Extreme Fishing

by Robson Green

  As we pop him back, Tom suggests we perhaps try to catch a bluefin tuna instead. Jamie says no, because we are now going to do that on a trawler at the end of the week and our catch is likely to be much bigger than it would be here. We all agree to stick with the shark fishing. But right at the time of the discussion, Jamie’s phone starts beeping. It’s a text from the captain of the trawler 100 miles out at sea. It simply says ‘They’ve gone’, meaning the tuna.

  ‘Thank fuck we didn’t go out with them. It would have been a complete waste of time,’ I say.

  I have never been so happy in my whole life to miss three days on a blinking trawler without the prospect of catching a single fish. And it’s all down to my dad.

  Jamie looks at his phone for a while.

  ‘OK, let’s catch a bluefin,’ he says.

  Thank God for that. I’m always happier catching a fish we can actually eat, rather than one that wants to eat me. We head further out into the Atlantic, now in pursuit of Thunnus thynnus, which can grow to the size of a small car and put up one hell of a fight. The birds are feeding, which means only one thing: big fish are gorging on bait fish.

  We set out our lines, baited with plastic jelly skip bait that replicates sardines or mackerel in the water, and begin to trawl. Jeff can see bluefin tuna leaping 100 yards away. We head towards them. The suspense is killing me but after half an hour there are still no bites. Surely I’m not going to miss out again. All of a sudden, one of the reels starts to scream. I take the rod, with the help of Jeff, and plug it into my special ‘mangina’. The pull on the line is incredible. It feels like a massive bluefin tuna but that could be wishful thinking. The muscles in my back are stretched to their limit but still the fish keeps running.

  ‘This is a big fish! Such a strong, powerful, ocean-going Ferrari!’

  I slowly wind in but the fish takes out more and more line.

  ‘You hear that? That is the sound of power. He’s turning me round, he’s turning me round. Oh, stop, please! This is some beast, I’m telling you now we’re in for some shock if we get this on board,’ I yell out to anyone who’s listening.

  After twenty minutes he seems to tire and I can wind him in again . . . As the fish gets nearer, the pull gets stronger. I am in real trouble; my back is knackered and I’m in serious pain.

  ‘Oh, it’s going under the boat!’ I shout.

  Shooting pains are making me feel sick but I can’t lose this fish. I ask Jeff if I am doing something wrong or standing incorrectly.

  ‘No, this is what they do to you,’ he says, as I heave the rod up and reel with all my might. ‘You’re gonna want to stay right in this corner and swing him out. There you go, get a crank.’

  ‘I can’t!’

  ‘There you go, you’re doing good,’ says Jeff. ‘We got colour!’

  I look at the side of the boat. It’s a monster. How on earth are we going to get it on board? I am dizzy with pain.

  ‘Ready, 3, 2, 1 . . .’

  Jeff and Tom heave the tuna on board and I go mental, like a schoolboy with ADHD, shouting, ‘That’s why we came here! Look at that fish! Oh, yes, man, get in! Whoah! This is why we came to Boston, this is why we came to Cape Cod. We did it, Jeff, you’re the man. Tom de Persia’s the man. What have we got, a hundred and twenty, hundred and fifty-pound?!’

  Jeff confirms it’s a 150-pound bluefin. It’s astonishing. I suddenly experience a release of tension; all the anxieties I have been storing up about my father are exorcised in that moment. This bluefin symbolises that everything is going to be OK. I sit on deck holding the fish in my arms, completely overwhelmed. I can’t stop looking at every inch in admiration. The Latin name Thunnus means ‘to dart away quickly’, which is spot-on because this shinning metallic and silvery creature is made of pure muscle and is one of the fastest animals on the planet. Its design is incredible: the dorsal fin fits into a slot and comes up like a small jib when needed and then goes down again into a groove to make it streamlined, like a jet. It is beautiful, quite beautiful, but its striking eyes seem doleful and part of me is sad to have taken this creature from its home in the ocean. It’s a paradox of emotions: I’m overwhelmed at the hunt but it’s tinged with melancholy at the fish’s sacrifice. However, nothing will go to waste and that is how we show respect for the creatures whose lives we take, by not wasting a morsel and, like the Native Americans, giving thanks in our hearts. This fish will now become a part of me, and much bigger parts of my hungry crew. Bluefin tuna is around $40 per pound, so ours is worth over $6,000. We take a slab of the vibrant pink meat to a sushi restaurant near the harbour, where Kong the chef prepares it. He explains that the best part of the tuna for sashimi is the o-toro cut, which is the fattiest part of the belly, up near the head. It’s a very pale pink meat that melts on the tongue. Other cuts are the akami, pure red meat from the back of the fish (my favourite), and chu-toro, marbled pink belly meat that is rich and buttery in taste. We eat with Tom, Jeff and the rest of crew. The sushi is delicious, among the best I have ever tasted; just like the tuna I tried off the coast of Costa Rica, it tastes clean.

  Back at the hotel I have a shower and phone Dad. He is feeling better and tells me he is going to be fine. He’s hoping to get ‘released’ tomorrow. I tell him he inadvertently saved me from another trawler journey from hell.

  ‘Saved you from a bit of hard work, eh?’ he chuckles.

  I lie on the bed reflecting on how different our lives have been. Compared to his life down the pit, it is amazing how lucky I’ve been and I know he is very proud of me. Dad started out as a putter (pushing the coal carts), then a face worker, and worked his way up to deputy leader of a team – a role that demanded the respect of the lads underground, which he had in abundance. Whatever he asked, they delivered. However, his favourite job was looking after the pit ponies. Dad adored horses, just like his brother, Matheson. It was their shared passion.

  As I lie there I swear I hear a whinny followed by a long neigh. I sit up on the bed. My mind is playing tricks. I must be exhausted. I lie back down. No, there it is again. I sit up and listen intently. Now more like a short groan, the kind of sound I make when I put my socks on in the morning. Another whinny accompanies the groan – someone’s in pain. I suddenly twig: it’s the elderly couple in the next room going ‘at it’, pensioner-style. Oh, my God! Whatever they’re doing sounds sore. I head downstairs for a pint of American lager, trying to rid my head of the sepia imagery. I take a sip of my Sam Adams. I am lobster fishing tomorrow. I smile as Peter Cook and Dudley Moore’s Jayne Mansfield/lobster sketch pops into my head. Now, that would be sore.

  Lobster Fishing

  Lobster boats go out in all weathers to get their catch, and thinking about how cold it is at the moment I opt to wear a survival suit, a special type of waterproof dry suit that will protect me from hypothermia should I end up in the drink. Unfortunately I am roasting like the proverbial trussed up like this, and when I meet Jim Ryan, he is dressed in only a pullover and waterproof dungarees, not a full-on survival suit. Now, unlike women, men freak out when they aren’t dressed the same and at this party I have turned up wearing the wrong kit – it’s embarrassing and Jim takes the piss immediately. I warm to him instantly. He is a jovial soul with a laugh like The Joker from Batman. For eight hours he doesn’t stop laughing.

  Jim and his first mate Matt harvest and bait up to 400 lobster pots a day. The forecast is for rough seas but we head out anyway. These are normal conditions for lobstermen and there is no turning back. After the curse of the Ocean Pearl in Canada, I laugh in the face of a mere choppy sea.

  We bring up the first pot, which has two lobsters in it. Anything that has a body measuring between three and five inches is a keeper, anything smaller or larger must go back. It’s only a three-man boat but there is still a pecking order. One of them catches the pots; the second job is to remove the lobsters, size them and put elastic bands around the claws to prevent the amputation of fishermen’s fingers or other lobsters’ pin
cers when they get a bit feisty, and the third job is to re-bait the pots before putting them back out to sea. Rather like Peter Mandelson or Camilla Parker Bowles, I am the third man. You’d have thought an extra pair of hands would have been helpful to a two-man crew, but in reality I am a bloody hindrance. Re-baiting is the job you give to the genetically challenged bloke – it’s pretty straightforward: you fill the traps with cod skins, which are honking, and throw them back out to sea – but I still can’t master it and am slowing the whole process down. The closed season is limited to only three months a year (January–April), which means these guys need to catch as many lobsters as possible five days a week. I fear I am beginning to have a negative effect on their bank balances.

  ‘Jim, I’m covered in fish guts, you can’t go home to your girlfriend smelling like this . . . or maybe she likes the aroma of rotting herring . . . cod skin and rotting herring, guaranteed a girlfriend or your money back,’ I say, still baiting the pots.

  Jim beams at me and cackles like The Joker. These guys absolutely reek of fish and now so do I; cod skin is in every pore. They fish all day, go to bed and then fish all the next day. I don’t think they’ve seen a bar of soap for months. It’s like when Napoleon sent the apocryphal message to Josephine: ‘Home in three days. Don’t wash!’ So typically French. Whether it’s true or not is unimportant; let’s just say we all know why the French invented perfume.

  Matt gets me to start bringing up the pots, and nineteen later I’m exhausted – it’s tough work. Jim says: ‘It’s not for everyone.’ He works ten hours a day, doing 400 pots five times a week, and why? Because he absolutely loves it. For some, like Peter Cook, it would be possibly ‘the worst job they’ve ever had’.

  Jim gives me a Homarus gammarus anatomy lesson. Each lobster has a crusher claw and a pincer claw, and can be left- or right-handed depending upon which side the crusher claw is on.

  ‘The female tails are fatter and the crusher claw is smaller,’ he says. He turns one over: ‘See that he’s got two pricks? They’re hard.’ He picks up a female: ‘See her, she got soft ones, kind of like real life, right?’

  I tell him it’s a family show.

  To explain more fully, lobsters have feathery appendages called swimmerets under their tail, which help them swim and also helps the female carry her eggs. The first pair of swimmerets closest to the head are soft on a female and hard on the male. These are what Jim was referring to as ‘pricks’. Lobsters nest in rocky areas where they can hide, but they also burrow like rabbits in the sand and live in depths of up to 400 metres or shallower waters. Their main diet is a daily platter of fruits de mer: crab, mussels, clams, starfish (not the chocolate ones), marine worms, small fish and shrimp. Another bit of trivia is that the creature’s anus is at tip of its tail, so bear that in mind next time you order lobster arsehole salad.

  Back on dry land we cook the lobsters for a feast on the beach. The correct way to kill a lobster isn’t by tossing it in a pot of boiling water, but in fact by placing it in a pan of cold water and gently heating it up. The warm water sends the lobsters to sleep before the water begins to boil, and it is a much more humane method of killing these creatures. The major pigment in lobster shell is called astaxanthin, which in live lobsters is bound to proteins that change colour, to green, greenish brown or blue. As we cook the lobster the bond between the proteins and the astaxan-thin is broken down to release it to its free state and true colour: red. So now you know why their shells turn scarlet!

  We settle down and eat our bounty. Jim and Matt cover theirs in loads of butter (‘Butter makes everything better,’ Jim smiles.) I have mine steamed with a hint of lemon, just like I do at J. Sheekey’s in London. I’m such a ponce. They slurp the butter like gravy, dipping their bread in it. The lobster tastes remarkable, not that they’d know it as they may as well have had Krispy Kreme doughnuts with theirs. I suppose eating lobster gets boring after a while. I’m glad there’s such a good perk to a very tough job.

  Wild Bass Chase

  Cape Cod isn’t all about heading out into the wild Atlantic; some great fish lurk in the creeks and rivers that feed the Cape. However, winter’s on the way and finding fish that haven’t migrated south yet is going to be a real challenge. I meet Mike Rice, who will be showing me where to catch striped bass. The thing I love about the striper is that it’s covered in black and white stripes just like my beloved football team, Newcastle. To catch a Geordie of the ocean is my destiny.

  I shake hands with Mike, a good-looking, charismatic, lean guy who reminds me of Jon Bon Jovi. At this time of year, the local fishermen here have to cooperate on an almost military level to maximise their chances of catching, so we join Mike’s fishing buddies, Brian, Pete and Scotty, to discuss strategy.

  ‘So, what’s the plan, Mike?’ I ask.

  Mike’s all over it: ‘What we’ll do is split up. Pete’s going to one area, Scotty’s going to another, we’re going to go to a small creek. They’re all pretty close, within twenty minutes of each other, so if one spot starts to get active we can jump in the truck and be there pretty quick.’

  These fishermen tell us the striped bass are in their thousands in this area and it’s just a matter of finding them. I’m excited – the chase is on! Mike and I head for Scorton Creek, which is flat and marshy but conditions are perfect for catching bass on the fly. The light is constant and not too bright, and I’m starting to feel pretty confident.

  After three or so hours of relentless casting I am tired and very bored. ‘I don’t think there’s anything here,’ I say to Mike. ‘But you know it’s not just about catching fish, is it?’

  ‘No. It’s about being out here,’ he replies.

  ‘And the companionship,’ I add.

  ‘Some of my best days on the water have been when I haven’t caught a thing,’ he says nonchalantly. Alarm bells ring in my head. I remind him I’ve travelled 4,000 miles.

  ‘I’ve got a wife and kids, Mike. A personal reputation. There’s a career at stake here,’ I say.

  Mike knows I’m not going to be dicked around on some kind of wild bass chase. He is under pressure so he checks to see how the others are doing. Brian’s caught and released a fourteen-inch shad. If shad are feeding, the bass could be, too. Time to head to Brian’s spot to see if we have better luck there. We arrive at Sandwich Harbour and the first thing I see is a seal. This is not a good sign as they like to eat all the fish, but the other lads caught here earlier so we decide to stay in spite of the competition.

  We cast our lines out again and again in the hope that maybe, just maybe, we’ll bang into some striped bass. Twenty minutes later it looks as if Mike’s hooked something. The seal is interested, too.

  ‘That seal’s just gone for Mike’s fish,’ I say to camera. ‘It’s just gone for Mike’s fish! Oh, he’s right here, he’s right in front of me. Look at him. Lovely to look at, but at the moment that seal’s a right bastard.’

  Jamie wants me to deliver more lines about the seal to camera while the pinniped (from the Latin pinna, ‘fin’, and ped, ‘foot’) is still in shot. I continue: ‘People may look at the image of a seal and think, “What a wonderful, inspiring sight” – but to an angler they are a menace as they scare off all the fish and, surprise, surprise, today our fate is sealed. There’s no bloody fish here!’

  In the middle of the take a car pulls up in between me and the camera on the road behind. A guy jumps out.

  ‘Hey, guys, you makin’ a movie?’ he asks in a distinctive Brooklyn drawl. ‘The name’s Mike, from Mike’s Automobile Collectibles. How yoo dooin’? What’s the movie called?’

  ‘Well, Mike, thanks for destroying our take. It’s called Extreme Fishing with Robson Green,’ I say, grinning at Jamie, who is looking distinctly pissed off.

  ‘That’s awesome. Who’s Robson?’

  ‘Take a wild guess, Mike.’

  ‘You’re Robson? That’s awesome! Here, I got some caps for you all with my logo on it! Google me. I buy and sell o
ld cars . . . I’m on the Internet. I’ve had four hundred thousand hits!’

  ‘I think you’re on drugs, Mike . . . Could you please get out of my shot?’

  ‘Have a keyring and my card. You guys are awesome . . . Robson, we definitely got something going here,’ he says, shaking my hand.

  ‘Yes, Mike, it’s called mild irritation,’ I say, putting on one of his hats.

  He gives us a wave, jumps in the car and drives off. Basically he wanted me to plug his company on the programme – and actually, you know what, you have to applaud the guy’s chutzpah. Mike is going all the way! However, had my dad been here he would definitely have chinned him! I chuckle at the scene in my head of Big Rob throwing Mike across the bonnet of his own car. I look round at fisherman Mike and imagine doing the same to him. I’m beginning to get tired of being Yanked around.

  After another fruitless hour we are heading back to Scorton Creek, again. Morale is low and everyone is frustrated. In the truck, I try to lighten the mood by regaling Mike with tales from my glittering music career.

  ‘The act was called Robson and Jerome. We knew we had to stop when a woman brought her two guinea pigs, Robson and Jerome, on a show called Animal Hospital. Rolf Harris says, “What’s wrong?” She says, “It’s Robson, he’s not right.” And then, in front of millions, Robson wobbles about on his back, fitting. Rolf says, “There’s only one thing to do about this poor little fella.” The vet gets a large needle out and live on TV they put him down. Robson died! My mum rang up, “Have you seen you’re on the other side? You’re a guinea pig.” “Was a guinea pig, Mum.” And in that moment I realised that’s exactly what I had been – Simon Cowell’s bloody guinea pig. Thankfully I’ve moved on (considerably richer) and he’s now practising vivisection on One Direction.’