The third morning, like the previous two, we were up when little light came in through windows and I did all of the loading of gear before the sun came to the horizon. I've always felt it's just as well I have never been hard on my son about helping with gear. I find it easy to do, and since some complications about this and that go along with the exercise, I might as well be in full control. There is at least some exception, when here in Bedminster he volunteers, and he's always been good with the ratchet strap when loading the squareback. When he is older and perhaps a family man like me, he will choose how seriously he fishes. I only know I got back into fishing seriously because of his desire to go all the time when he was four years old. I'm thankful.
In 2007, I was getting published about fishing again, having got published plenty during my teens, but in some respect the adventure had only begun. I rented a 19-foot boat with 90 horsepower, and Matt and I enjoyed a day's fishing mostly in the reef shallows, which to this day impresses as the best day of fishing I've ever done. Not because of what we caught--though the many snappers and such were fun, my 39-inch barracuda on light tackle was a thrill I remember like yesterday, and the big barracuda that slipped out from under the boat to grab one of Matt's snappers excited us. For many years, I felt uncertain if I would enjoy a successful adulthood: the overwhelming beauty of that calm day on the reef confirmed my having made it after all.
It's all thanks to Matt.
The high point of that day many years ago, really, was just gazing into the clarity of the water, seeing bottom 26 feet down, but I did hook something very large on my surf rod when drifting a ballyhoo, bottom 80 feet down, which ran at high speed, but down into coral, probably a large amberjack. Of the hundred yards or so the fish took in seconds, sixty feet came back to me frayed. I swore on my honor that we would be back. I committed there and then to buying the tackle we would need.
As I wrote in the previous post, on the second day, Matt broke his jigging rod, which I responded to by telling him I will buy him an even better one, since I'm better informed now, and the technology has improved. The weather forecast was true to this third day. There was a breeze, but seas were not nearly as heavy as on the previous. We came upon at least a dozen other boats out there this second day, when we saw none on the second day. People knew it wasn't safe out there. Or at least they felt it was too rough to fish comfortably.
As things turned out, I never used one of the Mustad O'Shaughnessy hooks like the one I photographed for the recent post I named "Power True to my Original Intention," about what I swore out there on the water in 2007. We did get the stand-up rods on the plane, but only Matt used one of them with such a hook.
Something big broke off on that rod he used right away, and I don't remember if it was because I tied a bad knot, but I do remember feeling humbled using 50-pound test monofilament leader, if mostly because as I age now--in 2007 I was only 46--I grow less sure of my piecemeal decisions. That's not to say I don't go right on doing the likes, but that I often feel caught in a net of complications I'm unsure about, and tying 50-pound mono just didn't feel certain. I do remember a bad knot responsible for either a lost fish, or breaking off a rig stuck on coral, but in any event, instead of getting wrapped up in regret--if it was a fish--we not only enjoyed the process in play, uncertainty and not; we were committed to coming back out yet, even better prepared. I can also say that the day proved that far and away, for the most part I got knots right. It should be completely simple to do, but I remember I was not quite right at first. How much this had to do with my cold feet before we even got on the plane, I don't know, but just the same, the issue is larger and involves my aged nerves in general. I felt unsure this trip was wise to undergo, because I am simply not solidly there for action as I was when younger, but I am not content to take it easy, either, and I have to say I'm glad we got out there that second day as well, because manning the high seas felt very invigorating, proof that I still have physical life in me. In Key West, I would contemplate photos of Ernest Hemingway at nearly my age, and feel deep pity at his wasted appearance. He died at 61.
I did notice Matt felt a little put off by that loss on his first drift, but I had prepared myself for such losses, expecting them, if I should have enjoined him in conversation about this beforehand. Soon thereafter, he struggled with a fish; as it came into view down in the clear water, we saw it was a king mackerel, and once he got it boat side, I judged it weighed about six pounds. When I parted my way to retrieve the gaff from the compartment inside the console--a bad piece of equipment with a bent point--I wished Matt would just hoist the fish over the gunwale, but I wasn't sure that was wise, when I should have been certain. The obvious thing to do: yell out for him to pull it over. I stayed mum. And when I came alongside my son, he had the fish fully under control right there boat side. I tried to slip that bent point under the gill flap, but knocked that O'Shaughnessy hook loose.
"Agh!" Matt said, "Call it a catch." And as an event later in the day would prove, it was a good thing we let that fish go without pulling it over, because when we boated a six-and-a-half-pounder of mine, it made a bloody mess on the boat, and we had to keep it, when we would have let it swim. My third king I never let get past the gunwale, pinning it there with my left hand as I removed hooks with fingers of my right. I did not let that five-and-a-half-pounder budge, and it swam off in good shape thereafter.
So Matt was rigged to do the big work. There are sailfish near the reef this time of year. They do hit ballyhoo. I told him some get caught on 12-pound test, but he said he felt more comfortable with the heavy gear. From hereon, he caught three sharks, none more than five pounds. They moved their heads about with intent as if they knew they have teeth to get your finger, if you make a false move, but we got hooks out and let the fish go safely. Long pliers, of course.
At first, I felt the jigging might not work; the boat drifted quickly, and working the jigs vertically was all but impossible, though I found that by pitching the butterfly jig up current, I got good lifts. It did take practice. Before I got it quite right, I thought the jig I used had better have hooks on the bottom loop, too. Just a hunch.. Theses jigs come with one "assist" hook up top, and guys use them this way. I took time out and rigged the hooks. On the first drop thereafter, I found my rhythm for medium speed, and said to Matt, "I'm finally getting this jigging down." A second later, I felt a firm, bouncing jolt, reared back, and as if no transition ensued between hookset and the first run, that fish took off in a straight line as 50-pound braid seemed to melt from the spool. I remember my joyous impression of the efficiency of the gear. I kept a low bend in the rod, and this fish kept on going, me feeling just a little nervous for a moment; maybe we would have to start the engine and follow the fish. I realized it sped at about the same speed and force as the fish I had hooked in 2007, though as I say, that previous fish dove into coral. I felt thrilled at how close to surface this one stayed. It stuck where bottom was about 85 feet down, about three fourths of the way to surface. When the fish stopped, I began pumping it back, never bending that delicate rod fully, gaining line, proud of how much power this rod has, despite this inherent delicacy. As an afterthought now, I see I had fulfilled my original intention, because after all, a surf rod is no use for jigging, and the spool of the reel I use on my surf rod will not hold 450 yards of 50-pound braid. Even though not nearly that amount was in play, the gear suited the match very comfortably, and I was winning the struggle with one of the best fish I have ever hooked.
Finally, in the clear water I could see I had hooked a king mackerel of about 15 to 20 pounds. I saw it was worn out enough when it lulled boat side to attempt to gaff it with that gaff that should not be on a boat. "You can grab the jig and pull the fish over," I told Matt, a little confused about what to do. That jig had hooks up and down. It was hooked by those bottom two hooks I had rigged, as my two other kings were hooked, as well. Matt managed to get the gaff point under a gill and also grab that jig, and when I saw he had a grip-- and I have to tell you, my blood pressure must have spiked, because I knew I put my son's hand on the line--I said loudly, "Hoist!"
Over the gunwale came what I later measured at 43 inches form jaw to tail of king mackerel. Matt's only injury was a puncture on his right thumb he said came from one tooth. My moment of decision had worked. Mostly, it was Matt who got it right. I knew his hand was not going to get inside those jaws with a force like a hydraulic cutter, but I did make an equation: at worst, he was going to get cut seriously by the hooks. Was this worth the attempt at boating this fish? Godamnit, yes! And as I say, when I saw the moment, I gave the command. Was I rash? I don't think so, but I can't help but sometimes feel maybe I was. I put reason ahead of feeling, though, and always manage to balance on reason's account. When I do, my feeling is in the right place. Plenty of people would believe I was rash, but the fact that we got the fish into the boat with only the slight cut on Matt's thumb will only leave them to wonder, as if to suffer a needless infinite regression on speculations about what did not, in fact, happen. Some acts need courage, and courage always needs rational perception. When the fearful process is complete, if you got it right, you have succeeded.
My only misgiving would be that I never thought so much as to tell the manager at the marina that the boat needs a new gaff. And just why it needs it, as if I would offer a vivid anecdote. It seems I would have said something in 2007, but I just don't seem to think of such things anymore.
I never weighed the fish until we had come in hours later, at over 17 pounds. Along with the other king we kept, we had a feast in the making, and indeed we ate like kings. Three days later, we still had three pounds leftover, which I gave to the marina manager, along with a nice tip. He was especially happy about the meat. It meant more than mere money. And as I say, I never thought to complain. Well, whoever rents the boat next. It's their own damn business to check the gear and they can complain if they want to.
Matt with his stand-up rod.
Odd fish I hooked 110 feet deep that has a mark like a mangrove snapper's, but was not that species.
Once we got inshore, Matt drove.
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