CHAPTER 44
First we had to wade through Mike’s never-ending bullshit, and it hurt sometimes, to be completely honest, but I do admit—Mike was a superb fisherman.
Anytime we had more than two inches of water between our keel and the bottom, Mike had two active lines, one line in the water for fish, the other for insulting Larry and me as ‘Junior Varsity’ fishermen.
Two catches I’m confident Mike will someday describe to spellbound grandchildren, happened during our passage to New Caledonia. Two and a half days out of the Yasawas, wind had been constant at eighteen to twenty-four knots. We steadily cranked out seven to eight knots—perfect trolling speed. Mike had the only line in the water. Denise called Mike below. He liked to help the ladies, though Denise’s problem was trumped-up fictitious.
While Denise engaged Mike, Larry and I adjusted his gear, increasing the drag on his reel and engaging a strike alarm Mike had rigged. We reeled off a couple hundred feet to give the object on his hook time to absorb the seawater, and tossed it over. The wait was short.
The alarm sang out and the line screamed, running from the large Penn reel. Mike bolted from the cabin. Larry and I shouted, “Fish on the line, fish on the line!”
“Yes there is,” said Mike triumphantly enunciating and separating every word for emphasis, “and you’ll note, it’s my line. You guys go back to your knitting. I got this one!” Mike was half stammering, fighting for breath as he slowly raised and dipped his pole, knowing something huge had swallowed his hook.
“Boating this monster is going to be tough,” Mike said. “Can’t you slow us down, Skip?”
“I’ll try Mike.” But I didn’t.
“I’ll get the net and fish bat,” offered Larry.
“And I’ve got the camera,” said Denise. “Reel him in, Mike. You’ll be famous.”
Mike was near muscle fatigue and exhaustion. He was certain, because the fish wasn’t fighting that he had hooked a giant octopus, or perhaps a heavy award-winning bottom feeder like a halibut.
At thirty meters from Endymion, the ‘catch’ broke the surface for the first time. “What the f ! You bastards! You dirty bastards!”
The giant, extra-heavy, thoroughly soaked vibrant color beach towel had surfaced. Mike took our howling laughter in stride, claiming he now held the world record for “rag-fish.”
Later, in calm conditions, we had another first for Endymion. I was at the wheel and saw what looked like a line of breakers in the distance. But it can’t be, I thought, there’s no land within forty miles in any direction.
I was sitting to starboard, steering with my left hand and sometimes my feet. It was easy going, no pressure sailing. I poked my head around the edge of the jib, took a bit of spray in my face, and when my eyes cleared, I clearly saw a line of breaking waves several miles ahead. I shouted below, “Larry—give me course verification. I’m showing 130 degrees up here.”
“One hundred thirty degrees, same here,” Larry reported. “Something wrong?”
“Sounds right, but it can’t be,” I said. “I’m making 130 degrees. I know breaking seas when I see them, and these are breaking all across the horizon. Something’s wrong. Come up—take a look.”
Larry popped into the cockpit just as it dawned on me. There was no reef. A clear air gale was headed right down our throats. Breakers were the front line. I called “All hands” to shorten sail.
Fifteen minutes later the first winds smacked like a fraternity pledge paddle at twenty-five knots. Within minutes we had forty knots. I had to yell to be heard even across the cockpit. I bore off twenty degrees looking for comfort. Denise crouched under the dodger, ducking seas that began to sweep the deck. She never feared unless she saw it first in my eyes. She was looking at me when her attention was drawn aft. Our Avon had flipped. Our Honda four-stroke engine was under salt water, the gas can held only by its filling cord. Oars, shoes, shells, bailer, and bucket—all were gone. I was momentarily helpless, only able to watch and pray our towing line would hold. It did.
The mini gale, like so many nerve-testing events at sea, was shortly over. Denise took the wheel and brought Endymion head to wind, stopping our progress.
Mike and I dove overboard, managing with effort to right the inflatable. We field stripped the engine on deck and to our surprise, got it running again.
We tossed our fishing lines over again—Larry’s to port, Mike’s at mid-stern, and mine to starboard. Stiff competition was reignited with one rule, no fishing at night—too many dangers on a moving vessel in darkness. Hours passed. The sun was waning. No fish.
Denise was on watch and heard “click,” followed by “click click clickity-click click click.” Mike’s line exploded with sounds of a powerful, hungry predator gobbling up his lure. “Fish on the line,” she yelled.
Three grown men nearly trampled Denise getting to their lines. Mike’s had the action and he let we ‘pussies’ know with conviction that he was king. Larry suggested we check the almanac for sunset because Mike may be in default of rules. To be polite, I started reeling in my line. Mike continued his unabated litany of profanity, dressing down his competitors.
I felt a tug on my line, followed by a more urgent pull. “Hey dickheads,” I yelled, “I’ve got one, too. Feels like a strong one.”
“Too bad, Captain, I got mine first. I win—you lose.”
“Maybe you both have the same fish,” chuckled Denise, turning to look over the wheel.
And we did! The claims to ownership became brutal when we found Mike and I fought for the same morsel. Eventually, five feet of kingfish was boated.
Mike went to work. “Your line was out 200 feet, mine only 125. Skip, listen up! There’s no way this beauty would take my lure, and swim backwards to get your dopey lure. Besides, as you all can see, Skip’s crappy lure doesn’t have a single tooth mark on it.”
“I see it this way,” I said. “The fish swallowed my lure on first gulp. Then it spotted yours and thought—ahhhaa a mediocre dessert. As you point out, it didn’t swim back for mine, so it obviously had to take mine first, on its way to yours.”
“You settle the argument, Captain,” Denise nodded at me, “and be fair.”
“OK, and I’ll be diplomatic,” I said with deliberate pacing, “I am the Captain. I own the boat. I win. Case settled.”
A restaurant on Isle De Pins, New Caledonia, made a superb meal of the fish for us. Mike chose beef, saying, “I want something that had parents.”
Larry with the disputed fish