You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy.™
Winning a $22,000 in a fishing tournament.
The year is 1986. The place is The Great Barrier Reef in Australia.
The water is a blue that Crayola doesn’t have a name for. The sky at night is rich like pudding with stars that hang so low they look like Christmas lights on the front porch.
This is the ultimate Father and Son experience as my dad and I are on a fishing safari. The goal is to boat and bring home the elusive 1000 pound Black Marlin.
We toured Sydney and the rain forest of Cairns.
Now we are on a fishing boat that we reach by sea plane. We are traveling up and down the reef which is brimming with sea life. Plankton and coral are the bottom of the food chain. Great whites and manta rays rule the top of the pyramid.
We’ve had a successful trip tagging and releasing several large marlin. I caught one the captain estimated at 500 pounds. My dad boated one the skipper estimated at 850 pounds.
As most fish stories go, my dad now says it was over 1,000 and he should have kept it. Instead, we tagged and released all our marlins.
It’s an elite clientele who goes after a 850 pound fish on the other side of the planet for 3 weeks. This is not a Sunday outting, standing on the side of the river and hoping to hook a 5 pound catfish.
This is an adventure and so is the story I am about to share with you.
We are going after the elusive Black Marlin. These creatures are smart and they don’t jump in boats like some stupid fish. They only surrender after every ounce of energy has been spent trying to cut the line, spit the hook, or rip the rod out of the angler’s hands.
Marlin fight with a passion reserved for creatures of nobility. In King Arthur’s court they would joust and fight to the death with cunning and skill.
The majesty of fighting a black marlin is that moment when the fish flies through the air, breaking the surface and dancing on the wind for all to see.
It begins when the fish first hits the bait that skips across the surface of the sea, held in place by outriggers stretching 10 yards from the boat.
When the Marlin strikes, it’s like a line backer plugging a gap and knocking a running back’s head into his neck.
Wizzzzzzzz.
The sound is like a nautical alarm clock as fishing line rips off the reel at high speed.
In a second, the boat explodes with energy as other lines are reeled in and the captain begins backing down on the fish which often dives hundreds of yards under the boat.
While all this organized confusion is going on the angler gets in the fighting chair and starts reeling.
Waves crash over the transom as the engines gurgle and billow black exhaust.
The battle can be exhausting and take more than an hour.
Like a piece of apple pie after a turkey dinner on Thanksgiving, a marlin jumping skyward is visual desert.
it often signals the end is near. It often signals the fish hasn’t yet begun to fight.
There is an intensity when a creature, hundreds of pounds in girth, suddenly, effortless, breaks the bonds of water and for a moment, dances in the air.
I’ve seen marlin twist like a water ballerina trying to spit the hook or cut the line with their razor sharp bill.
On the last day of our journey we are fishing in a stretch of water off a secluded resort hot spot in the middle of no where known as Lizard Island.
My dad has entered into a private fishing tournament where each angler puts up $2,000. There are 10 boats with anglers from all over the world.
At stake – $20,000 winner take all.
Beside the primary bets between fisherman, each captain and all the mates have side action.
The rules are simple. Catch a fish. Keep it or throw it back.
But if you keep it, that is your fish of record.
If you catch Moby Dick on your next cast, too bad, you only can enter the fish you declared.
The worst case scenario is a mid sized fish early in the day. If you declare it, that’s your fish. If you don’t declare it, you run the risk of not catching another fish the remainder of the day.
And that is exactly what happens to us.
The sky has been grey for three days. The water is a rough and angry. It is a dark seaweed ugly green.
It’s around 11am and my dad’s line snaps off the outrigger and his line starts whizzing.
The deck becomes a choreographed symphony of deck hands cursing and sweat flying and sea water spewing. The engines churn against the turbulent sea as the water and smoke bubble over the transom.
My dad gets in the fighting chair and begins to wind. As he does, the spool whizzes and yet more line races endlessly into the sea.
The fish is angry. The drag is set to tire him but it takes a while to tire out an 850 pound monster and that means my dad is going to wind and wind and wind, maybe for hours. And the more he winds, the more the line goes no where as the fish pulls with an equal and opposite strength. It’s a fight for inches of line.
Boat backing up. Angler reeling feverishly. Black marlin hooked hundreds of yards under the boat, racing back and forth trying to tangle the line, spit the hook.
It’s a blood battle for a few inches of line.
This is the scenario for the first thrity minutes.
Perspiration is rolling down my dad’s face as he winds furiously while lowering his rod tip. Then he takes a big breath and pulls against the sea and the mighty creature underneath. The rod bends like it’s going to snap in two.
Then it happens.
The black marlin breaks the surface and reveals itself. First the bill, then a burst of black shimmering skin, then a quick dance above the churning sea.
“It’s a runt,” the Australian Captain hollers from the bridge above.
The mates ready the gaff as the captain backs the boat down. My dad is reeling furiously.
The fish seems spent and comes to the boat easily.
After a long battle, the little black marlin is at the side of the vessel.
The Captain guesstimates the weight. It will eventually tip the scales at 339 pounds. By Australian fishing standards this is not a big fish.
Now the question. Declare or not.
“It’s a runt. Throw it back, the crew says.”
There’s a lot of money on the line. If we declare this fish, and then catch a “grander” (1000 pounder) a minute later we cannot declare the grander.
The crew is adamant that we toss the fish back into the churning sea from where it came.
“I don’t know dad,” I say drawing the consternation of the crew.
“We’ve been out here for three days in this crazy angry sea and we haven’t caught a thing. This is the first fish we’ve seen in days. I think a marlin in the hand…”
My dad thinks for a moment while the 2nd mate struggles with the large creature by the side of the boat.
“Let it go,” the captain hollers from up above. “Let it go.”
“Dad. We may not catch another fish all day.”
My dad looks at me and the crew.
“Keep it,” he says with a disgust you don’t normally see in a man who has just landed a 339 pound bill fish.
The mates look at the captain with disbelief. If they could make my father walk the plank with lead in his pockets, they would.
“You heard the man,” The captain says testily.
With that the mate pulls out the billy club and smashes the fish in the skull with several short blows.
The squirming fish turns bright blue for a moment as the life rushes out of it. Suddenly the creature that fought like a raging sea bull is quiet.
As the mate secures the marlin to the side of the boat, making sure water constantly fills its belly, my dad enters the cabin.
“I think maybe I f***ed up keeping it,” he says doubting himself.
“Don’t worry about the crew,” I say. “we’re the first boat to declare anything. We’re in the game. We have a chance. Let’s just go with it.”
We continue fishing, but it is not fun. The ocean is angry. Our boat is angry. Our crew is stewing in a poison that comes with the prospect of losing money.
Several hours pass. 1pm. 2pm. 3pm. 4pm.
The boat is quiet. The fishing is passionless and there is not a single nibble.
The tournament ends at 6pm. Two hours to go. We are the only boat with a fish.
Another hour passes, suddenly the crew is beginning to come to life.
“Nobody else has declared a fish,” Patrick, a tall and angular mate from New Zealand says.
Patrick is covered in fish goo and ocean water. He is sun burned and his face filled with a constant stubble. The young 2nd mate has been a constant source of enjoyment on this trip. He licks fish eye balls for luck. He was bitten by a Morey eel in the world famous Cod Hole. He was actually pulled over board by a marlin when his glove became entangled. Thank God he got loose before the fish dove for the bottom of the sea.
5pm and Patrick hands me a Fosters beer. He cracks it for me and toasts me.
“For luck, ” he says his kiwi accent thick as fish chum.
5:45pm
15 minutes to go. We are all cerebrally spending our winnings.
Suddenly the radio crackles.
“We’ve hooked up. It looks huge.”
And with that single transmission, sadness rains over our boat like a strorm cloud.
We stare at the horizon at the boat we think is engaged. It’s a quarter mile away and it is impossible to tell what they are doing.
The radio is silent.
The minutes drag as we question whether the fish they have will get away. Will it be bigger than our little runt.
6pm.
The contest is over. But if they are still fighting the fish it counts. They say it’s huge? How huge? Certainly it’s bigger than our little runt, right?
6:05. 6:10. 6:15pm.
The tension is agonizing.
Then the radio crackles to life.
It’s the voice of the other captain.
“We were just messing with you mates. We didn’t catch anything. You win.”
We are shocked. They were playing a prank on us. They never hooked up with any fish. No other boat did. As it turns out, that little runt was the only fish caught by a 10 boat armada on a sea full of empty anger.
And with that we just won $20,000.
We explode in ecstasy hugging and cheering. Patrick jumps down beside the dead runt lashed to the side of the boat and gives it a long wet tongue kiss on the Marlin’s eye ball.
It is disgusting, but that’s Patrick.
We crack open more Fosters and we head back to the scales at Lizard Island.
We are greeted by an excited dock crew who hoist the creature up for all to see.
A crane hoists the fish by its tail into the darkening, interminable sky.
The deck hands slap a sticker on the side of the fish with my dad’s name and the weight: 339 lbs.
I want to pencil in “Runt” on the side of the fish.
That night we will party in the lizard island bar like there is no tomorrow.
It is a crazy array of aristocrats, business tycoons and pirate scum from all corners of the South Pacific. The bar reminds me of the star wars saloon where Han Solo meets Obi Wan and Luke.
The next day my dad will go from boat to boat collecting his bets. The problem is the bets are with international fisherman. So my dad spends the next few hours converting Deutch Marks into dollars. Calculating how many Yen is how many dollars. Francs and pesos. What a computational nightmare.
My dad comes back to the boat with a bag of colorful money from all around the world. It looks like he robbed the bank at the monopoly factory.
So is that it?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” my dad says with a bit of frustration.
“It got so confusing converting currency with a bunch of drunks”
You see everyone went to the Lizard Island bar and people were so hung over the transactions in a non sanctioned tournament was anything but easy to conclude.
All in all my dad got his money and everyone on our boat was richer and had a great story to tell.
That little runt that we almost threw back more than paid for the trip down under.
I’ve never caught a fish anywhere that big since. I may never again. I certainly will never catch one worth $20,000.
It wasn’t father’s day, but it was one great day to be with my father.
And that is crazy.™