thought it was close enough and lunged… Just too far. I stood back up and pumped the rod twice more, reaching into the seemingly frigid water a final time. I felt the bumpy tail between my fingers and palm and gripped with all my strength, swinging the toad into the boat right next to the duck decoys.
We were right. These fish certainly weren’t 5 pounders! I lifted the green bolt up, its swirls dripping wet in the crisp November air. I took the epoxy jig out of its mouth. With one last glance, I looked at what I thought might be my last speedster of the season as Micheal snapped some pictures. With one push, the fish shot back into the water. High fives between us, we looked for the school once again. With no “ghosts” in sight, we turned around and headed to the duck spot. Cast and blast!