Going, Going, Going...

...Going, going, gone...fishing. A chance to be part of an offshore fishing tourney out of Charleston? Hell to the yes.

Two 300 hp outboards, center console, blasting outbound between the jetties before dawn...not so much. 

Why not? The tournament was an offshore event for sailboats. Yep, sailboats--masts and rigging and lines and sails and such. Putting out to sea maxed out at 6-9 mph, whether by diesel or under sail.  

Make no mistake, I'm on that boat to help with the sailing and provide extra shifts on the helm. In fact, the boat belonged to a competitor in our local racing association. But I mostly was in go-mode whenever the chance to be on a boat came around.

We left the dock around 7 Friday evening, motored out of the harbor, and turned eastward. I took the helm at 8, while the skipper and 2 of his buddies rigged the boat for fishing and arranged the rods for what we hoped would be hot action come Saturday.

The sea was uncommonly flat, the wind nil, and just before my shift ended at midnight a light shower passed over us. The air was much warmer, the smell distinctive, a bit, somehow, tropical.

Being on a sailboat when conditions are calm is a frustrating time, of course. Yet if the sails are up and the lightest stirring flutters the sails, the mood immediately brightens. Maybe a little more pressure and the boat makes way and the sails fill out and more pressure and the boat heels and the tiller stiffens and, by gawd, she is a sailboat after all.

Saturday morning the skies were cloudless and the boat rhythmically pitched in 2-3' swells. Radio chatter from the other boats in our contest and the powerboat fleet complained about the conditions. No good for fishing.

Our lines went out, 2 rods set in holders lashed to the stern pulpit, 2 rods attached to stanchions, one each on the port side and the starboard side. The mainsail was still under its cover, the jib was lightly secured on the foredeck.

Shortly after lunch--a mound of sliced ham, a slather of Duke's mayo, between slices of pumpernickel--I was back on the helm. On the port side, the first strike. One of the fishing guys grabbed it out of the holder. A heavy strike he reported. The skipper pushed the boom to the starboard side, while I slowed our forward speed. 

The fight was simple, line in, line back out, line in, line back out, line in, line in, line in, thrashing at the surface. What?!? Hell no! Barracuda.

The skipper grabbed a gaff. 

"Cut the line," I said. Another voiced the same call. "Cut that damn line!"

Now a word about the cockpit on this boat. Deep, about 5' in length, and reasonably comfortable sitting back. 

"Cut the line!"

To no avail. The skipper gaffed the fish and tugged it up and over the lifeline and dropped it head-to-stern in the cockpit. I lifted my legs over the tiller as I maintained our course. The 40" fish snapped and convulsed and writhed, and my view was straight into its open jaws, its teeth like a jagged set of long needles.

After grabbing a wooden mallet from below, the skipper--barefoot by the way--straddled the fish and with five or six heavy blows, smashed in its head. 

"We keeping it?" the rod bearer asked.

"Nope. No category for it, so no money to win." He pulled out a tape measure for an accurate accounting in the boat's log. We were 62 miles east from Ft. Sumter.

Over the side, the predator now part of the sea's buffet.

Postscript: Sunday, on the way back in, conditions unchanged except for being a little warmer, we had one more strike. Again, I was on the helm, the rod behind my right shoulder. Another crew member reached for the tiller, I grabbed the rod, and in short order without too much of a battle--disappointingly so--I had a dolphin in the cockpit. No need to gaff. Nothing to be overly excited about fish-wise. But, it would be a contest entry. 

The fish weighed 19 lbs 9 oz, and surprisingly won the tournament both in the category and as the largest fish taken in the tourney. The skipper pocketed $300, and I got the trophy for the winning dolphin. 

When I went up to accept the award, someone yelled out "How big was it?" and much knowledgeable laughter followed.

My retort, simple: Big enough.