Be careful who you get into a boat with
Issue 5 : Mar/Apr 1999
I’ve never had much luck fishing, but this hasn’t deterred my everlasting hopefulness and the fantasies which accompany putting on the fisherman’s hat. Despite the perils inherent in mixing hooks, lines and sinkers with mainsheets, jibsheets, and staysail sheets, I have mounted several memorable fishing expeditions under sail.
One drama searching for groundfish was cast off Pumpkin Ledge. Albert, the most passionate and accomplished fisherman known to me, and no doubt to fish, hooked onto a Big One and fought courageously for an hour, only to discover our huge cod was a modest lobster trap. Later that day, lowering our aspirations, we switched to mackerel. We chased a school into Browns Cove and soon loaded up a mackerel rig with five very live ones. Unfortunately, as they came over the gunwale, the line snapped, and we parted company. Off they went, in perfect synchrony. “The Rockettes,” Albert observed ruefully.
Another occasion, however, stands out from the rest. Not one, but two Big Ones were boated. Sort of. Co-owner Alan and I set out on a serious bluefish quest. We had heard they were feeding in Muscongus Bay, and were determined to get our share. After a quiet night at anchor near Burnt Island, we arose with the morning light, an incoming tide, and a light breeze. Optimistically trolling two squid-like lures on a 50-pound tackle, we rounded Old Woman Ledge. Suddenly Alan yelled, “I’ve got one!” And he did. As his pole doubled over and he strained to hang on, I tried to luff up. At that instant, I got one! I immediately experienced a deficit of hands and feet, as I did my ineffectual best to attend to Alan, throw off the sheets, grab the helm, hang onto my fishing rod, reel in, and maintain contact with a now severely canted pitching deck.
Our quarry crisscrossed in Sazerac’s wake and found and fouled one another several yards astern. The sloop, without helmsman or crew, came about, jibed, luffed, ran, and went through its entire repertoire of points of sail as it tried to shake off the two bluefish — and the two blue fishermen.
Somehow, we held onto the rods, the rods held onto the fish, and Sazerac held onto us all. With yet another hand, we brought the dinghy Jedediah, up hard against the transom, and together reeled the tangled, turbulent rat’s nest of lures, lines, and fish alongside — and up and into the dinghy. Squinting through tears of laughter, we observed two thrashingly handsome 20+-pound blues. We gasped for breath — all four of us. The excitement and the novelty of actually landing two real fish overcame the exhaustion, but not the absurdity of our predicament.
After congratulating ourselves on our distinguished skills as fishermen, we turned to the next task at hand: getting the hooks out of these toothy creatures and the lines untangled, so we could get back into that school.
Alan gave the command for me to go aboard Jedediah to tend the fish. I ordered him to do the same. After a few seconds of sustained paralysis, we flipped for it. Alan lost. As I tried to keep the now oversailed vessel under control in an increasing wind and sea, he stepped from the afterdeck of Sazerac onto the dinghy below. A swell suddenly changed the relative positions of all three, and his foot came down on the rail of the dinghy. Over they went: dinghy, Alan, and two confused fish. The dinghy, port side under, swamped. Alan lurched amidships, somehow righting Jedediah. Both emerged from the capsize nearly full of water. Alan had joined the now-replenished bluefish in a very lively seawater bathtub.
The voracious fish now had Alan in their element, rather than he having them in his. The ridiculous spectacle of the situation was exceeded only by the look of alarm on Alan’s face. The brown stain at the stern of his khakis gave evidence that the Comfort Factor had vanished as he tried to stand his ground, knee deep in brine, valiantly defending the bow of the dinghy — and his life — with an oar, in a pitching sea, against two slashing, ferocious, and very unhappy creatures wielding sharp, triple-ganged hooks. Murphy was clearly a seafaring man!
Suffice it to say, through several acts of heroism, and even more of luck, we won, and the blues lost. They were consumed with relish for dinner that night. But they did not die in vain, for they bequeathed to us Cruising Rule 15:
Be careful who you get into a boat with.
Reprinted from Roland’s book, Cruising Rules.
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
