Something Fishy

by Derek Hansen

  By the end of the season, Karl was regularly pulling in dorado over twenty kilos and had caught a forty-two-kilo yellowfin tuna. His technique had improved dramatically but he still had a long way to go. He still had to learn to tie knots, tie a double and cast live bait. He still had to learn how to fight the fish, to short stroke and not to waste his strength fighting the spring of the rod, but he was growing in competence.

  At the beginning of the Mexican summer, Karl arranged for Gerardo and Jose to take Billfisher north to San Diego to avoid the hurricane season while he flew home to Salina. When Gerardo took Karl to the airport at La Paz, the skipper took his hand.

  ‘Patrón,’ he said, ‘remember what you have learned. When you come back we will catch marlin. Striped and blue. Rayado first, then azul. I promise you.’

  Marlin rayado. Marlin azul. Karl rolled the magic words around in his mouth and savoured them all the way back to Salina.

  Karl caught his first marlin in the first week of his return to the Sea of Cortez, but it wasn’t the first fish he caught. Fearing the worst, Gerardo made his patrón do a refresher course and took Karl to the fishiest place he had ever seen.

  ‘What is this place?’ Karl asked.

  ‘Arrecife de la Foca,’ said Gerardo.

  ‘What’s that in English?’

  ‘Seal Rock,’ said Gerardo.

  ‘Why did I ask?’ said Karl.

  Seal Rock was the perfect place to hone his skills. It sat alone, no more than twenty metres around, in a seemingly empty sea, an insignificant sentinel rising from the deep. But Seal Rock was anything but insignificant to the sea life that surrounded it. Seals and sea lions crowded every inch of the rock while the waters around it teemed with fish and the air screeched with whirling, diving sea birds.

  Gerardo made Karl bait his own hook with live caballitos and cast the small fish into the swirling masses of skipjack. He cast ten times and landed ten fish. Gerardo was impressed, unaware that his patrón had spent hours every day practising casting on the lawn behind his house. He attached a sinker to Karl’s line and sent it plummeting down to a rock shelf ten metres below. Karl hooked up immediately and, after a brutal arm wrestle during which he fought the fish perfectly, landed a twenty-three-kilo yellowtail. Gerardo was impressed, unaware that his patrón had fitted a harness to his pet labrador, attached a line to the harness, and spent most of the off-season practising reeling in his dog while his grandchildren offered it inducements to run in the opposite direction.

  Karl fished to the point of exhaustion, releasing all his catch save for the yellowtail and half a dozen snapper. He lost no fish, broke no line and worked his rod confidently and expertly. The transformation of their patrón was so great, Gerardo and Jose believed they were witnessing a miracle. What they were really witnessing was Karl’s determination.

  ‘Tomorrow, patrón, we go after the marlin,’ said Gerardo.

  The following day they made the run down from La Paz to Buena Vista, trolling out wide around the island of Cerralvo, but no billfish so much as looked at their lures. Neither did any other fish. Karl wondered if they’d headed south too soon.

  ‘Tomorrow we fish the eighty-eight,’ said Gerardo. ‘Ask me tomorrow if we have come too soon.’

  ‘The eighty-eight?’

  ‘Si, patrón, the eighty-eight.’ Gerardo opened his charts and pointed to an underwater mountain. ‘Eighty-eight fathoms. The water around it is between two and four hundred fathoms. This is where we will fish tomorrow, this is where you will catch your marlin.’

  Karl looked at all the other game boats anchored off the beach at Buena Vista and felt his excitement build. There had to be sixty of them and they had to be there for a reason. If he was early so were they, and they were too many to all be wrong.

  Billfisher was the first boat to haul anchor in the morning but not the first out to the eighty-eight. For three hours, Karl watched the big planing game boats roar past him followed by the local hire boats filled with holidaying gringos and chilangos, the not-always-loved residents of Mexico City.

  ‘Don’t worry, patrón,’ said Gerardo. ‘Their lures will only raise the fish for us. The more there are of them, the more fish there will be for us.’

  Karl knew there was truth in what his skipper said, otherwise tackle shops would not sell rattlers and teasers designed to bring fish to the surface. All the same, as he watched boat after boat speed past them, he wondered how there could possibly be any fish left for him.

  ‘Look, patrón,’ said Gerardo.‘Porpoises.’

  Karl had seen porpoises before but none doing what these porpoises were doing. As though bored by their normal games, they were racing each other upside down, hurdling waves belly up. They wore grins on their faces as if aware of the silliness of what they were doing and Karl couldn’t help but smile back. A little further on they encountered spinner dolphins competing with one another to see how many rotations they could do before they crashed back into the water.

  ‘Is this normal for here?’ asked Karl.

  ‘They are playing because they have eaten,’ said Gerardo. ‘This is a good sign. It means there is plenty of bait fish.’

  It was another thirty minutes before they reached the rise and put out their lures. Karl counted more than forty other game boats plying the same eighteen-kilometre strip of water and guessed there were more further south that he couldn’t see. He was wondering what sort of chance he stood in the face of such competition when a striped marlin cleared the water not fifty metres to starboard of them.

  ‘The boat next to us has hooked up,’ said Gerardo.

  ‘Two more over this side,’ said Jose.

  Wherever Karl looked, striped marlin were soaring out of the water, shaking their heads desperately as they tried to throw the hook. He checked his own lures but they failed to attract attention.

  ‘Marlin, marlin!’ screamed Gerardo, pointing to a spot on the surface just seven metres off the bow.

  Karl stood transfixed. All there was to see was the tip of a marlin’s crescent tail beating slowly back and forth. The fish seemed totally unaware of the presence of the boat.

  ‘Quick, patrón!’ screamed Gerardo, slipping the boat into neutral, but Karl was too overawed to move.

  A line flicked out dropping a live caballito right in front of the marlin’s bill.

  ‘Patrón, patrón, take the rod,’ screamed Jose.

  Almost immediately, line began stripping off the reel.

  ‘Patrón, patrón!’

  Karl snapped out of his trance and grabbed the rod.

  ‘Count to five, patrón, then set the drag and strike hard.’

  Karl swung into action. How many times before had this scenario played out when they were chasing dorado? How many times before practice makes perfect? But butterflies swarmed in his belly, his heart leapt into his throat and his hands shook uncontrollably as he took the rod and set the butt into the gimbal of his game belt. This was the real thing and no amount of practice had prepared him for the thrill of his first marlin.

  ‘Three,’ he counted.

  ‘Four.’ He set his feet.

  ‘Five.’ He pushed the drag up against the stops, felt the weight on his line and struck.

  And struck again!

  Karl nearly lost the battle there and then when the panicked fish launched itself clear of the water barely ten metres from him. Stunned, he let the fish pull down his rod so that all the strain was placed directly onto the reel.

  ‘Lift, patrón, lift!’ screamed Gerardo.

  Karl lifted, grateful that his error hadn’t cost him his fish. The rod bent over hard as the marlin continued its dash for freedom. He let it run, counting the jumps. Eight . . . nine . . . ten . . . eleven . . . Eleven jumps in a row!

  ‘It is a trophy fish, patrón,’ cried Gerardo gleefully.

  Trophy fish? A smile spread across Karl’s anxious face that not even dynamite could have dislodged. His first marlin was a trophy fish. A trophy fish! He settled dow
n to the fight.

  ‘Short stroke,’ instructed Gerardo.

  ‘Not too fast.

  ‘Keep the tip up.

  ‘Very nice, patrón, very nice.’

  Karl knew he was making mistakes, knew he was fighting the spring of the rod and was all too aware of his impatience. But this was his first marlin and a trophy fish. And what a fish!

  ‘When he lifts out of the water you must pull hard,’ shouted Gerardo.

  Karl pulled hard.

  ‘In the water he is strong,’ said Gerardo. ‘In the air he is weak.’

  Weak was not a word Karl would have used to describe this fish. It fought magnificently, ferociously, spectacularly. But after twenty minutes of throwing itself about the ocean, the marlin began to weaken and Karl managed to claim back some of his line.

  ‘Wind, patrón,’ shouted Gerardo as he began to back the boat up to the fish.

  Karl wound.

  ‘Patrón, you want to take this fish?’ asked Gerardo.

  Karl stared at his marlin as it flashed colour back at him. After his wife on their wedding day and his kids as they entered the world, his marlin was the most wonderful, magnificent thing he had ever seen. His choice was easy.

  ‘No,’ he said.

  ‘It’s okay to take your first,’ said Gerardo.‘Most people do.’

  ‘There’ll be others,’ said Karl.

  ‘But this is a trophy fish, patrón.’

  ‘We’re not in a competition,’ said Karl. ‘There’s no trophy to win.’

  ‘You want Jose to let it go?’

  ‘Is it a world record?’ asked Karl.

  ‘No, but it is a good fish for thirty-pound line,’ said Gerardo.

  ‘Not good enough,’ said Karl.‘Let it go.’

  Once Jose had hold of the trace, Karl lowered the tip of his rod.

  ‘Your camera, patrón,’ said Gerardo.

  Jose cut the fish free but held onto its bill, gently towing it so that the water passing through its gills could re-oxygenate the marlin’s blood and help it recover. Karl took shot after shot while the fish lay quietly on its side, its big black eye staring up at him, assessing him as though preparing for their next encounter. Then, with a single beat of its tail, it wrested free of Jose’s hand and spiralled away to the depths.

  ‘Congratulations, patrón, your first marlin,’ said Gerardo.‘It will go and sit on the bottom for a day or two while it recovers its strength. Next time we meet this fish it will be even bigger and stronger.’

  Karl high-fived both his skipper and his deckhand as was the custom, but his head was too saturated with images of his magnificent fish to do much more than go through the motions. Catching his first marlin had exceeded all his expectations. Catching a trophy fish first-up was a bonus beyond his wildest dreams.

  ‘How big?’ he said eventually.

  ‘Ninety, maybe one hundred kilos. A good fish, patrón.’

  Ninety, maybe one hundred kilos. On thirty-pound line.

  Karl offered silent thanks to Zane Grey for introducing him to this wonderful world. Ever since he’d first made contact with game fishermen on the internet, his cyber friends had talked about being bitten by the fishing bug. Karl had been bitten but he’d never imagined that the bite could be so sweet. Yet even then, even at his moment of triumph, he knew sweeter moments lay ahead — when his trophy fish actually earned him trophies, and the trophies proclaimed Karl II number one.

  Karl caught four more striped marlin that day but none came close to the size of his first. It didn’t matter. Marlin were marlin and these were the first marlin he’d ever caught. Along the way he also caught two dorado, both of which topped twenty-five kilos and made handsome fillets for his freezer. The icing on the cake occurred when Karl realised he’d seen what Steinbeck had seen on his expedition aboard the Western Flyer. He’d seen cavorting porpoises and leaping marlin fill the seas from horizon to horizon. There was hardly a moment when there hadn’t been a striped marlin soaring through the air. A spotted whale shark, the first Karl had ever seen, also chose this day to pass gracefully beneath their bow and, fifty metres astern, a mako shark had honoured them with a rare appearance. It had broached, executed a perfect barrel roll and crashed back into the sea. Karl could not remember a more exciting day in his entire life.

  When they anchored back off the beach at Buena Vista, Gerardo talked about cooking some dorado fillets for dinner, but Karl wanted more. Though by no means a drinking man, he felt the need to party, to sink a few margaritas and extend the magic of the day. Karl the conservative, God-fearing, Midwestern storeowner wanted nothing less than to go ashore and celebrate like a sailor.

  Captain Pete and his fishing buddy, Low Gear Joe, were feeling no pain when Karl, Gerardo and Jose walked through the batwing doors into Tio Pepe’s Cantina and Bar. Captain Pete had seen Karl around various marinas but had never spoken to him except to exchange greetings or updates on the weather or the whereabouts of fish. But something made Captain Pete call out to him and wave him and his crew over to his table. Maybe at that instant he realised what was on Karl’s mind and wanted to ride his wave with him. Maybe it was the smile welded to Karl’s face, the smile of a man who’d caught his first marlin. Maybe it was the fact that he and Low Gear Joe were on their third margarita and well down the straight towards a fourth. Or maybe it was just their destiny to meet.

  Whatever.

  Captain Pete called Karl over. And in the shuffle of chairs and the scrape of tables being pushed together, nobody suspected for a moment that, as a result of this happy and chance meeting, Karl would stagger back to his boat a man irrevocably committed to an impossible mission.

  Karl told Captain Pete and Low Gear Joe about his first marlin and of course they celebrated his success. Because Karl was not normally a drinker, it didn’t take many margaritas to loosen his lips and for him to admit to his quest to win a fishing tournament.

  ‘It’s a pity you weren’t fishing a tournament today,’ said Low Gear Joe generously.‘It sounds like your fish would have won.’

  ‘Trophy fish for sure,’ confirmed Gerardo.

  ‘We caught nine marlin today,’ said Captain Pete,‘but none in the class of yours.’

  Karl glowed and not just because of the alcohol he’d consumed.

  ‘What we’ve got to do, my man,’ continued Captain Pete, ‘is find you a tournament while you’re still running hot.’

  Yes, Karl thought smugly, that was exactly what he was doing. Running hot.

  ‘When’s Cabo San Lucas?’ said Captain Pete. ‘The Gold Cup?’

  ‘Months away,’ said Low Gear Joe.

  ‘What about Bisbee’s?’

  ‘Month after.’

  ‘Puerto Vallarta?’

  ‘November.’

  Karl’s spirits sank as, one by one, each opportunity disappeared into the distance.

  ‘I know,’ said Captain Pete triumphantly,‘Ixtapa!’

  ‘Next year,’ said Low Gear Joe morosely.

  ‘There must be a tournament somewhere about now,’ said Captain Pete.

  ‘Barra de Navidad,’ said Gerardo. ‘The Calima Tequila Tourneo de Pesca. In three weeks.’

  ‘Ha!’ said Captain Pete contemptuously.

  ‘Forget it!’ said Low Gear Joe.

  ‘Why?’ said Karl.‘I’m running hot.’

  ‘Not hot enough for the Calima,’ said Captain Pete and laughed.‘Some people confuse the Calima with the Barra de Navidad Tourneo de Pesca in January, but it’s a different tournament.’

  ‘The Calima,’ said Low Gear Joe. ‘Man wants to fish the Calima? Jesus!’

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ said Karl.

  ‘Forget it,’ said Captain Pete. He called their waiter over. ‘Tell the chef we’re hot to trot, ready to roll, eager for action.’

  ‘What?’ said their waiter.

  ‘Please inform the chef that we’re ready to eat,’ said Low Gear Joe.‘Keep my steak rare and the Captain’s fish plain.’


  ‘What about the Calima Tequila?’ said Karl, but no one took any notice. The subject had moved on.

  ‘What about the Calima?’

  The question had been burning in Karl’s febrile brain all through dinner, all through the stories and the countless bottles of Negra Modelo, Low Gear Joe’s beer of choice.

  ‘Only mugs fish the Calima,’ said Captain Pete.

  ‘Why?’ said Karl.

  ‘Because only mugs enter tournaments to come second,’ said Low Gear Joe.

  It would be wrong to suggest that Karl sobered up at that moment. That was physiologically impossible, but certainly he felt as though somebody had dumped a bucket of cold water over his head.

  ‘Second?’ he said weakly.

  ‘Best a gringo can hope for,’ said Captain Pete. ‘Far as I know, no gringo has ever won the Calima.’

  ‘They’ve caught the biggest fish,’ said Low Gear Joe. ‘But that’s usually the problem.’

  ‘But why? If they’ve caught the biggest fish?’ persisted Karl.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said Captain Pete. ‘We came second with a two-hundred-and-sixty-two-kilo blue marlin. It was at least fifty kilos bigger than anything anyone else caught. And I use the word “second” loosely.’

  ‘Loosely?’ said Karl.

  ‘We were disqualified,’ said Low Gear Joe.‘Thrown out on a technicality. If you’re a gringo and you catch a big fish, you get disqualified.’

  ‘But isn’t that the whole point of the tournament?’ said Karl.

  ‘That’s what we thought,’ said Captain Pete.

  ‘So what went wrong?’ said Karl.

  ‘Don’t ask,’ said Captain Pete.‘It doesn’t matter what went wrong. If what went wrong hadn’t gone wrong something else would’ve. Right, Joe?’

  ‘Right on.’

  ‘Ask anyone,’ said Captain Pete.‘Anyone who has tried.’

  ‘I’m asking you,’ said Karl.