Chasing the Giant

Chasing the Giant

Most people don’t like killing things.  As a fisherman, you usually get used to it.  Then you get good at it.  I’d been at peace killing fish for thirty years before I ran into one that gave me trouble.

My brother Brendan dreams of tuna fishing.  He gets a chance to go a few times a year with a salty captain out of Snug Harbor, RI.  When he returns to his work climbing and cutting trees in New Jersey, he mixes focus on not falling and dying with daydreaming of the blue waters of the Atlantic and the thrill of the chase. 

He called one day with an offer to join him and the Captain for a trip to Stellwagon Bank out of Green Harbor, MA.  I jumped at it.  After a too-late night in Providence sharing Thai food and beer, we started out at 2AM for the trip to the boat.  By 430, we were heading out of the harbor in the Captain’s 35-foot boat through calm seas and toward the growing dawn.

The Bank is a hill on the floor of Cape Cod Sound where life abounds.  Smaller fish and squid move to the shallower warmer water of “the hump” while bigger predators roam the edges to feed on them.  It isn’t unusual for visitors to see porpoise, whales and sharks in the area.  In June, the Giant Bluefin come up from the south to chase schools of butterfish and squid in the waters of New England. 

We anchored on the southern edge of the Bank, in a long line of boats.   My job was made clear to me.  Once a fish was hooked, I was to run up the narrow edge of the starboard side and release the float attached to our anchor from the boat so that we could chase the fish without wasting time pulling anchor. 

The fishing seemed simple.  Hooks baited with dead butterfish were dropped behind the stern, the bait sewn up with Styrofoam chunks to present the appearance of hovering alive 60 feet down.  The giants circle the Bank in packs, picking off small fish as they roam.  The first hour was uneventful and the gently rolling seas had a lazy feel to them. 

Having spent 5 years in the Navy, I was not unfamiliar with the swell of the sea.  For that reason, the feeling of nausea that overcame me in the second hour was a surprise.  Maybe it was the diesel, maybe the smell of the bait or the late Thai dinner the night before.  Whatever the reason, I was quickly in the grips of “the hurl” and the morning’s donut and the previous night’s Thai dinner were the first things (after the baited hooks) into the water.   I wrongly assumed that my first bout would be my last.   For the next three hours, I was gripped by the “dry heaves” so badly that I eventually surrendered to the rack below, embarrassed by my unavoidable new label as “useless landlubber”. 

Sleep brought temporary relief.  My brother’s shout of “Johnny! Fish On!!!” ended it and brought me running up the ladder to the starboard side to release the buoy.  Later, I would learn that my brother (frustrated all morning by pesky dogfish) was in the process of rebaiting the hook after a tide shift.  The rod was temporarily free from the locking cable when he felt a “bump” that he assumed was another dogfish.  He angrily jerked the rod back expecting to deal with more sharks.  His force was met with a dead weight that could only mean one thing.  In the seconds that followed, when the giant felt the sting of the hook and accelerated away from the boat, my brother shouted and worked to get the rod secured as line smoked from the reel.

The chase began.  The Captain and my brother worked to follow the fish away from the lineup of boats.  My brother strapped into the fighting chair and started what would be more than an hour trying to gain a foot at a time.  In mid-fight the fish veered toward the bow and then back, catching the thick line in a piece of fairing.  I leaned over the side and worked it free.  My brother insisted that I have a few minutes in the chair and I reluctantly agreed, worried that I would lose the monster.  As soon as I was seated and took the reel, the line went slack.  I reeled furiously to more slack.

“#$#@!” I yelled, thinking for sure that I had caused the fish to free itself. As I continued to reel (and curse), the slack line approached the port side.  Just as I thought all hope was lost, the line suddenly started to move away from the boat until becoming taut again.  I was more than relieved to feel the fish take line again and quickly turned the fight back over to the qualified. 

As we continued to fight the fish, my dry heaves returned.  It must have been a comical sight for the captain from the helm, one man fighting the monster from the chair while his older brother wretched unproductively next to him. 

Eventually, the fish began to come toward the boat and the captain readied the harpoon for boating.  Knowing my inexperience with boating, he directed me to the helm.  I took the wheel and followed his orders as the fish went into a death spiral, slowly circling from below.  My wretching continued at the helm.  Finally, he called for neutral and for me to come over.  I looked into the water over the side and saw, at least 20 feet below, the monster’s silver blue side.  The size of it shocked me.  As it neared the stern, only a few feet down now, the thought hit me that we were about to kill a big animal and for a moment, even the bait fisherman in me had a momentary moral pause.  The captain stuck the giant just behind the gill plate and held while the fish took a few more tail shakes and began to bleed.  We worked to tie the tail off and attempted to bring it through the back door (without success) after it had stopped moving.  The captain directed my brother to get a line through the mouth and gills to try it headfirst.  A few anxious moments passed as he quickly strung the line through the mouth and, after much heaving and grunting, we got the massive thing into the boat.  I gazed as the colors quickly drained from the body. I’d never seen such a mix of yellow, blue, greens and purples and I don’t think I ever will. 

We were exhausted and joyful.  The trip back was quickened by a cold beer and picture taking.  We sold the fish pier-side to what I am still convinced was a seller who was part of a syndicate.  The price was 3.50$ per pound from the only of 3 traders who would offer anything more than consignment.  The fish weighed 650 pounds.  It seemed a pittance for the monster. 

I didn’t care at that point.  I had never been happier to be back on a dock and I had a story of a lifetime.

The Pier

It was good to watch that God-damned pier crash into the sea.

Hurricane Sandy was racing up the East Coast toward New Jersey.  As it did, CNN was showing footage of the fishing pier at Moorhead City, NC as it took the force of a last few massive waves before collapsing into the ocean.  I had forgotten that pier (maybe intentionally) for about 35 years.  Now, seeing it break down and lean into the Atlantic brought back once painful memories that seem both trivial and funny. 

I was about 10 at the time.  My family had chosen the April break to drive to the Outer Banks of North Carolina to visit with our Grand Aunt and Uncle.  The beaches of North Carolina were foreign to us, but they weren’t that different from the beaches of Charlestown and New Jersey.  The waves rolled in like they do at Narragansett and Misquamicut but the water seemed a lighter green with more sand mixed in.  It was warmer and people we met on the beach suggested we shuffle our feet as we walked to kick up any skates that might be straying in for feeding.  An added attraction that we stumbled on the first day was a long wooden pier that jutted out hundreds of yards into the Atlantic.  Fisherman lined the edges of it and bought frozen shrimp to fish off its high planks for flounder, spot, skate and the occasional shark. 

My brothers (9 and 7) and I were allowed the freedom of walking the ½ mile down the beach from the condominium our relatives were in to fish.  More importantly, I was given the privilege and responsibility of using my dad’s favorite Abu-Garcia spinning reel and the dull yellow rod connected to it.  We had a few 1.5 oz. sinkers and some hooks and after visiting the pier with us, my dad showed us how to rig and walked back home.  He was leaving my brothers and, more importantly, his beloved spinning rod in my care.  I felt good.  For a 10 year-old, a father’s confidence is strong magic. 

The first two days of fishing were great.  My brothers and I rotated through using the rod with good effect.  The small spot and occasional “windowpane” flounder were sport for us.  The energy on the pier in the early evening was full of laughter and hope.  I can still smell the tar from the pilings.  Families came up to watch the fisherman (including us) and older, wiser anglers would move toward the end of the pier for bigger fish as the tide rose and the light lowered.  The second night, we watched in amazement as a man two spotlights down the pier battled a 6-foot shark before snapping the fish off as it thrashed 20 feet below.  As it slowly swam away, we glanced nervously at each other considering the next day’s beach swim. 

The third night started much the same as the first two.  We had eased into a familiar routine and the fishing became more playful and casual.  We began “talking” to the fish nibbling at our bait.  Our comfort was about to become my grief.  When it came to be my turn to cast again, I went through the second nature routine of the cast.  When I shifted my weight to fire the sinker as far out from the pier as I could, the bail clicked back with my movement.  In a fraction of a second, physics and gravity took charge.  The momentum of my cast and the weight of the sinker lifted the rod from my relaxed grip.  As the several seconds passed, my disbelieving eyes watched as the rod fell through space toward the green Atlantic below.  As the rod splashed and slowly sank, I instantly considered jumping off of the pier after it.   Common sense and fear ruled the day and I stayed, head in hands against the rail.  My brothers were wide-eyed behind me, mouths agape.  “Big Brother” had messed up, big-time.  Tears began to well up as I imagined my father’s disappointment, shock and anger.  A neighboring fisherman tried to cast for a while to dredge it up, temporarily boosting my feeble hopes.  Finally I resigned to defeat and reality.  I had messed up, big-time, and it was time to walk back and face the music.  My brothers walked beside me trying to console me as the tears rolled down on the long walk back.  Strangers walking by surely wondered what terrible thing had befallen me.

In the distance, I saw my father and mother walking toward us down the beach and my sorrow and fear deepened.  I could feel my throat dry and tighten.  As they came closer I could see the concern for me on their faces. 

“What’s wrong?” my father asked.

“I lost your rod.” I choked out, starting to cry again.

“Where?” he wondered.

“I dropped it off the pier by accident” I managed, breathless.

“Is that all?” he laughed.

His laughter caught me off guard. Is that all?  I’d just dumped what I assumed was the man’s most prized possession on Earth into the depths of the shark-infested Atlantic and all he had to say was “Is that all?”. 

He grabbed my by the shoulders, pulled me in and tussled my hair. 

“It’s just a piece of plastic and fiberglass that we can replace tomorrow.” he chuckled. “I thought you guys had been hurt or something.”

A feeling of relief flooded my soul.  We turned back toward the hotel.  Someone suggested ice cream and mini-golf.  I wondered if I could try swimming out to retrieve the rod tomorrow.  I remembered that shark and mini-golf sounded good. 

I hope that I’m able to treat my sons with the same degree of understanding when they “screw up” in their formative years.  I’m grateful he had the perspective that he did about the rod.  I’m also sort of happy that pier has disappeared into the Atlantic.