Seaworthy Page 12

  A captain I fished with many years ago, Alan Whipple, would not approve of my decision to go with less than the entire spool of line. Whipple always set every inch of line and every available hook, regardless of weather or any other deterrent. I had learned that from him, and normally I followed it. But I had some reservations about getting in over my head with the very first set aboard the Seahawk. We were still in the shakedown process. Things could go very wrong. Eight hundred hooks over the course of thirty miles was a respectable amount of gear. If some critical piece of the puzzle failed to snap in—like the hydraulic motor that drives the main spool—thirty miles would be too much gear. To set less would be wimpy. And too short a string wouldn’t show me anything about what was here for fish. There were many reasons that justified setting less than the full string, including my question about ability—the boat’s, the crew’s, and mine. This hairline crack in my confidence was another reason to make our first set here, rather than diving in among the fleet to the east. A much younger me would have done a careless cannonball right in the middle of the fleet and not worried about any adverse aftershock. I had definitely developed a more thorough thought process in the last ten years, I realized. I was actually being considerate.

  The worst situation I could imagine would be to have forty miles of gear wedged between two other boats and not be able to retrieve it. If we suffered some mechanical problem, or if the crew just couldn’t get their act together, or if I’d lost the ability to haul, or if I found the adjustment to the port side difficult … If we were fishing with the fleet, the inability to do so efficiently would create problems for our neighbors. Gear drifting at three knots ends up in someone else’s berth in a short time. That pisses people off. If we couldn’t get the gear out and back in a timely manner, I would prefer that to happen with no witnesses. Yet another reason to work the bugs out here. No more heedless action on my part. I felt smart.

  As the bottom edge of the sun touched the western horizon, I could hardly stand it. I was all worked up to execute the most important part of my job: putting the gear on the fish. Here was something that I had full control of. The boat was precisely where I had determined to be the ideal latitude, longitude, depth, and temperature to begin the set. I stepped out the back door to signal the men to drop the first beeper buoy into our wake. The buoy with the frequency of 1735 had the strongest signal after all our work, so it was designated “end buoy.” A beeper would be snapped to the main line at intervals of about three miles, in a sequence according to the list I had made once all the buoys had been tested on deck. I gave Tim a wave. He held a finger in the air, indicating that I had to wait. I couldn’t see into the setting house from the bridge, except for through the small hole through which the main line runs from the drum, over the setting table, and over the transom. I could see Hiltz standing holding a hook baited with a mackerel, ready to toss. And Arch was in the middle of the deck, pulling thawed bait out of water and into plastic boxes. We were apparently waiting for Machado.

  Former crew members had learned the hard way to not make me wait when I’m ready to set the gear. I fought the urge to yell to throw the buoy and ask how many men they thought they needed to get started. I waited. This would never have happened aboard the Hannah Boden. When I captained her and I was ready to set, I waved and the buoy was dropped. Often my men had waited in the stern for hours ready for the wave, while I steamed around finding the perfect point. I reminded myself that this was not the Hannah Boden and silently cursed Machado as we drifted off my start point. I jogged in a lazy circle and back to where I waved to Tim again. This time Tim wasn’t looking. He still appeared to be waiting for Machado. We really didn’t need four men on deck to set out. In fact, the job can be done with two experienced guys if the boat goes slowly enough. But Machado was the only one with real longline experience. I guessed the other men felt they needed him to get going. I waited a little longer.

  By the time Machado sauntered down the deck, I was agitated. But I saw no value in reaming him out. If he was going to be my deck boss, I would not reprimand him in front of the rest of the crew. Organizationally, commercial fishing vessels are strange and interesting entities. Crew dynamics are nothing short of … well, dynamic. By no means a democracy, a fishing boat is closer to a dictatorship, and the captain’s word is usually law. There is often a certain amount of undercurrent among the crew, but this remains among the crew. A first mate or deck boss emerges from the ranks and is seldom successfully appointed by the captain. A certain pecking order forms, usually stacking up on top of the greenhorn who assumes most of the jobs nobody else wants. Engineer is a title. But that’s about it. Keeping things going in the engine room is a thankless job. The cook, although it’s not the most coveted position because of the frustration involved in preparing an edible meal in heavy weather, does have fringe benefits. The cook procures the groceries or grub for the trip, so he never runs out of his own favorite soft drink or cereal. The cook also has more opportunity than his shipmates to leave the deck in order to “thaw the roast” or “preheat the oven,” and he usually returns to work in the elements looking dryer than when he left and smoking a fresh cigarette. Right now I was glad that Machado was not our cook, as his present mode of operation indicated that he might really milk the job of galley slave.

  Machado further annoyed me when he stopped, halfway to his work site, to pull on his gloves. This was a painful process. It seemed to take him forever to get his fingers wiggled in and arranged just right. If Machado was to lead the charge on deck, it wouldn’t be much of a strike. I was feeling sick to my stomach with anxiety when he finally waddled around the corner and out of my sight, taking his position, I assumed, at the other side of the setting table across from Hiltz. Once they all got their feet under them and comfortable with the process and routine, I knew that one of the other guys would take control of the deck.

  I waved with the hope that the third time would indeed be the charm. Tim nodded and dropped 1735 off our starboard aft quarter and into the water. As we steamed away from the buoy, the drum began to turn, unwinding as line was pulled off and into the wake. Dave and Machado stood on either side of the line in the stern. They baited hooks, tossed them into the water, and clipped snaps to the line. After three leaders went out, Timmy snapped on a float. Three hooks, then a float; three hooks, then a float; over and over until the end of a three-mile section was marked with the next beeper. We were fishing!

  As the men worked the stern, I stood and stared at the depth and temperature gauges, turning the boat slightly one way, then the other, to maximize both. About ten minutes into the five-hour setting process, I noticed that I hadn’t heard the first beeper, 1735, transmit since it hit the water. I knew that it had functioned properly on deck, because we’d tested it several times. I turned up the volume on the RDF (radio direction finder) and waited for the buoy to transmit. Nothing. No surprise. But I had intended to steam back to 1735 tonight and haul the gear from that end in the morning. Oh, well, a change of plans was okay. I turned up the volume on the two-way loudspeaker and told the men to put the snaps on backward to accommodate pulling them off the main line when hauling from the other direction, and I hoped that the other beepers would work. We would lay on the last beeper set and begin hauling there in the morning. If we’d been setting with the fleet to the east, this would not have been an option. When you fish fast-moving water, the gear must be set into the tide and hauled into the tide. Doing the opposite would result in the equivalent of a trip to the Azores in ground lost by not stemming the current constantly. Again, I was relieved to be getting the bugs out here.

  An hour into the set, I was totally immersed in my job and loving it. The head work that goes into setting gear had pushed Machado’s lackluster attitude from my mind. This had to be the finest example of “getting back on the bike” I’d ever experienced. It was like I had never left the Hannah Boden. All the familiar moves and thoughts and anxieties came back without the slightest hint of hes
itation. For the captain, there is absolutely nothing physical about setting out. Except for the need to turn an occasional knob, it was all cerebral. Yet I worked so hard at every set I’d ever made that I knew no greater exhaustion. Unlike most longline captains, I make it a policy never to sit down while setting out. By the end of the trip, I would be so tired I would fear falling asleep standing up. This feels good, though. Anticipation for what we would catch grew with every hook that splashed behind the boat.

  Fishing is all about putting the hooks in the water. Catching fish is all about putting hooks in the right water. The ability to do so, in my case, was learned mostly through mistakes. I had graduated with honors from the school of hard knocks. I imagine there are a few fishing virtuosos who are born with some innate ability. But for most of us, it’s just plain hard work, and it’s doing it over and over again. Fishing acumen is a combination of experience and common sense. And in my mind both of these are acquired traits. My skill level increased with age and experience. After twenty years in blue water—even with ten off—I should be damn good. Sure, I would love to have the technological advantages that the other captains in the fleet enjoy. But I had experience, plenty of it.

  I had always been very respectful of science and electronics and never considered good production a result of any “feel” for fishing or God-given ability. Most of the boats in the U.S. longline fleet were equipped with computer software that captures satellite imagery to locate fish. This particular program, which wasn’t able to be fixed aboard the Seahawk before we left the dock, was capable of pinpointing thermal fronts, plankton concentrations, surface eddies, and current speed and directions and overlaying them all on a bathymetric chart. Must be nice, I thought as I watched the depth sounder and surface-temperature gauge. This was the old-school method. Although it had been ten years, the electronic equipment I’d had at my disposal when I left swordfishing was far more sophisticated than the very bare minimums I now focused on. I made up for lack of talent with my stubborn work ethic and by surrounding myself with great equipment and crew. When I returned to make this trip, my intention had not been to go back to an era that preceded my time. I’d thought of it as forward progress. But the drum was spinning, and hooks were being baited. It’s fairly basic. I was setting longline gear, and it felt good.

  There was some chatter on the radio from the fleet to the east. Scotty had collected his crew from the boat that had delivered them from Newfoundland, and he’d managed to wriggle into the corner of the main break, the most coveted of all fishing spots. There were six boats working the edge, all lined up end to end and jockeying for position in the usual Grand Banks fashion. I hoped I wouldn’t have to join them. If this set could produce enough to keep us here and out of the fray, I would be looking pretty smart for stopping and trying the east side. If we bombed here, I would continue along as if I hadn’t stopped, and no one would be the wiser. I hadn’t spoken with anyone on the radio lately and realized that none of the other captains were paying attention to my whereabouts. I would remain quiet in hopes of excellent fishing away from the crowd. The jockeying for position among a fleet of hard drivers is a game unto itself. I was good at that game, but everyone always prefers to avoid rush-hour traffic when possible. I wouldn’t have to fight to hold my ground here. There was nobody to fight with.

  As I turned the corner and headed south-southeast along the east side of the canyon, the depth sounder began to light up with brilliant-colored blobs suspended in the black background of the screen. This lava-lamp look was something to get excited about. I knew that the dark-colored, misshapen forms were tight schools of bait following krill rising from the ocean floor. Bait, usually small squid, capelin, or ballyhoo, feed on clouds of krill, which are like tiny shrimp and are just about at the bottom of the food chain. The swordfish would follow them up, I thought.

  I saw a few inverted V’s scattered between ten and fifteen fathoms, and my heart raced. Tuna. New regulations allowed me to have as many as I could catch. Old regs limited long-liners to one fish per trip, resulting in a few dead tuna being thrown back over the side (not much in the way of conservation). As tuna is more of a daytime feeder, we never catch that many of them while targeting sword. Giant bluefin tuna is sometimes worth its weight in gold. Fish that run between eight hundred and a thousand pounds each fill the fish hold quickly. I recalled a seven-hundred-pounder that I received thirty-five dollars per pound for, and I felt a happy flutter in my stomach. And bigeye tuna, although much smaller, were often very pricey. This was the time of year for the Grand Banks to produce tuna with high fat content, which usually rendered them more valuable than swordfish. Swordfish was our bread and butter. Any incidental tuna would be a bonus. If we landed a boatload of sword and a few tuna, we’d be fat.

  Arch stuck his head in the back door and said, “We didn’t get enough bait out of the freezer for eight hundred hooks. Should I thaw more out or cut it off at seven hundred?”

  “This is looking really good, Arch,” I said, indicating the sound machine. “Let’s set nine hundred. I wasn’t seeing much until I started down the east side of the canyon.”

  “Wow! Look at all of that bait!” Arch stared wide-eyed at the multicolored blobs that now filled the screen from fifteen fathoms to the surface. “Okay, I’ll get a few more boxes thawed!” He hustled down the ladder and back to the deck, where I could hear his report to his shipmates over the intercom. “We’re on ’em! She wants nine hundred. Mike, you keep throwing hooks, and, Tim, stay on floats while Dave and I get more bait up.” Now everyone was feeling the excitement and anticipation for the haulback. If you’ve done it right, hauling longline gear can be like Christmas morning every time you pick up the end buoy. And now the guys sounded like a bunch of kids expecting rewards from Santa for good behavior. I could feel the men’s kindled excitement through the steel deck. I was in my groove.

  Although live bait is where it’s at in most hook fishing, frozen bait is the only option for the distant-water fleet. I had made the huge mistake of thinking I could catch squid for fresh bait one winter while running the Hannah Boden out of Puerto Rico. The boss rigged the boat with automatic jigging machines and gigantic spotlights to attract the squid, which are caught at night. The problem was that the jiggers were less than automatic, and what they produced needed to be iced. So our four hours of sleep each night was cut to no sleep at all. We couldn’t endure that schedule for long and were thrilled to go back to dead, frozen bait.

  I was relieved that Arch had taken the reins on deck. I was also happy that he had come up and asked what to do about the bait shortage. It sometimes took a few nights to get a correct amount of bait thawed, as the boxes all contained a different number of individual fish. After a couple of sets, an average becomes obvious. I recalled a time many sets ago, late in a long trip, when we were all at the end of our wicks and the guys hadn’t thawed enough bait. Rather than asking me, knowing I would say to get more out because we always set a thousand hooks, they decided to cut the gear off at eight hundred. They had the deck all cleaned up and were headed to their bunks while I continued to work, oblivious to their decision. I was still zigging and zagging along the break and thinking I was making one hell of a good set when I noticed that there was no gear going out. I insisted, much to the crew’s dismay, that they get out more bait while I found the end buoy with a searchlight. We tied back in and set the remaining gear with long faces and complaints on deck. The following day the haul was one of the best ever. We totally plugged the fish hold and went home. I never said, “See? I told you so.” But it was there.

  Now, as it turned out, we ran out of line before we got all nine hundred hooks set. The drum was dangerously close to the bitter end when we cut the gear off. Although the many turns I made back and forth and around depth changes made it difficult to know exactly how many miles had gone over the stern, it seemed to me that we had set closer to thirty than forty. In fact, at an average speed of seven knots for four and a half hours, my ma
th said approximately thirty-two miles. I had been told that the Seahawk ’s drum held forty miles, and it appeared to be full. We didn’t have any spare line stored aboard. Now it was clear that we would fish short sets for the trip. We had also set every single float on the boat. Oh, well. We would make do. We had real synergy going for us.

  We would just have to be more productive with less gear, I resolved as I shut the boat down for the night. We could squeeze a thousand hooks onto thirty-two miles. I had to put the gear on the meat every night and not waste any line searching or exploring. We certainly couldn’t afford to lose any gear. I had a reputation for not losing gear. I was good with the RDF and better with radar. One of my strong points was estimating where a loose piece of gear would be when parted off. I would pay extra attention to wind and tide this trip. We would have to be diligent about clearing all snarls. We would be fine with the bare minimums. My mojo was alive and doing fine.

  I climbed into the top bunk knowing that I would not sleep. I had actually begun to believe what Sebastian Junger had written about me. I wasn’t just the only woman in the business, I was one of the best captains, period, on the entire East Coast. Of course, I knew that the number of captains remaining in this racket was damned small. But still, no matter how poor the results, I must be one of the best. A combination of excited anticipation for the haulback and questioning whether the self-deceptive mode was working overtime had me wondering. Mostly what I wondered was why successful fishing at this point in my life was so important to me. Hadn’t the standard by which I measured my own worthiness grown beyond seaworthiness? Apparently not, I admitted as I imagined hauling aboard the first fish in ten years. I was certainly aware of times when everything looks perfect during a set but nobody’s home the next day. And I hoped the haulback would put to rest the possibility that I had seen tonight through rose-colored glasses. My reality check was just a few short hours away. Tomorrow would answer a lot of questions.