“How were your eggs?” Arch asked with a tiny smile. That seared me. I wanted Archie to fight back. If anyone had assaulted me verbally, I would have uncorked like shaken champagne. I wanted these men to defend themselves and pledge their innocence or ignorance or something. I wanted them to give me something to take another swipe at. But they simply stood and stared at my face as it deepened in redness. This was Archie’s gentle way of telling me everything was okay, and that I should take a deep breath. I took that breath, and the men went back to the knife and the thumb, unscathed.
CHAPTER 7
Let’s Catch Fish
So the jig was up. And, I realized, being captain had a lot in common with love—it meant never having to say “I’m sorry.” Thinking back, I couldn’t recall ever apologizing to crew for lashing out, or anything else for that matter. I certainly would not begin now, which was significant to me in that it indicated a stoicism of sorts. It was practically tangible proof that I could point to and say with something well nigh to conviction, “There. See, I haven’t changed.” As strange as this may sound, rather than being embarrassed for my outburst, I was in fact relieved that I still had it in me. And so spontaneous! I wouldn’t waste any more time wondering whether my newfound ability to remain cool in any calamity was a result of maturity or a desire to portray myself in any particular way. That point was now moot.
Another pimple of positivity that came to the surface of this irritated boil of a situation was my ability to remain unmoved by what others might see as a blunder on my part. It’s a type of grace that a person is born with, I think. It can’t be learned. Either you have it or you don’t. I’ve always had a knack for manipulating the sun at the center of my personal universe to keep me in the most favorable light, no matter what degree of cloudiness I have created. An offshoot of this mentality is the fact that it’s nearly impossible to embarrass or insult me. Some might call it being thick-skinned. I would disagree. But whatever the case, this psychological twisting of “never let them see you sweat” had served me well through the years. It’s not that I do not sweat. I just don’t admit that I sweat. That’s not to say that I have the power to bend light in the eyes of others. Basically I’m a master of self-deception. The upside of viewing life through rose-colored glasses is a deep and relentless optimism regardless of how bad others sharing a situation might perceive it to be. The downside is real disappointment and frequent disenchantment when reality finds its way through the sparkling glitter of my vision.
Archie and Dave had not been bothered by my tantrum. They had taken it neither personally nor seriously. Although their reaction was never verbalized, I got a sense that they found it humorous. Word spread quickly through the ranks, and the phrase of the week became “Meanwhile, aboard the Seahawk …” The original trigger point—that I didn’t want anyone else playing captain—was lost when the handwritten sign that I posted in the wheelhouse—DO NOT PUSH BUTTONS, TURN KNOBS, OR ADJUST ANYTHING!!!—was replaced with one that Archie designed on his PC and printed in bold red letters. He even included all three exclamation points. There had been times, and this was one of them, when I found it easier to deal with fish than with fishermen. It was most definitely time to get fishing. Then the crew and I would all unite against a common enemy—the sword.
Swordfish and I had been adversaries for a long time, I thought as I sat back in the chair and mused over the bow and into the future. I like to think that I know my enemy, and reflecting on the past would be most helpful in reacquainting myself with this one. I had read most of the small amount of literature available on the biology of swordfish, and some of it is contradictory, indicating how little is actually known. Personal experience and observations through the course of my twenty-year work-study had taught me most of what I know about the behavior of swordfish. I couldn’t help speculating on what that same experience had taught the fish. There have always been fish that just can’t be outsmarted. And that is critical to their ultimate survival. I wondered what swordfish know about this predator and was immediately embarrassed by the thought. Did the fish know I no longer had a need to catch them? Did they know that wants were as strong as needs in me? Did they realize the lengths to which I would go to fulfill this particular want? What I wanted most in the world at this moment was to put a slammer trip of fish aboard the Seahawk. The fulfillment of this deep-seated desire hinged on my ability to know my enemy to the point of knowing where they would be prior to their arrival.
When I say “I love swordfish,” I am not necessarily commenting on them as a meal, although I surely do enjoy them in that capacity. Swordfish are the most interesting creatures! They are fascinating and intriguing in their unique combination of fish and sword—like a unicorn, but real. The facts and figures surrounding swordfish perhaps explain what makes them so worthy of my lifetime pursuit of them. The speed at which they travel, the distances they cover in their migration, and their strength all contribute to the quality most frequently attributed to them, elusiveness. I can’t imagine a life spent digging clams or trapping slime eels—they’re just so … ordinary. What’s to know about a clam? You traipse around the clam flats looking for holes in the surface of the mud. One hole, one clam, as my Aunt Gracie used to say. You see a hole, you dig, and you find a clam. Big deal. A clam does not possess the ability to dodge the digger. Swordfish, in contrast, are mysterious and challenging and sexy. You never hear stories about the giant clam that got away. Clams have no personality. You’ve seen one clam, you’ve seen them all.
Although I had never regarded swordfish merely as hunks of meat, I sensed that my feelings about my relationship with the fish had grown into something more intimate or substantial in the past ten years when I was not pursuing them. Was this an example of absence making the heart grow fonder? No, nothing so sentimental. Time is money. I had a lot invested in this relationship. Defining that relationship is more complex (for “complex,” read “confusing”) than doing the same for most of my others. Each individual swordfish is an entity to be reckoned with. Longlining is not casting a net and hauling in whatever gets in the way. It’s a plan of attack that targets fish one at a time. Patterns of behavior lead to numbers being caught. But still, there is a point in each fish’s capture or release when it’s a one-on-one fight. That’s the romantic part. The most beautiful and stoic picture in the fishery is the image of one human finessing one fish. Until the fish is either dead on the deck or swimming away, that relationship is absolutely tentative. The flip of a tail could amount to slack line and sunken hearts aboard the boat. The wrap of a line around something too solid results in the same line going slack. Weary arms and impatience also lead to pulled hooks and lost fish. Heavy weather always plays on the side of the sword. Often, big tangles of gear come aboard devoid of a fish that must have escaped before the real match. At times it seems that fish have a huge advantage in the battle.
Do fish have the capacity to experience feelings of defeat or triumph? The belief that they do makes catching them that much more intense an experience. Who wants to engage in battle with a rock? I have in the past maintained that anthropomorphism is Greek to me. But it’s impossible to avoid attributing human characteristics, motivations, and qualities to a swordfish once you’ve encountered one eye to eye in its last gasp before succumbing, or once you’ve sensed the bravado in the slap of a tail of one fresh off the hook and diving for freedom. It’s an egotistical world that I live in. It’s a world that revolves around all I know and believe. Swordfish, among everything else, can be described and understood only in terms of “me.” Once I discovered that swordfish are monogamous, I perceived the partners of those dead on hooks I’d hauled that followed their mates to the surface, allowing me to harpoon them, as suicidal. We call them “twofers” and believe that the survivor of the hook just could not go on without its better half. We, according to our own lore, put the second fish out of its misery. As ridiculous as that sounds, if you haven’t been there, you haven’t been there.
&
nbsp; On the other end of the sword personality spectrum is the fish as a warrior. Xiphias gladius is the Braveheart of the ocean. With few existing natural predators, swordfish through the ages have probably wiped out anything that could have been a threat. Their flat, double-edged bill is a built-in weapon. And nothing wields a weapon more quickly or with more dexterity than a swordfish. I have seen their samurai act firsthand. I now remembered that episode with the same amazement I’d felt when seeing the original version.
It was way back in my college days when I worked the deck of the Walter Leeman for Alden Leeman during summer breaks. We fished Georges Bank this particular trip, and because of that we were able to longline and harpoon. You see, Georges is one of the few places in the world where swordfish “fin,” or come to the surface, making them targets for “stick fishing.” It was a blistering-hot day, the type that almost never occurs offshore. We had hauled aboard the last of the longline gear and jogged up onto the bank to look for finners. The water was cooler up on the shoals, creating a low layer of wispy fog that curled and drifted aimlessly over the surface like steam on a hot skillet. Harpooning was my favorite part of any day, and I scrambled up to the crow’s nest, where I took my newly won position of helmsman. I had eyes that could literally see fish, plain and simple. I could see them far away. I could see them close by. And I could see them underwater and anticipate where they would break the surface next. I could see fish that others could not, no matter how vigorously I pointed or directed by hour of the clock or compass rose. There was a method to my scan, and it worked. Although five of us looked, I spotted 90 percent of the fish we successfully “ironed” that season.
As soon as I was situated at the top of the mast, Alden switched the engine controls from the wheelhouse to where I could drive, with the aim of putting the boat on any fish I could find so that Alden could throw the dart. There was only one way to put the boat on a fish. That was to lead the fish with the bow of the boat, or to sort of maneuver the boat so that our paths intersected stem to sword in a crossing fashion. Not head-on or by the tail, as either of those approaches would spook the fish before it was close enough to attempt a throw of the harpoon. The fish doesn’t get nervous as long as it has an eye on what’s coming. That alone speaks volumes about swordfish attitude. A seventy-foot vessel powered by a six-hundred-horse diesel engine, looming high above the surface as well as cutting through well below, does not cause a fish to make a quick exit unless it comes from behind. I was well versed in boat handling, and I learned the strategy quickly under Alden’s tutelage. We, as a team, had been quite formidable. Of course, we owed a lot of our prowess to Alden’s ability to really pitch the pole, launching a Hail Mary shot and making miraculous contact.
My hands were black with soot from the exhaust that coated the mast and the rungs of the ladder I scaled to achieve the highest post on the boat. From below, Alden shouted an occasional compass heading for me to follow as we poked along hoping for fins. I searched the horizon—all 360 degrees of it—which was relatively close in the hazy conditions. On every other rotation, I looked down, deep into the water all around the boat. The rest of the crew was just coming out of the fish hold, where they had iced what the hooks had produced today. They yelled up that they were going to the galley for lunch and would bring me a sandwich when they came up the mast to help look. It was almost getting to be a joke. I knew they wouldn’t see anything. They knew it, too. “Come on, Linda! Find us a fish!” And they disappeared like ants into a hill beneath me. Some days Alden would let the crew nap while we harpooned, waking them only to haul the rigs back aboard and take care of the fish. But this hadn’t been the best day hookwise, and Alden wasn’t in the most charitable mood. So after lunch it would be all hands in the mast or on the forward deck.
I wanted badly to find a fish before the rest of the crew emerged from the fo’c’sle, which I suppose is some weird fallout from my competitive nature. Or perhaps it’s due to selfishness. Being alone in the crow’s nest and driving the boat onto a fish to be stuck with a hand-thrown harpoon is the most exciting and exhilarating experience. It’s a thrill that is addictive, and there was a desire in me to not water it down with company. It all starts with fins cutting the surface. The dart penetrates fish. The line zips overboard, ripped from clothespins that hold it along the pulpit—snap, snap, snap—I can still feel that sound. I looked hard, with the belief that if you search hard enough, you can produce fish. Working in the crow’s nest is also my deepest connection to the past. Harpooning is the most primitive and fundamental way to catch a fish. It’s a frenzied sensation that I suspect I must share with the whalers of old.
As I was scanning the horizon over the port bow, a splash caught my eye off to the starboard. I concentrated on where the surface was riled up, thinking it could have been a porpoise or a tuna, as swordfish rarely breach. Fins cut the surface and then disappeared. It was too quick for me to identify as a sword. My heart raced as I pushed the throttle up and turned toward where I had seen the fins, hoping for another look. There they were again! They were big and wide-set. It must be a great fish, I thought, as Alden made his way out to the end of the pulpit and untied the harpoon. A second pair of fins popped out, seemingly chasing the first. They were different, and I recognized them as shark fins. Too stiff for blue shark. When they broke the surface again, we were closer. “Mako!” I yelled, and prayed we would beat the shark to the fish, as I knew that the shortfin mako is one of the swordfish’s only natural predators. The water roiled as the two sets of fins clashed and then submerged. I slowed the boat and kept looking at the spot where the fish had been.
“Can you still see them?” Alden shouted from the stand.
“Yes. I can see shadows, but they’re too deep to hit. It looks like the sword is attacking the shark!” And back to the surface they came, all thrashing and throwing water about. They were close off our starboard side. They separated and stayed on the surface, circling each other like dueling gunfighters preparing to draw. From my vantage point, I could see a cloud of blood in the water. Alden instructed me to put him on the mako first, since he knew that the fish would surely be eaten by the shark once it was disadvantaged by the harpoon. I was full of nervous excitement. I’d seen fish and sharks tangle before, but always when the fish had been in the vulnerable situation of being stuck on a hook and tethered to longline gear. I’d seen on too many occasions the remains of what a mako shark can’t eat before we haul it away and aboard the boat. The fish never fares well. But this mako was going after a free swimmer!
As we neared, the mako was swimming directly behind the swordfish, as if it would take a bite out of its tail. My heart raced faster as I estimated the sword to weigh at least three hundred pounds, which would be a day saver. And the mako looked even bigger. We had to kill the shark before it got the fish! Suddenly the swordfish turned 180 degrees—in the length of its body—and slashed at the shark with its massive bill. More blood streamed. Alden turned to his right and launched the harpoon. He ironed the mako dead in the center of its fins—“backboning,” as we say when the spine is severed, killing the fish instantly. The shark sank, pulling the dart line from the boat slowly until the buoy marking the end went over the side.
I put the boat in gear and made a lazy circle around the buoy. I searched the water around the boat for the swordfish. I scanned the horizon. I looked deep. There were no fins. There was no cigar-shaped purple shadow below. I prayed that the fish would give us a shot. Alden had rerigged the harpoon with another dart and line, then waited poised to throw at the end of the narrow stand sticking out from the bow much like the bill from a fish. “Where’s the sword?” Alden asked, without looking up.
“I don’t see it,” I answered, without looking at him.
“Jesus Christ! Did you take your eyes off the fish? It was a monster!” Alden was pissed. I was disappointed, and I knew from experience not to remind the captain that he had ordered me to go onto the shark first. I kept looking, but the fish was go
ne. Alden kept crabbing at me about losing the fish. He blamed me. I was used to it. Besides, I realized that if I took some credit for the fish we got, I also had to shoulder some of the responsibility for the ones that got away. The more Alden bitched, the more I started resenting the swordfish for tricking us. We had been lured into a ploy to kill the sword’s worst enemy. I felt like a character in one of Aesop’s fables, where the animals teach some moral lesson. But I didn’t know what the lesson was.
It was a frustrating afternoon, with only one buoy bobbing around to show for our effort. When it came time to think about setting the longline, Alden had one of the guys haul the rig with the mako attached. The shark came aboard all limp, as we expected. It had deep gashes and long cuts from its fight with the sword. We all agreed that this was indeed a first, to see a mako lose a battle with a swordfish. This swordfish, the one that got away, was the warrior of all warriors. The crew was skeptical about the details I supplied. I guess I wouldn’t have believed the story either if I hadn’t seen it myself. When the butcher cleaned the shark and examined the contents of its stomach, he exclaimed with some amazement about a small fish he found among the half-digested foodstuff in the shark’s recent diet. I inspected the fish along with the rest of the crew. It was the tiniest baby sword any of us had ever seen. We surmised the one that got away to have been the baby’s mother, and I felt better about her escape and no longer resented her for tricking me into killing the shark.
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