Rrrreeeeeee!!! My pole is singing!
"Hookup!!!" twenty eager men bellow, and pandemonium ensues. Bill grabs the pole and puts it into my hands. His arm encircles me and now I'm cranking and pumping! He's walking me along the rail yelling UNDER! OVER! and frenzied men obey. My job is to wind and keep dancing in the direction set by the fish and Bill.
I'm hyperventilating.
"Breathe!" yells Chris. "Keep winding, keep winding!" Minutes later I can barely turn the crank. I hold the pole straight at 11:00 and as the boat dips, I reel, and as it comes back up, I hold steady, letting the boat do the work. All that time at the gym and for what? My muscles are mere anchors for the work of the boat as I can no longer crank. Bill has gone somewhere else to catch his own fish.
Suddenly Gringo leans over the rail and sinks the gaff, pulling up a fat and feisty 21 lb. albacore tuna. I'm excited, but I'm so tired I can barely smile. My arms hang limply at my sides.
After we take a picture I reattach myself to the post. I am proud. The first fish of the trip is mine.
The next time the jig poles sing, Bill and the boys are all fighting fish at the same time. Forget the camera. "You can take those later," Kevin says. When a bite is on, you've got large hooks, sharp gaffs, a slippery deck and a rolling boat to contend with, not to mention the frenzy to keep your line off of everyone else's while you struggle to land your fish. It's not a good Kodak moment, and you can get hurt.
After the bite stops, Captain Vic comes on the PA and directs us to pull in our lines and set the jigs; we're moving out. Lethargy settles over us. Blood is spattered on our legs, our arms are limp and shaky, but we've all got a fish, and Mom's is the biggest.
As the sun lowers inside Mexican waters, we get bite after bite.
The albacore are hauled on board and filleted on the spot, tagged and frozen for later retrieval. The boat has caught twelve big tunas so far. A third of them are ours.
At dusk the communal dinner is ready, but the seas have come up, and I can't eat. About half my fellows are slightly green; whose idea was it to offer Clams Alfredo? Two small bites, and I'm down for the night.
The next morning, Bill showers and shaves by 5 a.m. but the rest of the boat is still asleep, so he goes back to bed fully dressed and ready. I chuckle at his eagerness. At 5:40, Captain Vic's voice comes over the PA, "Good morning, it's time to get up. Good morning, fishermen, good morning. (Pause.) Let's do some fishing!" Bill is out the door and up the stairwell before the Captain finishes. I stay in bed a little longer. I know it's cold and overcast outside, and the boat is pitching and rolling. An hour later we're into bluefin, a tuna that can reach 200 lbs., and one we hadn't expected to see on this trip. Captain Vic orders those fishermen with lighter lines to reel them in so the guys with bluefin rigs can do their job.
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I shower and dress quickly, pop another pill and bounce from wall to wall on my way aft. Just as I straggle out on deck, Bill hooks a bluefin. He's one of only three fishermen to be hooked up, and in spite of the Captain's orders, Bill has caught it on 25-lb. test, with a little pole that's gone all bendo. To further complicate matters, Bill missed an eyehole when he threaded the line onto his pole. Captain Vic clears the decks, and I cross my fingers for my sweet husband as he battles the tuna on the little pole. Sweat is pouring off of him when he finally hands it over to Kevin. A few minutes later his jackpot-sized bluefin - 64 lbs! - is onboard, flopping and bleeding. I dance across the deck, peck him on the lips and get back out of the way.
We rest a while in the galley, but the Dramamine isn't working, so I go back to my little cave to sleep a few more hours. Somehow being horizontal defeats the seasickness, at least until I stand again.
But I can't sleep forever, and besides, I'm getting cabin fever. Above deck, the sun is out and patchy clouds keep it cool. The fishermen spot whales and visit with each other, but it's pretty clear things have slowed down.
Just before lunch, Jeff, my teenager, brings in a respectable sized albacore, and I am happy for him. After lunch, somnolent and reptilian, we flop along the couches and chairs while Captain Vic motors to a place he thinks will be productive. This is what a lot of fishing is, Bill says. Napping, quiet conversation, waiting for the line to sing. Eventually the motors go silent. A fisherman snores. The boat rocks gently. I read my book, content in literary solitude.
"Hook up!"
Everyone spills out to the aft deck. Jeff comes straight off the floor from a dead sleep, his eyes glazed, almost running down a wispy Asian grandfather. Someone has hooked an albie. We haul it up and keep trolling. The bite goes on and the afternoon is fine. My boys are happy. Soon the hold is full. So is my heart.
Dinner is festive. Some have brought wine, and they share. The fishermen brag and hail one another. The next morning we head for home, and I am done fishing.
"Must be a good book."
For the past several hours I have been lost inside The Cowboy Way, by David McCumber. I look up, guilty.
The fisherman nods. He turns and shuffles toward the fantail.
End
Lynne Morgan Spreen is a freelance writer living in southern California. Her writing has appeared in the Riverside Business Journal, Palm Desert Magazine, and the Desert Woman, and she is a member of the National League of American Pen Women. In her spare time she is developing a human resources consulting partnership.
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