‘Getting Some’ on the Red
Rooster!
Some thoughts from along the
way:
From the glazed eyes and vacant expression on his face it was clear to me that Boulder was for the moment ‘elsewhere’ - getting his fix.
It had been afterall some 20hrs since parting with his beloved collection of fishing rods, reels and a dazzling assortment of terminal gear, now half a world away in New Zealand. For an inveterate tackle junkie like Boulder thats about as enjoyable as hacking your own arm off with a rusty spoon.
He had been putting on a brave
face, flirting shamelessly with the pretty aircrew on the flight over and yet,
even with the hidden comfort of his favourite PR- knot bobbin that he had been
surreptitiously thumbing constantly, l could tell he had been doing it tough.
On our arrival at LAX I had attempted to console him with the notion that according to local Californian time we still hadn't even left home yet and so technically, in another universe perhaps, he was still at home with his gear.
But here, now, in Rob’s Beverly Hills apartment Boulder was on his knees clutching a sexy red Accurate 50w protectively to his bosom. He was surrounded by an even larger conglomeration of gleaming mega-gear than his own prodigious collection and I could tell he was lost in his own special kind of Heaven.
Rob is rummaging through this impressive arsenal, pulling this and that out and muttering sagely: “You’ll need this…and this..…and this…You know, you should probably take all these ones - You never know. And this. Oh this is good! And that too- I would take that. Wait! You’ll absolutely need that…and that. Take this whole bunch…………….” . You get the picture.
The final selection of equipment covers his entire lounge floor and includes maybe 20 game rods, 20 performance reels, infinite numbers of hooks, jigs, pre-rigged leaders, all kinds of rigging gear, tools etc. Bits and bobs, harnesses and gimbals Enough to fill a truck.
Boulder is nodding, ginning with approval.
I am feeling inadequate and thinking: “We are going to need a bigger boat”
I need not have worried. We
are heading for the fabled Hurricane Banks on the equally famous Red Rooster
III, 105 impressive feet of serious fish killing capability. Our destination
lies to the South West, some 2000kms out from the Port of San Diego, our point
of departure. Our mission is to kill Yellow Fin. No apology is offered.
I have been forewarned: Check your moccasins and love beads at the door.
This is a meat hunt plain and simple. The squeamish are not invited, the faint
of heart need not apply.
Ship’s company for this voyage totals 32 and comprises an interesting bunch: 24 pax including us 2 Kiwis and (I soon would come to appreciate) an extremely able captain and crew of 8.
Gathering on the aft deck before departure I note with some surprise that I am possibly one of the younger fare paying customers aboard ship. My first guess is that the average age aboard may be closer to 60 than 50. But looks can be deceiving. These Americans despite their excessive ways age well. It turns out the average age is probably closer to 70 than 60. John Loftus our veteran charter master host will turn 80 on this trip. (The charming b@st@rd looks 60 and runs around like a bloody teenager! God help his missus.)
Despite my first impressions I know that I am in the company of serious anglers. I can tell this because they each have as ridiculous an amount of fishing equipment as do Boulder and I. I swear to God there must have been 200Ks worth of gear lining the ships outer walls and stashed in every conceivable nook and cranny.
These men
have done this trip before, some many times. There is an established system
and a hierarchy to be observed: starting with exactly whose gear goes where -
the most convenient and desirable spots apportioned according to an un-stated
but immutable ranking of seniority. Boulder and I (the visitors) are assigned
a comfortable 2 bunk cabin in the forward section of the ship. He is not
happy. He has had his heart set on an aft cabin. But then Boulder needs to
have something to grizzle about – it helps to get his blood up to operating
pressure - so though while I sympathize with him faithfully I surmise privately
that this is not an entirely bad thing.
The Hurricane Banks lie 4 & ˝ days steaming to the South West and with light winds forecast and a following sea an easy crossing is in the offing. I am wondering what the hell one does for 4 & 1/2 days - sitting on your tosh twiddling your thumbs. As it happens, quite a lot.
First up, even before leaving harbour there are bait tanks that need filling. Filling with live bait. Sardines. I’m talking f**king tons and tons of the little blighters. You quickly get a sense that the adventure we are now embarked on is degrees of magnitude above your regular work-a-day sport fishing jaunt. This is the big time. This, as I would be repeatedly advised, is The American Way. “Get Some or Go Hungry, Pilgrim.”
We tie up to the bait barge, a series of floating pens holding gazillions of sardine, graded and separated by size (God alone knows how that’s done). Our skipper Andy inspects, negotiates and selects. The crew of young guns set up to transfer.
I am fascinated by the process of transferring bait from pens to ship tank. So are the attending sea lions and pelicans that line up noisily, eager to squabble over any ‘free radicals’ that might escape the transfer net.
Once corralled into an end of the pen our skipper swings scoop after scoop - 5 dozen frisky sardine at a time - up and away to his left to a waiting deckie on the boat in an apparently unconscious and clearly well practised relay. The receiving deckie scurries across the deck with the net to deposit the wriggling contents into one of 4 massive live bait tanks. Without looking a now empty long handled net is reached for and grasped by the skipper from behind his right side and the process repeats. At any one time three nets of writhing sardine are moving house, embarked on what will also be for them the adventure of a lifetime. The boat begins to settle in the water. 20 tons of live bait ballast will do that.
Under Way
A typical day starts with a call over the ships loud speakers:
First Call for breakfast! First call!
The first of two shifts of diners settle in to graze.
Let me give you the drum, people: Not many a punter steps off the Red Rooster III after a long range trip weighing less than when he first boarded. The food and service is top shelf. Stan our cook and his able assistant Chapman do God’s work in the galley, rustling up miracle meals and terrifically tasty tid-bits to keep even the fussiest eater content. You will no doubt be surprised to know that I am not a fussy eater.
At this point I would like to lay a complaint with the management:
Every morning after breakfast we’d get the benefit of an address by the skipper on what was on for the day. Where we were, what was planned, the forecast etc. Andy, with his easy Californian drawl and a detached, laid back cool makes for an entertaining speaker. The surfer in him is an easy pick. He was also the official drawer of the daily raffle. An American raffle. The type of raffle wherein every body gets a prize. It might be a reel, or a balloon and/or anything in between. This raffle was rigged: Boulder always got a better prize than me. Let’s call a spade a spade! I was robbed!
Rocko, the builder from Lake Tahoe (God bless all builders) balanced the ledger somewhat however by magnanimously giving away Boulder’s freshly won and much coveted lure to another happy camper while he was out back having a smoke. As you can imagine, Boulder on his return was not a happy camper. Rocko however was most pleased with this result. I was pissing myself with amusement. Taking fishing kit off Boulder is always a hazardous and tricky business. Boulder no doubt got even with his buddy somewhere along the way but is still reluctant to confess just how. I heard him sniggering in a quite moment however and Rocko would be wise to check all his topshots.
Any fears of boredom enroute were quickly allayed. The days fall into an easy rhythm punctuated with breakfast, lunch and dinner, perhaps a ballgame on ESPN satellite service and an evening movie. The hours are filled with tall story telling (as fishermen the world over are want to tell). Randy from LA (an absolute deadringer for Joe Pesci) amuses me with colourful tales of conquests -and ones that got away too. He also speaks of fishing sometimes.
Art entertained us all with his passion for world series baseball. Too bad his Texan dogs just would not hunt. Next time Arty. Next time!
On the 3rd and 4th days the mood begins to change: Termination tackle begins to appear and reels get worked on. Rigs are rigged, top-shots are top-shotted, spools are spooled. A building sense of anticipation creeps in as the temperature outside steadily rises to match our steadily southing equatorial latitude. Escalating levels of urgency are now apparent as drags are set and then reset - just to be sure. Hooks sharpened and then resharpened for luck. Stay busy! If you don’t have anything to do then at least pretend to look busy. Wahoo Bob, a delightful bloke who looks like Homer Simpson is a flurry of organised activity - to no apparent purpose - but boy were his reels oiled and clean.
Day 5 The Hurricane Banks. We’re not in Kansas now, Dorothy!
And then we are here. After a short exercise determining the wind, current and subsequent drift the skipper positions the ship for anchor. In the middle of bloody, bleeding nowhere!
Picture if you will the following scene:
24 punters of indeterminate age, attired in stand-up clobber, line the starboard and aft rails. Live sardines hooked in variously favoured fashions are lobbed out back down the line of drift on 150-200lb fluro topshot and 150lb spectra mainline. Gleaming 50w and 80w reels fixed to 7 and 8 ft Calstars with extra long corking to protect against the inevitable slamming on the rails. These boys are packing for bear. A crewman begins to hurl buckets of sardine into the wash.
Out the back corners two anxious anglers take their turn with lines rigged up to helium balloon assisted kites with breakaway roller-troller setups. These lines dangle a struggling back-hooked flying-fish or night caught mackerel fluttering on the surface away out the back - out the back where the boat-shy big boys like to hang. A small conventional marker balloon is suspended perhaps 4 meters off this surface bait. Most often the strike, when it comes, is hard to miss as the sea erupts around the condemned and hapless ‘volunteer’. But seeing the marker balloon slam into the sea is also a dead giveaway and impossible to miss. Then it’s a case of winding the living bejasus out of the reel to break the line from the roller-troller, to come up hard on the fish and to set the hook.
There will be blood
It can all go off with a bang - and it usually does. First sign is a boil-up or ‘blowup’ signifying the angry arrival of hungry tuna cashing the surface. Next thing you know it’s all on with whooping, cussing and hollering, smoking drags and super tight lines singing in the breeze amid cries from the skipper of ‘GET SOME!’.
Having 7 or 8 guys at anyone time hooked up and in various stages of battle with monster fish is a hell of a thing to witness, let me tell you. Remember, the boat is sitting on the pick. There is no chasing a fish down. It’s just you and the fish - and you better learn to boogie or there will be tears. Not least because of the constant presence of the sea’s tax collectors. More than a few will fall to these saw-toothed varmits. (What little they might leave on the hook goes directly to the kitchen for lunch so not all is lost. )
An angry unsubdued fish will take you on a dance around the boat. You will need to negotiate your way over, under, around and often through a scrummage of anglers, some of whom will also be fully engaged with their own aquatic freight train. “Coming down!” is the call and you better be on you toes or they will roll right on over you as they race down the rail. And it’s right here and now that the skill and strength of the crew becomes crucial - and evident. In many ways they act as the neutral umpires and referees of the battle and will not hesitate to grab your rod if they see a clusterf*** a-building. A big fish can and will take you around the boat 3 or 4 times and there are anchors and props to be avoided and other potential boat contact points that can put an instant end to a fight in the fishes favour. Tom, Nick, Francisco, Tim and Trevor are about as competent and professional as you will find on any boat…period. They know they are on a special tub, are justifiably proud of their skills and reputation and are confident and positive always. They are bloody decent men too and are “quick with a joke or to light up your smoke”. They are also rampant, raging gamblers. Acey Deucey, played with dice and dollars can soak up a few hours but can also punish you believe me. Larry Martin, John’s partner and able co-host had their measure however much to his vociferous delight. Oh how I wish I had a picture of one of the dollar pots - it got so big. Seeing an ecstatic young Tim diving on his winnings reminded me of Scrooge McDuck wallowing in his money vault. But I digress.
The call of the trip was “GET SOME!” ….. and we obliged.
If the first day at the banks was a thrill for me, the morning of the second day was a absolute mind blower! A pre-dawn bite at 5a.m brought the whole ship alight. It was all on for... er...well old and older really. One hectic 5 minute spell saw 5 or 6 decent ‘3 Gaff’ Yellowfin bloody the decks.
I should explain the Gaff Index: the number of gaffs a fish rates is directly proportional to the number of men it takes to hoist a fish up and out of the water. Strong men. A one gaff fish is a rat. 2 gaffs and you are starting to talk a serious animal. 3 Gaffs might be a pig - to 150+ pounds. 4 gaffs and you got yourself an honest to goodness 200+ Cow - and now you are now really “getting some!”.
5 gaffs means you must be at the circus because you probably have an elephant.
So how did we do? Glad you asked:
I thought we did fantastic and I certainly ‘Got’ my share of ‘Some.’ The skipper was not so thrilled. One of the compressors broke down and resulted in the drop out of one of the refrigerated holds. I estimate we took home 18 tons of yellowfin, wahoo and king fish (yellow tail). The largest Yellowfin went 260lb to Happy John on a kite. John, the ship’s honorary doctor is a San Diego Vet. Being a vet obviously comes in handy when comes to killing cows and he despatched his one in stand-up style. (He will also discuss your dysplasia or fill your prescription for mange and tick removal for gratis. Every boat should have one.)
But for the compressor breakdown we would have filled the boats 3rd hold I have no doubt. But the distance from port and the tropical ambient temperature made taking too many more YFs a pointless waste. Happily this mechanical hiccup resulted in some gain too. Given that the remaining fish hold was rapidly filling the skipper elected to head North East and in to Clarion Island for some wahoo action. Wahoo are targeted principally on the troll, across the stern 4 abreast. Upon hook up the skipper takes the ship into what is called “the slide”. The rest of the anglers now get involved, lining the trailing aft quarter of the boat and lobbing out iron jigs for a fast retrieve. “Going out!” You need to duck or you’ll catch 200 oz of barbed jig in your ear. Its wicked fun. The next day we travelled further North East to the Isle of San Benito and there got the chance to lower the skiffs for an up-close & personal encounter with kingfish and Calico bass right in amongst the kelp. That was a blast. Here the roving packs of sea lions take on the job of the sharks and many an entertaining wrestling match was had with these scurvy sea dogs over the ragged remains of a battered kingfish.
The skipper showed an impressive touch of skill and ingenuity by catching 36 lobster in one go. How? Well I’ll tell you how it might have happened.
San Benito is the isolated and desolate sun-baked home to a motley collection of Mexican cray boats and net fishermen. The arrival of a floating 105 ft fridge with cold beers, dvds and a goodly stash of porn magazines can be an attractive proposition to a bunch of bored and sun burnt Latino lobstermen wondering what they did in a past life to deserve being stuck out on Hell Island without a paddle. These same lads would probably be awfully partial to a bit of trade.
Easy really. Everybody got what they wanted. We had fat lobster with our rib eye steak that night. That was also the day we got the news that the All Blacks had defeated France in the Rugby World Cup Final. Life was sure good.
14 days passes remarkably quickly and the strange Americans with their interesting ways and varied accents who I had started out with had now become good friends. Of course that is not enough time to get to know somebody really well but living in close proximity on a ship you do tend get a distilled summary of a man’s worth. I can say that guys on this trip were to a man the best of blokes. Terry from Michigan would be one of the nicest guys you could hope to meet and Art had me in stiches constantly. Crazy Ivan from San Francisco with his busted foot was an inspiration as he hobbled around the boat after his fish. The doggard Junk yard Bob Mitchener (Pappy to the crew) was a delightful character: “You wanna catch more fish, Boy? Keep ya line in the water!” is advice to the wise I’ll long remember and that I’m sure applies to more than just fishing. Grouper Mark: Cheers for the company. I’ll never look at a Japanese girl in the same way again. You sick puppy!
Some of these lads will be reading this and I’d like to say thanks to you to you all, crew and anglers. Thanks for your patience and friendship and making us two kiwis so welcome. Thanks Frank, Fred, Rocko, Al, Randy and Dan. I cannot mention you all here but a special thanks to John and Larry. Thanks Joe for your generosity and hospitality – and your help with the LA traffic. Good luck with your second tour in Afghanistan. Keep your bloody head down man. Anything worth dying for must be worth living for.
Finally thanks to Boulder and Rob for the memories – and for keeping an eye on me. I’d lose my testicles if they weren’t in a bag.
So whats next?