A Fishy Tale

(The dangers of deep-sea fishing)

To clear the decks and set the stage, so to speak, there they were, three men in a boat, first day at sea... sailing a recently-refurbished 52' Irwin ketch, by the name of 'Lady Rebel', from Marathon (elevation three feet) in the Florida Keys to Halifax, Nova Scotia, Canada.

And the Gods smiled... it was a sunny day, the sea was calm and, for once, the prevailing southeast wind was blowing out of the correct quarter.

Upon departing and on first watch, seeing the Captain and crew break out all the fishing gear, he who was at the helm (myself, recipient of the Sabre Yachts 1987 Performance Award), a non seasick-suffering sailor, was heard to inform them, "That's not such a good idea. I'm really and truly documented as the world's worst fisherman, a veritable jinx on fishing in fact, and the crew of any vessel upon which I sail comes under the dreaded curse."

"That's utterly ridiculous, how bad could it be?" asked the Captain, unperturbed.

"Well, on one sailing trip, while fishing with two rods twenty-four hours a day, twenty-eight days at sea, from Kaneohe Bay, Oahu, Hawaii to Newport Beach, California, and changing lures constantly as there was nothing better to do than sit back, relax and watch the seaweed and flotsam drift by, I caught three fish — one mahi-mahi, one tuna and one inedible mackerel.

Then, yet again, another twenty-eight days at sea, sailing from Honolulu, Hawaii to Seattle, Washington, fishing with one rod, I caught three fish and, lastly, nine days solo from Fort Lauderdale, Florida to St. George's, Bermuda and nine days solo return, fishing with one rod, not one fish nor even so much as a nibble."

"Oh, never mind all that nonsense, we'll be OK, we'll do all the fishing, you just stay seated there at the wheel and steer a straight course,” said the Skipper, the voice of authority.

“No, you don't get it, I know how to fish, I just don't know how to catch,” I muttered.

And did either of them listen to my words of wisdom?

No, of course not!

Altho' sailing solo is unsafe and no fun, dolphins surfing the bow wave and smiling at me is acceptable but, fish swimming beside the boat and laughing at me, I think not.

An unknown element to me at the time as he was, upon completion of this 'cruise', having then experienced his nautical knowledge and navigation skills, I could only describe this self-same Skipper as a 'danger to himself' and 'a serious hazard to shipping' and, little did 'said Skipper realise, he was soon, not to eat fish but... crow or something, equally avian-like, akin to it.

"What were you using for bait on those trips?" asked he whom was the crew (and quite motley a matelot he was too).

"Either four, five or six-inch silver lures, with colourful blue and/or red feathers, which I trolled approx. ten to twenty feet deep and seventy-five yards behind the boat,” came my prompt reply.

"No problem, we can do a little voodoo, kill the curse and remove the evil eye. We'll use a plain old white lure that rattles as it hops, skips and jumps across the surface of the sea when towed," said the overly-optimistic sailor.

'That's still not such a good idea,' thought the helmsman, but, as not one to repeat himself (as some just won't listen, or be told), he kept quiet and concentrated on keeping the course straight and true while being assisted north, at a great rate of knots, by the Gulf Stream.

Unintimidated by my tales and words of warning, the courageous Captain cast the alleged 'voodoo' lure into the ocean blue and fastened the rod to the ship's rail with a stout piece of line.

Less than twenty-five minutes later, a loud 'whiiiiiiiiiine' was heard by all as the fishing line was ripped out of the reel. The Captain and crew, who were lounging on deck, quickly moved aft joyfully shouting, "We've got one, we've caught one, it's hooked,” (or words to that effect) while he at the helm, without so much as turning his head or looking behind, struggled to keep a straight face and thoughtfully slowed the boat down, while maintaining his composure and his heading.

At first there was total silence then came a combined chorus of, "What the....?!" from the stern. On glancing around, the helmsman noticed, the two confused mariners weren't looking down at the ocean but gazing somewhat bewildered up at the sky.

Several more expletives followed as our two unhappy fisherman realised... they had caught, not a flying fish but... a seagull.

Carefully, they reeled it in, brought it aboard and wrapped it in a towel. "So much for voodoo, would you like me to pluck it for you?” he at the wheel asked (with tongue firmly planted in cheek).

This was met with stony silence as they extracted the lure and applied antibiotic ointment to the gull's beak then, let it go overboard... where it paddled alongside the vessel looking more than somewhat 'tee-d' off (as only a recently-hooked seagull can).

The bemused helmsman watched as the two fearless fishermen, without so much as looking at one another and, with nary a word said, calmly and quietly collected, cleaned and stowed the fishing gear... none of which was ever seen or mentioned again for the remainder of the ten-day voyage.

During the last and very foggy night , about twelve hours out, before entering Halifax Harbour, the entire on-board navigation system went down but, with foresight and the necessary chart uploaded prior to departure into an Apple iPod Touch, held in a Dual XGPS300 cradle, I was able to navigate us smoothly to the dock.

Where, it so happened, as the observant Canadian immigration officer pointed out, I had cleared customs aboard another vessel that very same day exactly one year prior... aboard the 68' ketch 'Asteroid', which, altho' out of date, if not obsolete, did have a working navigation system.

Oh, and when it comes to fishing, yes, you may call me 'Jonah!'

'A Fishy Tale' by Andrew John & Martin H. Samuel

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