Chasing the Grand Slam at La Guaira
From The British Foreign and
Commonwealth Office, 8th September 2000.
“Following the floods and
mudslides in mid December 1999, rebuilding efforts continue…crime levels
are high … violent incidents involving foreigners…care should be taken
at all times … only licensed taxis bearing a clearly identifiable number
should be used…an increasing number of thefts, by the drivers, often at
gunpoint, from arriving passengers... those traveling alone should be
particularly vigilant... there have been incidents of piracy and armed
robbery against ships in and around Venezuela's waters… “
| Venezuela is a surprise from the
air. Caracas, the capital city, sprawls for ever around the bays
of the Caribbean, with slums and shanty villages staggering upwards into
the mountainsides. These mountains are spectacular and dominate the
landscape. At the top of the highest peak in view was an impressive
looking tower in near permanent cloud. During my stay, I tried to find out
what it was called but I only got the Spanish phonetic of “Cooloh” and
the assurance that it is an hotel. |
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As the plane banked low on its approach, I could clearly see where the mudslides of 1999 had wreaked their havoc: great swathes of sandy flows stretching down the mountains into the sea, splitting the towns, villages and even houses in their path. The devastation must have been immense at the time judging by the aftermath of almost a year later. This had been caused by only sixteen days of heavy rain and I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen to the place if wet weather became a regular feature in the region.
From the description by the
British Embassy, I fully expected sunglass wearing, gun-toting,
moustachioed secret police to be watching my every move
from the minute I got off the plane, with gangs of tattooed angry-looking young men
waiting at the exit from customs.
Instead, Caracas airport was a hot
mass of friendly confusion. Hot because there was no air conditioning and
confused because the luggage conveyors were playing up. The aged belting
was jamming frequently and the baggage boys had to dive down the tunnels
to throw bags up manually. Then they elected to start another carousel in
another part of the lounge and people were running between conveyors to
see where their luggage would appear. The Venezuelan passengers took it
all in their stride: just another day in Caracas, no?
It was also the swiftest
immigrations and customs process I have been through, with the staff
appearing to be completely disinterested, both in my paperwork and in me.
I wouldn’t suggest that is always the case, but it was different to what
I expected. On clearing customs and meeting my driver, I was launched
into the melee of Caracas mid-day traffic. This is no-rules driving of
the highest order. Traffic wishing to turn in any direction simply cut
across oncoming traffic. It was the other guy’s problem to stop or
anticipate the maneuver.
Seeing cars, busses and even huge
lorries coming directly towards you on the wrong side of the road was a
regular, if disconcerting, occurrence. The whole affair was actually safer than it looked as
the average speed was no more than ten miles per hour and it was
reminiscent of a supermarket car park on a busy weekend before Christmas.
Caracas, it has to be said, is a total dump. At least what I saw of it was. The inhabitants, officially 3.4m of them, are largely borderline subsistence poor. The average annual income is a mere $2900 and with 66% inflation, life must be tough. I have never been to a country where there was so much garbage in the street.
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The
beach outside my hotel was piled high with it and there was a procession
of white plastic bottles constantly floating down the river beside the
hotel. This river was also used as a raw sewage outlet, straight from the
hotel and nearby houses to the sea beyond. Kids were playing happily on
the beach beside the filth. |
Having traveled all over the
world, this was one of the worst places I had ever seen for obvious
deprivation.
Perhaps the mudslides had so destroyed the infrastructure that all basic
services in the country were in effect suspended. Perhaps it was better
before. But the potholes in the roads and the condition of the housing
suggested a far more endemic state of decay.
The irony is, of course, that
Venezuela is a relatively rich nation in terms of oil production (5th largest
in the world with a Venezuelan chairman of OPEC) and other natural
resources. Global economics are not my strong point, but you have to
wonder when you see the state of the place where all the money goes.
On the other hand, it seems to me
that it is now all but impossible for “emerging nations” to fuel their
growth in the way that the more established ones have. You know, by
invading their neighbours to create an empire, ousting or murdering the
indigenous peoples, employing children as cheap labour and working them
near to death, or trashing the local and even international environment
for personal gain. Not that this doesn’t go on in places like Venezuela
today, but it is on a much-reduced scale from the systematic and
businesslike rape of nations carried out by we Europeans over the
centuries.
It’s sometimes important that
we, the fortunate, stop and recall how exactly we got to where we are
before we condemn other countries policies and infrastructure. And,
indeed, to understand that we still exert a huge economic influence on
emerging nations by effectively setting (rigging?) international commodity
prices and sucking cash out of the population. I passed a McDonalds on the
way to the hotel; just what the slum-kids need – a Big Mac.
But I hate politics and I digress.
I was here on a fishing trip.
For a while now I had read about
Venezuela’s “awesome bill fish action” and I wanted to put it to the
test. When you’ve just started a new branch of the sport, as I have with
marlin fishing, you go through a couple of distinct stages, the first
being wanting to go someplace where there is a near certainty
to catch lots of fish. At least that’s the first recognisable stage:
before that you go to places you shouldn’t at the wrong times or places
you’ve heard can be good but you don’t get lucky. In the next stage, of course, you start to want to go someplace for
difficult, technical fishing and the final stage is when you only want to
catch the biggest fish of that species that you can. You know the whole
catastrophe well enough by now.
I often wonder how fishermen managed
without the Internet. I typed in Venezuela+marlin and I found Rick
Alvarez at South fishing.
Based in Miami, Florida, they cater for the visiting angler to Venezuela
and with a primarily US client base, I guessed that they would have to be
well organised. Rick was extremely helpful and answered most of my
emailed questions (for some reason, when I sent an email he’d answer
every question except one, apparently at random, and eventually I found myself
guessing which one it would be).
Having read the warnings from the
UK foreign office, which were echoed by the US State department, you will
understand that I was necessarily concerned about personal safety. Rick
was pretty cool about this and assured me that he hadn’t lost an angler
yet. So I booked, I arrived, the South Fishing guy was there as promised,
the hotel was all organised and the boat was waiting at the dockside, 50
yards from the hotel the next morning on schedule. What more can you ask
for and top marks to South Fishing
for slick and professional organisation.
But before we talk fishing, lets
talk Spanish. I had studied Spanish at school some 25 or more years ago. I
could remember a few words and my previous visit to Gran
Canaria had swelled my confidence because I had managed to make myself
understood to the Spanish mate. So I bought an AA Spanish phrase book and
I was feeling confident when I arrived. Big mistake.
Speaking Spanish to a Spaniard who
also speaks English is fundamentally different to speaking Spanish to a
Venezuelan who has his own dialect and speaks no English whatsoever. The
normal option of Spanglish does not exist. I could frame the questions and
some basic phrases by taking my time and checking the phrase book on the
fly. But the answers sounded like someone had fired a machine gun: “Oibamosahpescarporlasagoonhasassooleeblancoeetegustamucho.
Si?” The correct answer to this is, of course,
“Si!” but somehow that didn’t help me when I was still trying to
translate the sixth syllable 3 minutes later.
The phrase book was useless too: I
would read a phrase out as perfectly as I could, only to be greeted with
the ubiquitous “Que?” from the crew. I felt as if I was in a Monty
Python sketch: you know the one - the foreign guy's in the shop with the
English phrase
book and reads out “My hovercraft is full of eels!” or “Drop your
panties Sir William, I cannot wait until lunch time” in a heavy accent,
to the hilarity of the shopkeeper.
Lets recap: the fishing had been
described as “awesome”.
It took us 40 minutes to run out
to La Guaira Bank, an ocean shelf offshore that causes a current up
welling, bringing nutrients to the surface and starting a massive food
chain with the big pelagics at the top. Literally at the top, for that is
where we would be fishing with surface trolled ballyhoo. Most other places
I fish, the enterprise is based on prospecting for wandering fish. Here,
they just crank the motors up and roar off to where they know the
fish will be. A comforting twist on the norm.
Lines were down by 9.50am on the
first day. At 10.10am we rose and missed a dorado. At 10.30 we rose and
missed another. At 10.40 we rose, hooked and tagged a sailfish (Pez Vela
in Spanish). We also missed a wahoo in the same spread. At 11.30 we landed
a barracuda. At 1.30pm we rose, hooked and tagged a white marlin (Aguja
Blanca in Spanish). At 2.20 we rose, hooked and tagged another sailfish.
That’s awesome enough for me for a first day and, unbelievably the
skipper was apologising for the rough seas and few fish that were about!
Joropo with Wilmer and Raphael
They fish a bit differently here.
Everywhere else that I have fished, the skipper is the man that pretty
much sets the hook by accelerating the boat on a strike. Here, all the
reels are set on zero drag with the ratchet set so that you can hear when
you get a strike. The outrigger clips are set at just the right tension to
hold the baits in the water so any pressure from the boat would cause an
overrun. The angler has to do the work, which is as it should be.
I was already aware that this was an experienced and professional team. Not once was there a crossover or tangle in the lines, despite the unseasonably high winds and seas on that first day. There was a five bait, two-teaser spread: a teaser and two baits on each outrigger and one flat bait close to the boat. On calmer days, they also put out a shotgun bait from the flying bridge.
It was a real pleasure to see Raphael calmly clear
the decks and lines after a hook-up and be ready with a tag when the fish
was ready to be leadered. He leadered, tagged and then held every fish for
my photos, all by himself. A remarkable level of confidence and skill.
Best of all was watching them work
the baits on a fish. The two of them were the most attentive fishermen I
had ever been with. Most crews spend most of the time gabbing away to each
other and paying only cursory glances at the spread. These guys’ eyes
never left the baits for a moment, both of them watching from the flying
bridge at all times. The likely difference of course is the fact that in
most places a strike is rare whereas here it was a near certainty. But
then, if a strike is rare you should be totally focused on getting it all
right when it happens; but maybe that’s asking too much.
I got to know the signs for action
stations pretty quickly; I’d hear the thunder of Raphael’s feet as he
scrambled down the ladder to the deck. Wilmer would then shout “Derecha
(right)” or “Izquierda (left)” and Raphael would head for one of the
rods. When he spotted the fish in the spread, he’d shout “Tiene! (Got
it!)” and then he’d wait for Wilmer to shout “Tiene comido (It’s
eaten)”. Raphael would then pull the line from the outrigger clip before
the fish felt any pressure and feed it line from the free running spool.
This was particularly effective on white marlin, a fish that is
notoriously shy at taking baits. Once the line stopped peeling from the
spool, the fish had effectively turned so Raphael would set the strike on
the drag, wind like crazy till he felt the weight of the fish and then set
the hook solidly.
The technique, I believe, is called bait-and-switch and you could see the origins in the name when a fish would rise to one of the hookless teasers and Raphael would expertly maneuver a bait until it was beside the fish where it was almost always taken immediately.
Of course, I hadn’t a clue how
to do any of this so I asked Rafael to show me. He did the hook-up on the
first sail. On the hook-up with the white marlin, I took the rod but
missed the strike. Luckily it whacked another bait and Raphael set the
hook perfectly for me.
| The white, my first ever, put up
an incredible fight, jumping constantly at the boat and then tearing off
again into the depths with me grunting and groaning to get it back to the
surface. |
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On the second sail, Raphael handed me the rod and helped me through the hook-up. As I set the hook, the sail shot out of the water and remained in the air for ages, charging towards the boat. |
Captain Alvarado dominated the fights from the flying
bridge, accelerating as the fish charged us and backing up, often into
huge waves that came over the transom soaking Raphael and I, as the fish
ran away from us or sounded.
All fish were taken on 30lb test
which made for high drama: big fish on light lines mean vigilant anglers
and hard work. The first sail was about 40lbs, the white nearer 60lbs and
the last sail maybe 50-60lbs. Not Hemmingway proportions, but I was here
for numbers and numbers is what I was getting.
Yep, awesome just about covers it
and that was only day one.
Day two must
have been down someplace as International Sailfish Day. Although we
started with a nice white marlin (60lbs) on live tuna bait, the sails took
up the rest of the day. I’d never fished live bait before and it was
interesting to watch the small bonitos being rigged with a threadline and
hook set-up. The predators seemed to like them this way too as we took
strikes within minutes of them going in the water. The only real problem
was catching the tuna, which took time.
We caught the first sailfish of
the day on live bait and I had set the hook myself on
this one.
After that I made the Big Mistake
of the day. I decided I wanted a picture of the fish chasing the bait and
especially of the hook-up and this seemed to precipitate a nightmare for
Raphael as he missed fish after camera-shy fish.
We were San Cocho’d four times, twice at the same time on one occasion, and we also broke off on a solid hook-up when the line became wrapped on the reel spool and jammed.
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San Cocho is the patron saint of the lost billfish and is a corruption of the local dish, Salcocho (fish head soup). When you miss a strike, all that you get back to the boat is the hook and the head of the baitfish; hence San Cocho. We also raised another four sails and a white with Raphael becoming more and more tense. |
Eventually, for all of our sakes, Captain
Alvarado set the hook solidly in a sail and I got my photos.
| When the next sailfish rose, I
took the rod myself and, with Raphael’s shouted instructions, hooked it
perfectly. In classic style it took to the air, ripping up the waves with
its tail. |
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My Spanish isn’t good enough, as
we’ve already established, to find out just how mad Raphael was about
the missed strikes, but speaking as the Chairman of the Missed Salmon
Strike Society of Great Britain, I could only sympathise. We all miss fish
sometimes and that’s what keeps us coming back. If we always hooked
them, we’d get bored – or is that just me?
One thing Raphael did do for me,
though, was to make me fight the fish standing up. This was better,
surprisingly, than fighting them in the chair. Once I had my balance it
was actually easier to get leverage on the fish, but it put more strain on
my lower back. A harness would have helped but I didn’t want the guys to
think I was a pansy by asking for one. Afterwards, my groin area was black
and blue. Lessons in how to hold the rod, it seems, were not part of the
deal.
There is no doubt that fishing
live and dead baits like this is successful, but it also results in a lot
of fish that swallow the baits deep and are therefore hooked in the gullet
or even the stomach. This must reduce their survival rate after
release. Two of the sails we caught had prolapsed stomachs for example.
The crew said they would live, but who knows? Once they are back in the
ocean, you can’t track them after all.
Also, the accepted wisdom states
that the hooks will rust if they are left in the fish. But I can remember
from school chemistry lessons that a key component in the rusting process
is oxygen, and since there is precious little of that in the ocean, it
must take a while for deeply hooked fish where the line is cut off to lose
the hook through rusting alone. If indeed they ever do. The first sail
that we took today blew a lot of blood into the water during the fight. It
could have been the live tuna bait that was bleeding, but it could also
have been the sail itself.
I think this is why circle hooks are becoming more popular. With their odd shape, they can’t find an easy purchase in the gullet yet they allegedly slip neatly into the scissors of the jaw and hold hard, causing less damage to the fish. Which is the point of tag and release, after all.
| That morning, whilst I was waiting
for the boat to pick me up, I took a look at the fantastic boats that were
arriving for the Tournament
in two weeks. Millions of dollars worth of fishing boats were bobbing
majestically in the marina. One, a boat called Topless, really
caught my eye and was just the kind of craft that I would dearly love to
own. One day. |
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As I strolled along the pier side
beside the boats, I
noticed the weirdest shellfish I have ever seen. It was clinging, limpet
like, to the rocks. It looked for all the world like a sedentary
trilobite; the prehistoric marine beast that ruled the earth for millennia
before the dinosaurs arrived. It just shows that the general design
blueprint that Mother Nature works to is recyclable. This is also evident
if you've ever seen a frigate bird; this is what the
pterosaurs must have looked like in flight all those millions of years
ago.
Looking at the trash bobbing around
in the water, I was struck by the thought
that every nation has its foibles. The Scots and the Irish drink too much
and like to fight with anyone. The Americans are obsessed with
self-analysis. The French are rude and are incapable of queuing in an
orderly fashion. The Venezuelans, it appears, love to drop litter and the
marina was full of it.
Even the guys on the boat were prone to tossing empty coke
cans etc over the side. The sea around La Guaira has debris floating
everywhere; it’s like no other place I’ve ever been. It’s strange;
they just don’t seem to notice it. I tried to keep my rubbish in a bag
that I took away with me. But I’m willing to bet that if I were here
long enough I’d be tossing it over the side too. When in Rome, after
all. And anyway, I had the feeling that when I stuck it safely in the bin onshore, it would just
end up on a street someplace.
But then, as I have already said,
it’s hard to know just what it was like before the mud slides. Raphael
in a mixture of Spanish and mime told me that his house was swept away and
his uncle killed. Wilmer’s house was split in two. What’s a bit of
litter, eh?
And there is also a lot of
“natural” debris around – logs and so forth. Debris in the ocean is
actually not a bad thing in many ways. It creates shade, shade brings
small fish and where there are small fish there are big ones. Dorado in
particular are found near floating logs or mats of vegetation.
That evening, I had dinner with a
couple of American pilots who were there on a private charter flight. They
told a couple of chilling stories about what they called the “red-neck
flying” that went on in Venezuela and much of South America. “Look
around you,” said one “Nothing here works so why should air traffic
control be any different!” Comforting thoughts for the flight home.
Day three dawned
calm and peaceful and the run out was smooth and fast. We tried again for
live tuna bait but it took a long while to get one. As soon as it was
rigged, however, a sail smashed it as it was being positioned in the
spread and we had our first billfish for the day. That was followed by two
plucky dorados that came out from under a log for some pitched ballyhoos.
But we weren’t getting many tuna for bait so we trolled steadily to a
place where we had been told that a boat had caught an unbelievable twelve
white marlin the day before.
The whites were there alright. Every so often one would cruise majestically into our spread and inspect the baits one after another, but then maddeningly cruise off without taking. There were loads of sails around too and, thankfully, they showed no such reluctance to strike.
At 1.00 pm we were treated to the phenomenally
exciting sight of four of them in the spread simultaneously. I hooked
one, Raphael hooked another, Wilmer got San Cocho’d and the fourth just
played with the teaser. A double billfish hook-up is an interesting
experience to say the least and I was the one hanging on whilst Raphael
landed his sail first. My back was aching and the sail had peeled off
about 200yds of line, all of which I had to recover as Wilmer backed up on
the distant sailfish. The value of fighting them standing up was now
showing as Raphael and I swapped places depending on which way our
respective fish was running.
By about 3.00 pm we were starting
to wonder what was going on with the whites as we’d raised five but none
would eat. Then a big fin appeared in the spread with the characteristic
azure pectorals glowing like a neon sign. It cruised determinedly behind
the ballyhoo on the left outrigger and with a sudden surge, struck it
solidly. I was photographing it all so Raphael free-spooled and then
tightened on the fish and struck hard. The rod doubled and I clicked
away furiously as the fish exploded out of the water. Raphael then handed
the rod to
me and set about clearing the deck for action. And what action there was.
This white was total power. It
ripped up the waves and then sounded with authority. I had it in wiring
distance twice but it was too strong for Raphael to hold and it peeled
line away from me. My back ached. With 30lb test line, you just can’t
put too much pressure on the fish otherwise it will break off. Thankfully,
the crew put a harness and rod belt on me during the fight and I could rest my vice-like
grip on the rod. It was the need to hold the rod so tight that caused me
most discomfort actually; the rest was just effort, and effort like this I
can handle. It took thirty minutes to get it to the boat and release it
and we estimated it at around 80lbs.
I hardly had time to catch my
breath when Wilmer shouted excitedly from the tower and suddenly we had a
triple dorado hook-up. These beautiful fish tore out from under what looked like the top
of a semi-submerged rainforest tree and they whacked the baits simultaneously, catherine-wheeling
through the air as they were hooked.
What a day! But Mr. Blue hadn’t
showed as yet; time was running out and the last day was only a half-day because of the flight times. Pressure.
At
9.00 am on my last morning, we hooked a marlin. As I took the rod, Wilmer
spotted another in the spread so Raphael teased it with another bait and
hooked it beautifully. Now we had two big angry fish
on the lines and the nirvana of many bill-fish anglers: a double-header. I
fought my marlin for twenty minutes and it was a strong fish. It jumped a
lot at the beginning but then sounded and was a real grunt to bring to the
boat. It was a big white: so big that during the fight the crew thought it was a blue. It looked about 90lbs worth of
fish and both of us were pretty tired after the battle.
Raphael,
meanwhile, had been holding the other fish stationery behind the boat,
keeping it calm and relaxed and making sure the lines didn’t cross
whilst I fought the other one. We had one nervous moment as my white
jumped over the other line but cleared it and we switched places in time
before the lines touched. Now,
with my white released, he passed the rod over to me.
As
I started working it, Raphael and Wilmer shouted “Aguja azul! Aguja azul!”.
It
was a blue marlin. Up until then, the fish obviously hadn’t a clue that
it had been hooked or was in any danger, but now it took off
enthusiastically and Wilmer backed the boat up hard to chase it. It
quickly decided that it couldn’t outrun us and dived for the ocean
floor.
What looked like 400mtrs of line disappeared from the reel vertically into the depths and my back felt as if it would snap with the pressure. I had been trying to get fit before I had come on this trip and I was glad of the 200 sit-ups per session I had been doing as my abdominals were squeezed tight by the rod belt.
On other
boats I had been on, when a fish sounds, the captain moves the boat gently forward to
“plane” the fish upwards. You lose line during this stage, but it’s
better on the angler later; lifting an uncooperative fish from that kind
of depth is hard work. But for some reason, Wilmer didn’t use this
tactic. If I had used the chair to fight the fish, he would have had to as the
angle of the line would have meant that unless he ran the fish, the line would
have nicked the transom and inevitably broken.
So I fought that fish for every single inch of line, getting it to the boat twice only to watch in dismay as it ripped all the line off again and sounded. At times like this, you have to remind yourself that this is fun. The Shimano reel developed a fault half-way though: the same fault that every Shimano I have ever used has. The handle just jams solidly or, worse, cranks away with nothing happening. It's maddening and it's either me or it's a design fault that only afflicts me.
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It took over an hour of total exertion and commitment, but I eventually
managed to get the blue to the boat and Raphael got a good enough grip on
the leader to hold
it steady. Then he and Wilmer hauled it into the boat for photos. It was
hooked perfectly in the scissors of the jaw and was therefore easily
unhooked. A couple of quick photos and we all lifted it back to the sea.
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That was one tough fish and I understand a little more about why I do this now. I am not terrifically fit; I certainly could not lift weights for an hour solid. I just wouldn't have the motivation. But when fighting that marlin, I was determined not to give in. When my back was breaking, sweat was running down my face and when there was nothing whatsoever I could do to stop it taking line, I would not let it beat me. Or when I simply could not move it an inch when pumping the rod and winding and had to watch in disbelief as it took yet more line. I would not let it beat me. That feeling of personal achievement in a near combat situation is addictive; primal, even a bit scary. I love it.
But
back to the trip; now
all we needed was a sailfish for a Grand Slam!
Within
twenty minutes, we found a large tree trunk in the water and Wilmer
circled it. Without warning, all five lines started singing and we had
five dorados on. It was madness aboard as dorados streaked everywhere
across the surface, changing from blue and silver to green and gold as
they went. One went under the boat and fouled the prop, but Wilmer and
Raphael calmly, as usual, cut the line and tied a knot to complete the
line and finish the fight. I was happy as I knew that dorados are a very
tasty food fish and the crew would be able to use them all up.
But
no sails were showing so Wilmer decided to run back to the tuna area where
we had caught so many in the previous days. After a forty-minute ride, we
rigged to catch some live bait. Today, of all days though, it took a while
to catch any and time was running out: I had to be back at the hotel by
1.00pm and it was 12.15 before we caught a bait.
The guys worked the area hard and waited until the last possible second before bringing in the lines. But, apart from a barracuda, we got nothing. Fishing is a funny game: all week we’d been raising sailfish, especially with live baits like this. But sailfish, it seems, are like Policemen; when you need one there isn’t one around.
I started one blue short of a Grand Slam and I
finished one sail short of a Grand Slam.
As
I left for the airport, there were bulldozers working on the sewage outlet
by the hotel. Maybe in time, Venezuela will fully recover from the devastation of
1999. I hope so. All the people I met were great, the country
sounds as if it would be phenomenal to spend time exploring and the
fishing; well, the fishing is awesome. No other word will do.
Was
I disappointed about missing the Grand Slam? Not in any way, shape or
form. Well, that’s a small lie. I was disappointed for the crew: they
had worked extremely hard for me and I didn’t want them to think that I
would leave unhappy. I tried hard to get the Spanish right and I think
they knew that I had had the best time of my life: literally.
In
three and a half days fishing, we rose 46 fish, caught a blue marlin, four
white marlin, eight sailfish, ten dorados and two barracuda. We were also
San Cocho’d 6 times, had a double header of sailfish and a double header
of marlin. This was, in reality, three and a half years of “normal” fishing for
me in three and a half days!
South
Fishing are to be congratulated as is Mr.
Schummer, the owner of the Coral Way Fleet of which Joropo is one of
the three boats, for a fantastic operation. The boat was great and the
crew were fabulous – the best I’d ever worked with. If I had a
negative comment, I think it would be that they should definitely start to
experiment with circle hooks to see if it reduces the deep hooking
inevitable with the fishing techniques employed. After all, it would be a
tragedy if this incredibly prolific and increasingly popular fishery
became diminished by catch and release, a practice which is supposed to conserve
the quarry. I have to admit that at present I believe that there must be a fair number of
billfish sinking slowly to the bottom, dead or fatally wounded, at some point after release, because
of deep-hooking.
Oh yes, another complaint; there were far too many sandwiches delivered for lunch! They were, of course, cheese and ham specials: the staple diet of marlin fishers the world over.
But after a successful fight with a marlin and chased down with a Polar beer, they tasted like best fillet mignon!
Chic McSherry September 2000