Monster tales
I left Peters Creek for Whittier on a Wednesday about noon to break in a new outboard for my boat. Given that it was a weekday, no one else was available to accompany me but going alone is not that unusual for me. While not exactly planning a “three hour tour,” if you keep the theme music from Gilligan’s Island playing in the back of your mind while reading this, it might add a certain color to the story.
The weather as I left was gorgeous as only Prince William Sound can be. Sun shining, blue skies and flat seas. By evening, I had covered about 30 miles of unimaginable beauty before choosing a suitable anchorage for the night that was probably miles from the nearest person.
Just before turning in, I baited a circle hook with a chunk of something dead and dropped it off of the side in about 100’ feet of water. I haven’t caught a lot of fish worth bragging about this way but occasionally I’ll get a nice rockfish, so I leaned my rod against the gunnel, unsecured, and turned in.
About 6 a.m. I was awakened by the bang, bang, bang of my rod against the side of the boat. Jumping out of bed in nothing but my boxers, I exited the warmth of the cabin to a refreshing down pour accompanied by a cool breeze.
The rod tip was going nuts and so for the next 5 minutes or so, the fish and I got to know each other. This fish was heavy, but I wasn’t sure it was a halibut. What I did note is that when I quit pulling, he quit pulling. I decided to chance getting dressed. You will recall I was wearing little more than my expectations of a nice fish and it was a little airy for comfort.
Setting the rod down once again against the gunnel, I grabbed my pants. Somewhere between getting one leg in them, and having the other leg headed that way this fish decided to make another run. Hopping on one leg back to the rod, I grasped the reel just as it was going over the side.
Regaining control of the rod, and my composure, I set about adding personal dignity to that list. Standing bare footed on the butt of the rod, I managed to finish dressing. I was now at least covered, if not dry.
The next 20 minutes or so were largely unremarkable. I’d gain a little line, he’d take it back but since we were only in 100’ of water, he didn’t have far to go.
As a measure of the depths of my morning caffeine needs, I reached into the galley with one hand to start the burner under the coffee, as I seated the rod in a new sore spot on my hip with the other. This was no mean feat given I was using one hand and “strike on the box” kitchen matches.
I had time later to pick up all of those “extra” matches off of the floor.
Returning my attentions to the fish I promptly forgot all about the coffee. This minor lapse in attentiveness lead to the discovery of what I’ll call “Boat Espresso.” Write for the recipe.
I have digressed, so back to the fish.
Once the fish broke the top of the water, three simultaneous thoughts came to mind;
One, this is a halibut.
Two, this is a pretty big halibut, and
Three, how am I going to get this thing in the boat?
The first thought was to shoot it. Nope, no gun. (Note to self)
The second thought was to harpoon it, which I did have and seemed reasonable at first blush until you considered where I had put the harpoon in an effort to keep things “ship shape.” I had strapped it to the top of the cabin in a pretty efficient manner. (Note to self)
Good thing I’m not all that big or I might have caved in the top of my ice chest in the next few minutes. Once again with the rod in one hand and the rod butt firmly planted in that same sore spot on my hip, I climbed atop the ice chest and with a little perseverance and not too much wiggling from the fish, the harpoon came loose without hurting anybody. Is that background music becoming meaningful to you yet?
Regaining the line I had allowed the fish to take out while doing my igloo dance, the fish once again broke the surface. Briefly, I considered the awkwardness of a rod in one hand and a sharp stick in the other but like I said the thought was brief. Doing what I imagined as my best Queequeg imitation, I cocked my arm back and let loose with the harpoon the next time he breached.
A clean graze.
Once again retrieving the fish from the depths and re-assembling the harpoon, I made another try. Misjudging the thickness of this beast, the harpoon tip was returned to me in a manner if you can imagine, not unlike that of a lure on a bungee cord. With both eyes miraculously intact, the third attempt was charmed and I now had a large angry fish attached to the boat.
With visions of a scene out of the Old Man and the Sea, I’d like to say he next towed the boat around for awhile, but he didn’t. He tested the rope and cleat he was tied off to a couple of times while I slit his gills but that was about it. Wanting to give him time to stop flopping before I brought him on board, I sat down to the two cups of coffee, my six cup pot had now become. See recipe.
Fortified with the strength of success and 2 cups of Boat Espresso, I proceeded to relieve the sea of my prize. This effort was somewhat hampered by the back up rope I had attached to the fishes’ gills to prevent his loss.
With the fish gaffed, I hauled mightily to get him almost, but not quite to the point where more of him was in the boat than out when the back up rope came up taut. Through clenched teeth I’m sure my words were unintelligible, their meaning however would have been unmistakable had anyone been around to hear.
Feet on the gunnel, butt on the deck, the handle of the gaff in one hand and partially tucked under one arm, I was able to cut the back up rope with my free hand. This last test was overcome and I made my final “note to self” to buy more rope the next time I was in town.
Untethered, the fish slid easily over the gunnel and on top of me. Easily sliding out from under him I was kind of glad fish are slimy.
65” and in excess of 140 pounds. No record, but a prize to me. All accomplished without a prominent scar.
Now that’s fishing.
My name is Bill Green, and I live a Big Wild Life!™