CHAPTER SIXTY NINE: ZEN AND THE ART OF OCEAN FISHING

CHAPTER SIXTY NINE: ZEN AND THE ART OF OCEAN FISHING

We sailed past April First with not a prank committed by or against us. Actually, we stayed put in our slip at the Marina Del Mar Marina in Key Largo. But Tuesday we embarked on a new adventure – for me. The weather was perfect, the winds were de minimis, the spring breakers were mostly gone, and it was time to leave our safe harbor for the Atlantic Ocean. Oh yeah. We were going deep sea fishing. All we had to do was get out of our crowded canal, either before or after, or during, the daily comings and goings of the dive boats, the snorkel catamarans, the fishing party boats and the Granddaddy of them all, the Glass Bottom Boat (GBB). So at 12:40 p.m., after all but one commercial boat had left the channel, we released the lines and eased Slow Motion out of her home for the past month. We were on the move again! Oops! The Reef Roamer was tailgating right behind us, getting off to a late start on its 12:30 run. Oh well, what’s a little friendly rear-ending on the way out of the canal? Ask the Admiral. On second thought, don’t ask the Admiral, who hates, hates, hates tailgaters.

We made it out of the canal without a bump or a scratch from Reef Roamer and we headed for the deep, aqua blue ocean. It was a glorious day! There was a slight refreshing breeze coming in through the raised isinglass windows on the flying bridge. The sea was extremely calm, and there were no storm clouds on the horizon. As Reef Roamer headed over to its first snorkeling stop at Sea Garden Reef, we cruised toward Pickles Reef, a lot further off shore and much less crowded than the snorkeling sites. We could see the bottom of the ocean, especially where it was sandy and the water above it was turquoise. Eat your heart out, Greek Islanders. This is the original turquoise blue. Then when we passed over some sea grasses, the water took on an unnaturally beautiful cerulean blue hue, entering the cyan range. Those of you who paint know about these shades, but for us non-artists they are a real treat, indescribably rich and textured. I could have spent the entire afternoon staring at the various “pools” of blue and soaking up the warm sun and the cool sea air.

But the Admiral had a special outing planned for us. He left me in charge of the flying bridge – we were on autopilot with no boat within a mile of us – and he went to his stash of lures and pulled out some lures to attach to fishing line. He set up a fishing rod in its holder on the port side of the stern, cast the line into the wake – and we were trolling! Ocean fishing! This was a first for me. I was assigned the task of watching the reel and reporting any clicking sounds to the Admiral, who had restored order by returning to the flying bridge. I never knew how relaxing fishing could be, especially when there is no clicking. As I sat in one of our sun deck chairs next to the rod and reel, my mind wandered all over the place. I visited tons of cool people and wished you all were here with me enjoying this same reverie. I thought about Butch’s less than satisfactory experience ocean fishing, when the smell of the diesel engine on the boat made his stomach queasy. I wished he were here to have this pleasant ocean fishing experience eradicate the bad one. I thought of my brother fly fishing for trout in mountain streams and how exhilarating that must be, even if perhaps a bit more arduous than sitting next to a fishing pole waiting for the “click”.

Then the “click” came. I jumped out of my seat and shouted: “It clicked! It clicked!” That got the Admiral’s attention, but by the time he made it to the stern, the clicking at stopped. The Admiral saw that something was on the line, just at about the same time a porpoise saw that something was on the line. So it was a race between the Admiral and the porpoise to get to the fish at the end of our line. The Admiral pulled in the line and saw that we had only a tiny part of tissue from a fish’s mouth on the hook. The hook was huge, so he decided to go with a smaller one, as well as a different, shinier, more fidgety lure. He recast the line with its new hook and lure, and I was back to my sitting position and back to my private thoughts. Did the fish escape the porpoise too? How long would it take to get another “click”? I had waited two hours for the first click. Those were two great hours of deep thoughts by the deep blue sea. And it was deep – our depth meter read 170 feet at one point.

The second “click” came pretty fast. And it was a relentless clicking, not like the first hesitant click. I shouted to the Admiral, who once again leapt down from the flying bridge to take control of the rod. I ran up to the flying bridge to take over the controls.
“Put it in neutral” yelled the Admiral. “Aye, aye.” He sounded like he was having a lot of fun. Suddenly he pulled in our catch – a shiny, round, silvery fish – all of 8 inches in length, weighing a pound dripping wet. Not the marlin or albacore or dolphin (mahi mahi) we were hoping for. In fact, this little fish would have been good bait for a marlin. The Admiral was able to unhook our first catch and get him/her back into the ocean quickly. Out of concern for this little rookie, we did not recast the line. Who knows how many times it would take getting hooked in the mouth for this baby mackerel (?) to learn not to chase lures? The main thing is that we caught a fish, and there was a happy ending for everyone, including the fish. Maybe next time we’ll catch something we can keep. And there will be next time, as soon as the next storm passes through.

Tired but happy, we headed back to our slip. It was around 4:30, and all the dive, snorkeling and fishing boats head back to their slips in the canal about this time too. So we watched them charge past us, and we even took a spin around in a large circle to allow some latecomers to blow by us, so they could all enter the canal in front of us. We were hoping to avoid any tailgaters on the trip back. And we did. However, we had a “frontgater”, a little boy going about 2 miles an hour on a jet ski in the middle of the canal in front of us. His father was riding behind him on the same jet ski. Slow Motion cannot go that slow without stalling, and we were approaching Crash Corner, where we had stalled before, upon first entering the canal in early March. The Dad must have felt us breathing down his neck, so he had the boy pull over to the side, and we passed without stalling. The next big challenge was going to be backing into our slip and not hitting the boats on either side or the pilings. Why did I even worry? The Admiral lined up Slow Motion perfectly and glided right back into the slip. I reached for the port side spring line with my pole, and of course, the line slipped off the pole into the water. Hey, not everyone can be perfect. As I dug the line out of the water, hoping the Admiral had not seen my latest imperfection, I heard: “Oh no, get that line out of the water quick!” He noticed. I did, and I was able to get the other line attached without any more drama.

The whole fishing expedition lasted 4 and ½ hours. And for some reason – probably all the fresh air and the tension of getting through the narrow canal twice – we were both exhausted. We’re in pretty good shape. The Admiral works out every other day in the Marriott’s fitness room, and I walk and bike regularly. I have even started using 2 pound weights to strengthen my arms. But there’s something about maneuvering a 19 ton boat through a narrow canal and taking her out on to the ocean, avoiding reefs, shipwrecks and other boats, that gets the adrenalin moving – fast. Add to that the excitement of actually catching a fish, albeit a very small one, and we were in adrenalin overdrive for 4 and ½ hours. When the adrenalin rush was over, we both crashed.

So yesterday we did boat chores. The Admiral is working around the base of the console on the flying bridge. There was a lot of gunk on the console next to the floor and on the floor. I cleaned that entire area in the morning, then took two loads of wash to our laundry in the Marriott’s garage, and sandwiched in a phone call with one of my Bethlehem Babes, Carol V. in Allentown. We had a great talk about the books we have been reading (must check out the book on habits). Meanwhile, the Admiral did more data base work for his North Carolina client, then started putting the grout on the floor in the flying bridge. We can’t seem to get through a day of chores without one of us getting injured. This time it was the Admiral’s turn, cutting the palm of his hand superficially – this always means a lot of blood – with his chisel. Don’t ask how. We finished the day with the Admiral putting glow in the dark tape on the steps down into our cabin. Hurray! Both the Admiral and I have taken stupendous falls down these steps, because the last step is narrower and looks just like the floor. So if you’re not paying attention, you miss the last step or slide off it, and, believe me, you can get some pretty big bruises on your legs and you can torque your knees pretty good, when you take the header off the second to last step. If this glow in the dark tape works, we’ll only have to work about taking headers off the teak steps going from the sun deck into the cockpit on Slow Motion’s stern. Hurray!

Today I ordered the New York State Guide to the Erie Canal. Our current dream is to travel to the Erie Canal this summer. We have to figure out some way to get through New York and up the Hudson River without spending our life’s savings and without getting rudely buffeted about by the ferries on the Hudson. I have full confidence in the Admiral’s ability to negotiate any waterway. However, the thought of paying $6.50 per foot per night for a marina slip at the West 79^th Street Marina in New York is daunting. With a 50 foot boat, the math shows that we would have to pay $325 for that one night. That’s the equivalent of one week’s stay at most marinas. It’s probably comparable to one night in a 2 or 3 star hotel in the City, but it’s definitely not what we’re used to – and not what our budget can afford. But if it means getting to the Erie Canal and climbing several hundred feet through the dozens of locks to enter the Great Lakes --  maybe one night is worth it. This is just a dream right now, and the navigation challenges are already making the Admiral dyspeptic. We always research all our moves thoroughly before we chart our course. So there’s plenty to study between now and late June, when we decide whether to head further north from the Chesapeake, and whether to brave the New York Harbor and the Hudson River to get to the Holy Grail of canals, the Erie. You’ve got to have a dream, and the Erie Canal dream is currently ours. What’s your dream?