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Home > What's New > A Fish Story
A Fish Story
Posted: Monday, June 21, 2004
By Michael Moretti
"It's not like goin' down the pond chasing blue-gills and tommy-cods," I thought, recalling Quint's speech to the Amity Town Council in the movie Jaws while puffing on a cigar during the late-night cruise out to sea. I was with my five shipmates at the start of the annual Mako Rodeo sharking tournament, in which an army of boats motor out into the Atlantic Ocean with the goal of catching the biggest, baddest mako shark possible.
This sort of fishing takes commitment and is not for everyone. You're 64 miles out at sea with the convenience store, hospital and supermarket left on land. You have your rod, a boat and your mates. And what are you going to do? Fill the water with fish guts and blood so that some of the most dangerous fish in the whole ocean come where you are. And that's if you're lucky.
Mako sharks, the ones we were on the prowl for, or vice versa, can be 12 feet-long and can weigh as much as a thousand pounds. I pictured an underwater SUV with razor sharp teeth, explosive speed and a blood lust that would drink Dracula under the table. So I was glad when the captain told me they had a shotgun on board.
About six hours after we shipped out at midnight from a port in Brielle, New Jersey, we were floating along 150 feet above the sea floor. Our hooks baited with whole mackerel and fillets of bluefish were dropped at various depths to snag a hungry predator that came swimming into the chum trail we had stretching behind us to the horizon -- a veritable dinner bell to the shark community. The sun was coming up and the hunt was under way.
However exciting the idea of shark fishing is, in reality, it's not an impatient man's pursuit. Most of your time is spent waiting. Time fluctuates between drinking beer, checking the lines, talking on all matter of subjects and playing cards -- where, with that much time, you can lose as much money as you planned on winning with a 150-or-plus-pound shark. Fun, no doubt -- but if you're looking for a nonstop adrenaline rush you may want to take up car racing.
This is more comparable to being a fireman stationed at the house and on call during the dry season. You have to be ready for action at a moment's notice. When a shark does hit a bait and you hear that sudden buzz of the line being pulled out to sea, you spring from your seat as if someone just fired you from a catapult, dropping whatever it is you were doing in your wake. The next couple minutes are as heart-pumping as you'll find.
We had been fishing for a good five or six hours when I finally got my chance. We had had a good amount of action so far. The other members of my party had all taken a crack at hauling in a monster shark with some success. We managed to land a large blue shark that weighed about 200 pounds. It took two of us switching off to bring it on board along with two gaff poles and a shotgun supplied and operated by our host captain and crew. The struggling blue was muscled to the surface, then, with a pump of the gun and an aim at the side of the head à la Tony Soprano and Tony Blundetto, the gun exploded and the fish went limp. It is seemingly cruel but is a necessary order of business. If there are any truths in life and fishing, one is that you never want a thrashing shark with razor sharp teeth weighing more than you do in the boat. The gun instantly prevents such a problem.
While proud of the fight and catch of the big blue, our prized mako was still swimming around out there.
We were in the cabin recovering from the battle with the blue and had a rousing game of Texas Hold'em going when we heard the telling line buzz into high gear on the deck. I kicked out from the behind the table, almost knocking it over which would have been good because I was down and about to lose big. It was now my turn to fish.
I charged on deck and the hot sun hit my face. The first mate, who had been tending to the rods outside, had one in his hand and was straining with the butt against his knee, the line zipping around the reel and into the water. He yelled, "Angler!" This signaled a call to arms. I fumbled with the fighting belt to get it around my waist as quickly as possible; again he yelled, "Angler!" -- this time a bit irritated. I stepped up at attention.
He snapped the pole into my hand, and I secured it into the fighting belt. I felt like a new driver who had just been given the keys to the family car under the watchful stare of a hesitant father. His look, in other words, said, "Here you go rookie, don't screw it up." I grabbed tight and squared up for a battle royal.
The weight on the rod was immense. The surface of the water was glimmering and placid as it had been all day, but the bend of the rod and the taunt quivering line bespoke of something enormous underneath that was big enough to swallow a side of bluefish and tough enough to continue to swim despite having a large hook jammed down its throat and yanked on repeatedly.
"Pull up and reel down" was the hymn of the crew, chanting from behind me as I fought. You can't simply reel in a huge fish like a mako. You have to get into a rhythm and at the same time keep the line from slackening. Everyone watched excitedly to see a breaching of whatever had bitten the hook, shouting his encouragement. Voices raised a couple of decibels with the rush of adrenaline, the splash of the waves and the hum of the motor that had been kicked on to move the boat as the big fish circled. Like a well-oiled machine, I pulled up and reeled down for what felt like three hours but was probably closer to three minutes. It was sheer determination that kept me going while my body slowly gave way.
First came the burning in my shoulders, which then flared up to the arms and the wrists, then spread like a forest fire to my thighs and calves as I tried to keep balance with the sway of the ocean and pull of the beast underneath, remembering all the while to dip and reel and pull back. A lot of it is instinctual, so I suppose at heart we all have the hunt in us, even a land-loving, city slicker like myself.
My excitement was quickly segueing to pain though. My friends on board, who must have observed my waning power, also segued from cheering, "Let's go Mike!" to "Do you need help?!" But I was having none of it; I was going to bring this fish in or die trying. I got a second wind and the feeling of impending victory overcame me so that I almost blocked out the burning. A warm glow of positive energy enveloped my aching muscles instead, and I glimpsed myself back on shore with a prized catch hanging from a hook next to me amid flashbulbs, shouts of congratulations and ogling beach babes impressed with my angling prowess.
As the fish got closer, the pressure increased and the pain was back, ending my fantasy. I was on the verge of handing the rod off to another to close the deal when suddenly…the line snapped. I kept reeling, saying to myself, "Aw, he's a feisty one trying to trick me," but the better half of my brain told me I had lost the fight and the shark was speeding happily toward Florida with a healthy lunch in his belly. A few expletives aside, I took it pretty well and waited for the next hit, but it never came and we headed back to shore thrilled by the fight but without a trophy.
The captain took me aside later and said that I had probably had a very impressive mako on the line -- in fact, it probably would have won the tournament. It must have been better than 150 pounds and probably eight to ten feet long. Maybe or maybe not -- it could have been a seaweed-laden shopping cart I fought with for ten or, maybe it was, twenty minutes. Nonetheless, I kept that tidbit of info from the captain, true or not, to myself until we got on shore -- at least there I would have a chance against the onslaught of my fellow anglers.
I didn't get the shark and we didn't win the prize, but we served a great cause and made it back to the land for the after-party without having our boat eaten. I repeated the story to as many people who would listen -- some of them surprisingly almost caught the winning shark, too. Next time, hopefully, I'll have more than a story.
The outing was part of the annual Mako Rodeo, a tournament in which all proceeds go to the Brett T. Bailey Foundation, a charitable fund set up in honor of its namesake who was a shark-fishing enthusiast before he was killed in the September 11th terrorist attacks on the World Trade Center. The foundation provides scholarship funds to institutions on behalf of individuals and families who have demonstrated personal sacrifice in their service to their country, community or fellow man. This year, funds were given to assist families of American soldiers fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan.
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