A Real Fish Story

I spent Thanksgiving week in Miami visiting my family. There are several things that happened during the trip that I may write about later (my journal habits have been very poor), but for now I'll just talk about going fishing.

Now see here, Reader, for the first time ever, you are about to hear a story about fishing that doesn't have one lie in it.

My uncle has a place on the Keys, and he also has a good-sized catamaran (about 30 feet or so) that is docked in a slip. We went to the bait shop and bought several pounds of chum and a five gallon bucket with about one hundred or so live shrimp. My cousin Joe also bought a large hook, apparently we were expecting to get some monsters today.

My cousin Mike was looking forward to this. Apparently he hadn't had a lot of fun during the fishing trips; he's never caught anything during several trips to Florida. I can relate to that in Oklahoma lake fishing, but for some reason, I do better in the ocean.

The Florida keys have the Atlantic ocean to the south and the gulf to the north. The wind was blowing rather strongly, which churned up the ocean considerably (three to four feet waves), so it seemed reasonable that we would go to the bay side. Which we did. We crossed under a bridge, found a spot to drop anchor, dropped the chum bag in the water and started tying our lines.

I hadn't fished in quite some time, but one of the few things my father had taught me was fishing knots, casting, and how to reel in uneven patterns. My uncle gave me a quick refresher on the reel (it had been a while), I added some weight, hooked the shrimp through the tail and let it fly.

Mike was the first (and last) to catch a buoy, so we had to weigh anchor and free the rig. After that, we were on our way. Normally when I fished in Oklahoma, I hated it because there were no fish biting. This wasn't the case here. I was losing my bait to bites almost immediately, and I'll be damned if I wasn't having a good time.

All of a sudden, I felt the jerk, timed it right, and started reeling something in. Out of the water came a little yellowtail (we think), a whole six inches long (I measured it with a proper ruler) , dangling on my hook. I pulled it in, and it was either bait or release. I was feeling generous that day, and granted the fish a pardon. It swam away happily, probably not knowing that it was through the grace of Me that he was not gutted for chum.

Joe pulled up another fish almost exactly like mine, but a little smaller, and I think he released it too. Mike got a little pissed because he wasn't catching anything, I think part of it was that he baited the shrimp with the hook exposed clearly, and they were just nipping off his bait. It's hard to mention things like that, and Mike's solution was,

'We gotta go to the ocean side and catch one of those big motherfuckers.'

At this point, the story begins.

We go to the ocean, and the waves are killing us. Up, down, up, down, and there are not that many places to grab on the boat, so it's exercise trying to stay in it. One develops an appreciation for the term 'sealegs.' I said the fatal last words,

'Boy, if one of us is the type to get seasick, we'll probably find out pretty soon.'

Before we stopped, Joe noticed that the drain plug in the live tank (where the shrimp were) had dislodged, and we lost all but ten shrimp down the drain before we found it. That would be "Shit!" #1. We also wondered why we didn't keep the yellowtails for bait.

We dropped anchor somewhere. The boat was churning a lot, and my uncle points out that I'm starting to sweat. I told him that I was doused by splash from the wake, and he just smiled a little bit. We dropped the chum bag and started to cast again. Not a single bite, period. We were also learning a retarded ballet by trying to cast, reel and maintain balance at the same time. Mike cursed again and asked Uncle Pete to go to the Shark Reef. At this point I started getting a little feeling of nausea, but I seemed okay.

We weigh anchor, again, and when the boat engines are engaged, a buzzer goes off. This would be "Shit!" #2, the chum bag was caught up in the props. I was expecting one of us would have to get in the water.

Joe is good athlete, and he stays in shape. On the back of the boat is a diving platform that splits the twin engines. He walked out on to the platform (remember the waves are three to four feet, and just killing us), hangs on the rail with one hand, and unwraps the chum bag with the other while I pull it in. The whole time I watched him in a form of awe (almost like when we were kids) as he managed to keep his balance while overextending himself. Neat trick, Joe.

The boat starts moving, and as we get to cruising speed I notice the nausea is not in the background anymore. I move to the rail (I knew it was coming), and heave. The first time was dry, nothing, hopefully I'd be okay. Uncle Pete reminds me not to get it on the boat. Then it comes out in full force, a huge Technicolor Yawn, and I got to see exactly what a half-digested hot dog looks like. Uncle Pete tells me I should have waited so we could have used it as chum. Apparently, as in the Navy, there isn't a lot of sympathy for seasickness on the fishing boat.

Between each heave I feel this constant dizziness. It wasn't long before my stomach was empty, and I was just dry-heaving for the fun of it. I swore to myself that I wouldn't complain, and I didn't, but I have to admit just a touch of dismay when I saw that we were going farther and farther away from the docking area.

Eventually, we get to the waypoint and Mike asks me,

"Are you still blowing chunks there, Dennis?"

To which I reply (with remarkable casualness, if I say so myself),

"Oh no, they are long gone now, Mike."

Everybody chuckled, and cast their lines. I decided to take a break and 'enjoy' the dizziness.

At this point, the rest of them got to experience "Shit!" #3, which was the fact that we were right over a coral reef that snagged their lines as soon as they touched bottom. Given that they all had to cut their lines, they were out of bait, and one of the passengers, who was not complaining, was hurling his guts out every three minutes, my uncle took over as captain of the ship and said, 'Watch the anchor, Dennis, we're going in.' I tried hard and succeeded in not saying, 'Finally.'

As we pulled back into the dock, the sickness started going away already, although I had the taste of puke in my mouth. My uncle apologized for me getting sick, which was not expected, and told me that I should have taken the bodine he offered. I swear that I didn't hear about it, because I would have been all over that. He also mentioned that ginger ale, or ginger alone, is the ancient mariner's trick for combatting seasickness, and he knew I was a goner whenever I started sweating. Another trick is to wet your head with seawater (he offered for me to do that before I started hurling), because your sweating from high body temperature and it helps to cool off. I guess I'll remember that next time.

We got in and told the tale, although we didn't lay the blame on Mike in public (Joe and I did in private, he didn't care for the beating the rocking boat gave us). In the end, I actually had a damn good time, and was feeling pretty good after a half hour nap.


Farewell Reader, have a good day.

Hussman