Something Fishy

by Derek Hansen

  The panga moved into position astern of them before they’d covered ten kilometres.

  ‘Why us?’ said Karl.

  ‘I asked around,’ said Gerardo. ‘A panga followed all the gringo boats.’

  ‘But why?’

  ‘It’s a big ocean, patrón. Maybe they think big boats raise big fish.’

  ‘Crumbs from a rich man’s table.’

  ‘Something like that.’

  But Karl wasn’t convinced. The panga seemed to spend as much time watching them as fishing. He shrugged. What could he do?

  They caught their first blue right on the stroke of eleven, brought it up to the double, but Gerardo ruled it smaller than fish that had already been weighed. They released it. Within ten minutes, the panga behind them hooked up on a blue roughly the same size and kept it.

  ‘This is a good sign, patrón,’ said Gerardo.‘There has to be a big blue around here somewhere.’

  And there was.

  It struck just as Karl was thinking of making a turkey burger for lunch. It hit like a runaway bus and absolutely monstered the lure. By the time Karl got the rod out of the holder and into his game belt, the marlin had stripped off one hundred and fifty metres of line. By the time Jose had strapped him into his shoulder harness, it had stripped off another seventy metres. It leaped and thrashed and smashed the surface of the sea. Karl had never seen a more powerful fish and certainly never caught one.

  He checked his stance as the fish tore off more line and mentally rehearsed how he was going to fight it. Short strokes. Fight the fish not the rod. Wind only when there is line to be gained. Don’t wind against the drag. Raise the tip with his body, not with his arms. And don’t panic. He had no doubt about the calibre of the fish he was up against and he didn’t need Gerardo to tell him it was a trophy fish and likely tournament winner.

  ‘It’s a trophy fish, patrón!’ Gerardo told him anyway.‘This is my Chevrolet truck,’ he added, reminding Karl of his promise.

  Gerardo backed up on the marlin and Karl wound furiously. But any line he recovered was soon reclaimed. The marlin went deep and turned its bulk sideways against the pull of the line. For twenty minutes, Karl tried everything he knew to gain line and failed.

  ‘I can’t lift it,’ said Karl.

  ‘Maybe the fish is foul-hooked,’ said Jose.

  ‘No, it is just playing hard. It wants to see if we are as patient as it is,’ said Gerardo.

  ‘I want to see if it’s as tired as I am,’ said Karl.

  It was an hour before Karl began recovering line in any worthwhile quantity and retaining it. Gerardo seemed to anticipate the fish’s every move and edged the boat nearer. All the while Karl recovered line. The fish surfaced about fifty metres astern. It still lifted its head and shoulders out of the water and thrashed it into boiling white foam, but it was clearly tiring.

  ‘It seems a pity to take it,’ said Karl.‘It’s magnificent.’

  ‘It’s why we’re here,’ said Gerardo.

  Fifteen minutes later, Jose had it on the wire. Five minutes later it was dead, clubbed to death by Gerardo. It took all three of them to haul the dead fish up onto the swim platform. Its head hung over one end, its tail the other.

  ‘This is a serious fish, patrón,’ said Gerardo.‘That’s more than two hundred and fifty kilos. Maybe closer to three hundred. This fish will win the tournament, no doubt about it.’

  Karl stared at the big fish. Already its colours were fading. This was a fish to match those he’d seen photographed in Zane Grey’s books. He heard a sudden splash nearby and looked up. The panga had closed to less than fifteen metres and both men on board were taking a good hard look at his marlin.

  ‘Look and weep,’ shouted Karl, and turned his back on them.

  ‘Now we go back,’ said Gerardo. ‘It’s already two o’clock and we are at least two and a half hours from the marina. We don’t want to miss the five o’clock deadline.’

  They left the panga still ploughing that same fertile stretch of water as they set course for home. Karl felt like celebrating but was wary about celebrating too soon. The painful events of the previous day were still fresh in his mind. But how could the committee deprive him of his rights this time? It was almost inconceivable that anyone had a bigger marlin or anything comparable, deep-frozen or otherwise.

  The wind swung around offshore, slowing them down with a short steep sea they had no option but to take head-on. Karl watched the minutes tick by. For the first time he regretted not buying a more modern boat with a planing hull. That would have given them another hour of fishing and still got them home on time. But Karl needn’t have worried. Gerardo brought Billfisher alongside the committee panga with ten minutes to spare.

  ‘Congratulations, senor,’ said the official as he handed Karl his red chip.‘That is a fine fish.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Karl. He was heartened by the committeeman’s warm response. Maybe the organisers were feeling guilty about the previous night’s skulduggery.

  There were two more committeemen among the small crowd waiting at the dock as Gerardo backed Billfisher into its bay. People began clapping as soon as they saw the size of Karl’s blue.

  ‘May we come aboard?’ asked one of the officials.

  ‘Of course,’ said Karl. He thought they also wanted to offer their congratulations. He held out his hand to help them step over his fish.

  ‘That is a fine fish,’ said the first official.

  ‘A very fine fish,’ confirmed the second.

  ‘May we look below?’ said the first official.

  ‘Of course,’ said Karl, anxious to oblige.

  ‘What is this?’ said the first official, pointing to the rods and reels stored on racks in the forward compartment.

  ‘They’re the rods we’re not using,’ said Karl. ‘We’re aware of the rules. We know we’re only allowed to fish three rods.’

  ‘But that is not the rule,’ said the second official, shaking his head.‘The rule states boats are only allowed to carry three rods.’

  ‘At the briefing you said “use three rods”.’

  ‘Perhaps an error of translation or maybe you did not hear correctly. Read the rules,’ said the first official. ‘The rules clearly state boats may only carry three rods.’

  ‘Every game boat here carries more than three rods,’ protested Karl.

  ‘We can’t answer for the mistakes of others,’ said the second official. ‘We recommend boats store their extra rods.’

  ‘But there’s nowhere to store them,’ said Karl.

  ‘You could store them in the hotel,’ said the first official, waving vaguely towards the Grand Bay Hotel which occupied the slopes around the marina in a white-and-terracotta imitation of an Italian fishing village.

  ‘At five hundred dollars a day?’ said Karl incredulously. ‘Twenty-five hundred dollars for the five days of the tournament. For fishing rods? You’ve got to be joking!’

  ‘I’m sorry, senor, but the rules are the rules,’ said the second official. ‘The rules are clear on this. Boats may only carry three rods.’

  ‘But we’re only fishing three rods.’

  ‘But you are carrying more than three,’ said the first official. ‘That is against the rules. I regret that we have no choice but to disqualify your fish.’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Karl.‘You can’t disqualify us. We only used three rods! We obeyed the rules to the letter. I am not a cheat and I won’t be treated like one.’

  But the committeemen were no longer interested in talking to him. They’d said what they had to say and achieved what they’d set out to achieve.

  ‘Two hundred and eighty-eight kilos,’ said Karl into his cell phone.‘That’s what it weighed.’

  ‘Like I keep telling you, my man,’ said Captain Pete sympathetically,‘they’ll always find some way to get you.’

  ‘There’s a guy with a one-hundred-and-seventy-foot motor yacht on the outer moorings who has offered to store our rods for th
e remaining three days.’

  ‘You’re going to keep fishing?’ said Captain Pete. ‘After everything they’ve done to you?’

  ‘What else can they do to me?’ said Karl.

  ‘They’ll find something,’ said Captain Pete. ‘They always do.’

  The following day, Gerardo managed to squeeze fourteen knots out of the diesels as they went in search of the warm current. It had moved another twelve kilometres further west, costing Karl more valuable fishing time. Once again he regretted buying the Elliott. As much as he loved Billfisher, it had taken them three hours to reach the current while a boat with a planing hull, like Captain Pete’s Salthouse 62, would have taken little over two. Allowing three hours for the return trip, he had just four hours of fishing time. He glanced over to the panga, which had once again stationed itself off their stern. Even that could cover the distance in half the time it took Billfisher.

  For two hours their lures swam unmolested in a flat, lifeless sea. There were no sea lions, no porpoises, no whales — nothing to ripple the water or give them hope that life was lurking beneath the surface. They searched the horizon fruitlessly for diving birds. There was nothing to encourage hope or lift their spirits. Just when it seemed Karl’s hot run had finally come to an end, a big blue hit the nearest lure.

  Karl leaped to his feet and grabbed the rod. He held the tip high as Jose clipped him into the shoulder harness, and waited for the marlin to complete its first blistering run. It threw itself out of the water, somersaulting and shaking its head from side to side as it tried to dislodge the hook.

  ‘It’s a good fish, patrón,’ confirmed Gerardo from the flying bridge.‘Not as big as yesterday but big enough.’

  Karl watched the line fizz off his reel. The fish felt big, indisputably big. He leaned backwards, hard against the pull of the rod, hoping to turn the marlin’s head towards the boat. He would have crashed onto the deck if Jose hadn’t been standing behind him and caught him. The lack of bend in the rod confirmed his fears.

  ‘Wind, patrón!’ screamed Gerardo.‘Maybe he is swimming towards us.’

  Karl wound like a man possessed in the slim hope that Gerardo was right. But he could feel nothing. Not even the weight of the lure.

  ‘Relax. It’s gone,’ said Gerardo.

  Karl pulled in the rest of the line up to the double. As Jose reached over to retrieve the rest of the line, the lack of trace and lure made it obvious what had happened.

  Karl’s shoulders slumped and he glared up at Gerardo.

  ‘For heaven’s sake! Haven’t I got enough to contend with? If you can’t tie knots properly we may as well give up now and go home!’ He slammed the rod into the rod holder and stormed inside to cool off and drown his disappointment in a Coke. Gerardo and Jose watched him go, stony-faced.

  It took Karl an hour to cool off sufficiently to apologise.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘I was hot and upset.

  ‘Could even have been one of my knots that broke.’

  ‘Patrón,’ said Gerardo,‘I am not perfect but I always do my best. Please don’t shout at me like that. It feels like someone is sticking hot needles in my ears.’

  Karl apologised for shouting.

  That evening they checked into the marina with nothing to trouble the weigh-master or the committee.

  ‘We’ve all had that happen,’ said Captain Pete sympathetically. ‘In the middle of a tournament?’ said Karl.

  ‘It’s a pain any time,’ said Captain Pete. ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘Hang in,’ said Karl.‘We’ve still got two days.’

  ‘Keep in touch,’ said Captain Pete and hung up.

  ‘Sailfish weather,’ said Gerardo.

  ‘Pez vela,’ echoed Jose.‘Sailfish.’

  Overhead, pale, thin clouds diluted the tropical blue of the sky while fresh breezes from the northwest put white caps on the tops of waves. Karl put down his book and closed his eyes. Pez vela, sailfish — by whatever name it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. Only blue marlin, marlin azul, would do. Nothing less.

  Wheeling birds and distant splashes alerted them to the fact that they were closing in on the warm current.

  ‘Sailfish, patrón,’ said Gerardo. ‘Look at them! They are going crazy.’

  In a reprise of the wonderful day on the rise south of Cerralvo when the striped marlin had decided to spend the day free jumping, sailfish rose vertically like so many silver missiles almost everywhere Karl looked. It was the sort of scene he’d dreamed of back in Salina, but with the deadline for catching a trophy marlin looming, he could only look on with a sense of frustration.

  ‘Sometimes, patrón, we cannot catch the fish we want. Sometimes we have to catch the fish that are there. Today is our chance to win the Honda outboard. There is no shame in winning the Honda outboard. Winning is winning.’

  But it wasn’t winning the big one. Karl slipped on his game belt in preparation, wishing he could feel more enthusiastic.

  ‘Get with it!’ he said softly, berating himself. Five weeks earlier, he’d never even caught a billfish. Now he was behaving like a prima donna over the type and size. He wanted a blue marlin but had to settle for a sailfish. Five weeks earlier, a sailfish — any sailfish — represented the thrill of a lifetime. Chastened, he determined to do as Gerardo suggested and catch what was there to be caught. Moreover, he resolved to enjoy it.

  The first sailfish would have been fun on a twenty-pound rod, but on a fifty it was a one-sided contest. This was the rod that two days before had brought in two hundred and eighty-eight kilos of angry blue marlin. It was hardly troubled by a twenty-seven-kilo sail. He brought it in quickly to minimise the stress on the fish.

  The second sailfish was a respectable thirty-five kilos and fought above its weight. On a twenty-pound rod it would have been an epic battle. The third sailfish struck right on the stroke of two o’clock, the limit of their fishing time.

  ‘This is the one, patrón, this is the one!’ The pitch of Gerardo’s voice eliminated all doubt.

  Could it be? Karl decided to fight the fish without the benefit of the shoulder harness.

  ‘Wind when he jumps,’ said Gerardo.

  Karl didn’t need telling. He concentrated as hard as he could, reacting to the feel of the rod, playing the fish as he’d been taught. He didn’t look up at the fish as it threw itself about the ocean, didn’t look to see how big it was, didn’t look to see if it really was the one, as Gerardo had claimed. Could he be that lucky? In the space of four days, he’d caught a trophy dorado and a championship-sized blue marlin. He was running hot but could he really nail a third trophy fish so soon? In his heart he was prepared to accept that winning the sailfish section might be the best he could now do. Maybe it wasn’t the main prize but it was a first prize and, given that this was his first tournament, perhaps it was enough.

  ‘Concentrate, patrón!’ admonished Gerardo. ‘You want to lose this fish?’

  Karl glanced up at his skipper to acknowledge the reprimand. A fish isn’t caught until it’s boated, and a competition isn’t won until the trophy is awarded. He accepted he was getting ahead of himself. For the first time, he stole a glance at his sailfish as Gerardo backed up towards it. Its size took him by surprise. It was big enough to be a good stripey, certainly bigger than many of the striped marlin he’d caught off Cerralvo.

  ‘Easy, patrón, easy.’

  Karl guided the fish gently towards him as Jose prepared to take the double.

  ‘Good fish, patrón,’ said Gerardo as he sank the gaff home. ‘This is bigger than any sailfish caught so far. This is at least seventy kilos.’

  The sound of the panga coming close to inspect their catch made Karl glance at his watch. Two twenty-five. Even going flat out, it would be lineball whether they made it back to the committee panga and collected their red disc in time.

  ‘I’m taking the helm,’ he said, climbed the steps up to the flying bridge and turned Billfisher for home. Gerar
do and Jose were still hosing down the sailfish and clearing the deck when the twin diesels hit maximum revs.

  ‘Are we going to make it?’ asked Karl, once Gerardo had taken over the controls.

  ‘I think so, patrón,’ said Gerardo.

  ‘We’d better,’ said Karl.

  He went aft to tell Jose to keep hosing down the fish to minimise dehydration. He wanted his sailfish weighing as close to its landed weight as possible. He made himself a sandwich but threw half away uneaten. He poured himself a beer and tipped half down the sink. This was his last chance and there was no getting away from it. He had been extraordinarily lucky. Under normal circumstances and in any other tournament he would have weighed in the biggest fish in two categories and be favourite for the prizes. He was about to weigh in a third. Captain Pete had told him about fishermen who went years without winning a tournament or even any of the lesser categories. Yes, he had been lucky, and yes, he still had a day to go. But luck like he’d enjoyed didn’t last. All his hopes for winning a prize resided in the sailfish lying on the stern deck. Provided they got back to the marina in time.

  ‘How are we doing?’ he asked Gerardo for the umpteenth time.

  ‘It will be close, patrón, it will be close.’

  The radar image showed the coastline around Barra de Navidad and a stream of boats heading towards it. Karl looked at his watch.

  ‘Damn it!’ he said.

  ‘We’ll make it, patrón. Trust me.’