Old Men and the Sea

"A man can be destroyed, but not defeated." I always liked that line from " The Old Man and the Sea". This morning, as the Skip and I awake with bruises on our forearms and aching backs from a battle with a 250-300lb blue marlin on 80lb test line yesterday, we have a new-found appreciation for that novel. We keep talking about the battle and how well we did and what a prize-fighter that fish was. Here begins a fish story.

After a fun morning of untangling a balled up jib and fouled fishing lines, the Skip and I took a few minutes to rest. He decided to take advantage of the lull in the action to shave and I, to prop my body against some nice soft, cushions and read over some stuff about Niue while keeping a watchful eye on the newly-set fishing lines. Two rods and one handline were set with hula skirts plugs in vibrant greens and yellows with blood-red eyes and a delectable mackerel plug with blunt forehead that is quite beautiful to watch swimming in the water.

I looked up from my reading and watched our out-rover (plastic device attached to line several yards in front of plug that disturbs water and keeps line away from boat-highly recommended for sailors-we love 'em) doing its water-dance. A bill violently pierced the water, cutting back and forth, and a leviathan's head raised up from the depths to investigate its prey, our lure just out of reach of the beast's mouth. Water exploded in white, frothy foam. The fish dropped back and launched itself again at the lure, this time resulting in the rod doubling over and the sweet scream of a Penn Gold breaking the afternoon silence.

"Holy S---! Dad, get up here quick! Big Bill fish! He's on! He's on!" The fish tailed-walked upon feeling the sting of the hook, which I could see was well-placed in the corner of its mouth.

"Slow the boat down! Slow the boat down!," Dad yelled from his quarters.

Winds had been nill and we were slugging away with the diesel. I ran to the helm and threw the boat in neutral. Dad appeared, Johnny-on-the-spot, in shorts, with shaving cream still on his face. That furious fish was tail-walking and launching himself out of the water, violently shaking his head back and forth to throw the hook. He repeated hellacious tail-walks, vertical-launching, and porpoising 12-15 times on his first-run. We could clearly see him, his left-eye, large bill, splendid colors, and dorsal-fin and blue striations and size that quickly gave his identity away. nice-sized blue marlin. Organized pandemonium ensued as the other lines were brought in, boat was positioned to follow fish, harnesses were donned, and gaffs and spear-gun were readied. Line stripped out, as Dad ran back and grabbed the rod. "He's going to spool us! I'll have to tighten the drag" I winced as I expected to hear the resounding "Twang!" of a snapped line and battle lost before it was ever fought. The line didn't snap and the game was on. For the next hour and ten minutes , Dad and I alternated between fighting the fish and running the boat. Three times it ran off 450 yards of the 500 yards we have on the spool. Each time, we reeled it back up. The final run, the fish went for the abyss. Imagine, folks, that fish hit a depth of over 1200 feet in the fight. Our muscles burning, our fore-arms beat-to-hell from being pinned to the rail, and our feet aching from fighting the fish standing-up while trying to balance ourselves. We brought him back up and gazed at the king of the deep-blue.

There he was. There, straight below us, his colors shined, showing his agitation. Dad worked quickly as I told him to ready the gun. The fish made a run with such tenacity that he actually pivoted the rod-holder toward the water (not good) leaving me holding a rod that was now pointed straight down. I screamed for Dad to get aft and pivot the rod upright while all I could do was hold on to it. The rod was secured with a safety line, but I didn't want that reel getting wet under any circumstance. Dad bolted back and heaved the rod up and repositioned to its correct upright position. Both of us took a second to savor the moment and looked down at all nine feet of him (not including the bill). Here was a fighter below us, tired like us and taking a momentary break, but unwilling to give up to accept defeat. Destruction, yes. Defeat, not a chance. He made a sudden surge directly toward the boat's deep keel (an unfortunate reality when fighting from a sailboat) and the resounding snap of the line, told us the battle was over. Dad and I looked at each other and remained silent for merely a moment, and then we laughed. "Go back to the depths, you glorious bastard, and procreate!", Dad yelled. Dad looked at me and said, "Don't be sad, Son. That's was the perfect fight. We couldn't have done it any better." I have to admit with those words, I wasn't. That fish earned his freedom and though, we lost him, I believe with all the fish we have ever caught and harvested, the Skip and I have never fought a better, more concerted fight together. We headed down below for a well-deserved ice-water and later, steaks garnished with olive-oiled fried mushrooms and wilted-lettuce salad. It was a glorious day! Live long, you glorious bastard. You earned your freedom.

As always, love you and miss you all. Te amo, Merce.

"Brown-Eyed Girl" out...