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Blue Water Battle
Author:
Steve McNemar
Location:
Offshore Venice
April 25, 20101969-12-31 18:33:30
I have wanted to fish with Captain James Peters for a long, long time. He has been a huge part of the Venice offshore scene almost as long as I have fished out of Venice. He also has a condo at Venice Marina that still stands directly across from where the houseboat I used to own a part of was docked. His condo survived Katrina. The winch decided we didn’t need our houseboat any longer; but, while we enjoyed the camp, I often watched Capt. Peters come in with impressive catches.
I knew he grew up fishing offshore Venice as a kid. He has owned and operated Osprey Charters for over 15 years. Even though he’s still a young man, probably in his late 30’s, 15 years as an offshore charter captain makes you an Old Salt! I can’t think of many professions that create more wear and tear on a person than being an offshore charter guide. The early mornings, daily poundings by weather and fish, the late nights of fish cleaning and boat washing all take their toll. It takes a special sort of person to last that long in that profession. It takes a special kind of passion!
However, it isn’t Capt. Peters’ ability to do what he has done for so long that made me want to fish with him. It’s the respect that I have always seen him receive from his peers.
A marina full of charter captains is not unlike a convention facility filled with postmenopausal women deprived of their hormone pills. There is usually more bickering and whining about each other than you would witness on any reality show; however, I have never heard a negative word uttered about Capt. Peters. To the contrary, one of my all-time favorite offshore guides had admitted to learning quite a bit from him and that impressed me. However, the opportunity to fish together just never happened until one recent Thursday in March when I was invited to join a “fun trip” with Chris Tiblier and some of his friends.
When I met Capt. Peters at his condo at the Venice Marina that morning, I was amazed and a little disgusted at how the guy never seems to age. Anyone with that much time on the water should age faster than most, but he looked like a cross between one of those “surfer dudes” and a young Robert Redford. Maybe there is something to that “doing what you love for a living” thing.
Tiblier and his guests Rusty Munster, along with Rusty’s brother-in-law, Randy Ladner, had stayed in the condo the night before my arrival. I could tell by their lovely morning aura that they had stayed up well into the night to solve the problems of the world. It wasn’t long after inspirationally insulting comments were made among the crew that all hands were lined up on Capt. Peters’ dock ready to board and head out to sea.
The forecast was not supposed to be favorable to head offshore for tuna. Our fall back plan was to head to the rigs in East Bay and snatch whatever we could find off the platforms if we could get past the endangered red snapper.
I secretly hoped this would occur. I knew that I really should not be tuna fishing. Two Decembers ago, on my way home from the office, an elderly gentlemen t-boned me. The wreck caused a never-ending series of tendonitis & bursitis together with a seemingly endless need for injections in shoulders, elbows, and hips. So snatching some pompano from the East Bay Rigs sounded pretty good to me. Well, my Maw Maw once told me about wishing in one hand and………never mind.
Captain Peters thought we had a shot to get offshore for tuna and that we should at least stick our nose out. So like a good sailor I sucked it up and said, “Sounds good to me!!”
As we eased into the Gulf of Mexico on our way to fish one of the multitudes of lumps and domes that dot the floor of the Gulf, it was evident that the conditions were going to be shoddy at best; but, we were riding in Capt. Peters 32’ Twin Vee Catamaran. I’ve had occasion to fish out of quite a few boats. I’ve fished out of 32’ Twin Vees a lot. I’ve yet to fish out of a boat that handles rough seas any better than they do, and Capt. Peters’ skillful handling of his vessel made the ride to the fishing grounds extremely comfortable.
As we sliced our way across a frothy, whitecap lined Gulf of Mexico, Capt. Peters regaled me with fishing stories from his youth and tales of some of the many Bill Fish Tournaments that he has won. I’m not sure what impressed me more, the passion and fire that both his voice and eyes evidenced of his love for fishing or his skillful maneuvering of the cat in the sloppy conditions. If you’ve never piloted a cat you probably won’t understand, but it takes a great amount of dexterity to keep them on course in decent conditions. The ability to do so effortlessly in rough conditions while laughing and recalling great fishing experiences was extremely impressive.
Our game plan when we reached the dome was to chunk and chum while drifting. We set to work immediately upon arriving at our destination. It was instantly apparent that I was in good fishing company. Tiblier manned the cutting board and began chunking up the porgies. Capt. Peters and Randy peeled the 50# monofilament from the Penn’s and set the chunks to drift while Rusty dropped down a jig to see if any hungry tuna were suspended below. So for the first time in a very long time – perhaps the first time ever, I was able to just stand back and watch. I knew that my offshore fishing days were reaching their twilight, so I stood there and watched the mechanics that go into a successful tuna trip. I burned into my memory the process of chunking and chumming. I noted the beauty of the small pieces of fish floating gracefully into the blue green depths. I watched as my fellow anglers skillfully fed line from the reels as I had done scores of times before, being sure never to let the line tighten up so that the chunks would float naturally through the water column.
Soon we were fishing in what looked like an aquarium. Scores of king mackerel sliced through the water attacking the chum like piranhas on an injured water buffalo. I had never seen so many kings in my life. Mixed in with the kings were bonito which are considered prize bait for chunking. We tried to target them and keep them away from the kings.
It wasn’t an easy undertaking. I lost track of the hooks Capt. Peters changed as the kings gave us fits while we managed to box four bonito for bait. At one point I sat tossing a hookless popper partly to draw the kings attention from the chum, but also because we were enjoying the aerial displays of the king mackerel. At one point, a large 30 pound king, teeth gnashing, almost dove into the boat, quickly I decided it was best to quit playing.
Then the sharks showed up. Not the small sharks that tend to pester you offshore, but large sharks. I don’t know what kind they were. Unless it’s a mako or a hammerhead, I can’t tell them apart. Capt. Peters did a great job of playing cat and mouse with them, often having to pull the chunk rapidly towards the boat to keep it from being devoured by the huge sharks. Sometimes he lost the battle though, especially when a chunk would sink out of sight. He would then have to expend considerable effort to subdue the massive sharks then release them to continue their journey as part of the cycle of life that is the Gulf of Mexico.
After the captain had snelled more hooks in a couple of hours than most anglers could snell in a year, he finally decided to move. He knew with all of the bonito in the water, the yellowfin had to be close by. He maneuvered the Twin Vee about a quarter mile away from all the kings, bonito, and sharks until he picked up what appeared to be tuna about 50’ down on his sonar.
Less than 15 minutes into our next round of chunking and chumming, the reel that Capt. Peters was peeling line from began that fast-paced, steady whirr that almost always means yellowfin.
Rusty was fitted with a fighting belt, and Capt. Peters handed him the rod. After an artful display of angling skills, Capt. Peters soon sunk the gaff into a fat 70 pound yellowfin and the ice had been broken.
Fifteen minutes later the reel that began singing that sweet music again. This time Randy battled the yellowfin. It wasn’t long before a healthy 50 pounder was slapping the deck with his tail in the rapid beat that all tuna anglers know. I was amazed when Randy announced that this tuna was his first yellowfin. I had never seen a tuna virgin handle one that well and he received congratulations all around.
I’m not sure what he was doing differently than I was, but, sure enough, in almost no time Capt. Peters’ reel was whistling tuna!! Tiblier and I looked at each other as we were up next. I knew he wanted to fight it, but he asked me, “Want it?” I knew in my heart I should have said, “Nah, you take it.” I knew with my injuries and the fact that I have about passed my offshore prime, I should have let him take the rod; On the other hand, that angling competitor in me, that part that longs to be on the water everyday, that part of me that makes me the stubborn SOB that I am made me say, “Yeah, I want it!!!”
The first 10 – 15 wraps on the reel came as easy as trout fishing. I thought, “Yeah, baby! This is gonna be a piece of cake – no worries.” Then I believe the tuna realized that something was very, very wrong and there might not be a favorable outcome for him. It got angry, very angry. Five seconds later my left shoulder, badly in need of another injection, began screaming at me, “You idiot! What are you doing?” Not to be left out, my right shoulder also joined in the chorus.
This tuna felt heavy, very heavy; and worse yet, he was beginning to have his way with me. There was no way I could tell how big he was, and I think anyone who says they can at that point is a liar. I’ve had a 50 pound tuna give me all I wanted. I’ve also had a 150 pounder that barely made me break a sweat. This one, though, was hurting me physically and mentally. I was using a bent butt rod. They are great for normal people with good backs or if you have a sit-down harness. I don’t have a good back, and I had left my sit-down harness at the house. I sure was missing it.
Maybe my arms are too short and my legs don’t reach the ground, but something ugly was going on.
I remembered a time when I was younger and fishing the Midnight Lump when I watched a middle-aged man fight a tuna in the distance while wearing a sit-down harness. I laughed out loud at him and told my buddies, “Hell if you’re going to wear all of that crap, just find a boat with a fighting chair!!” Now that I was that middle-aged man, I didn’t think it was so funny anymore. Mister, whoever you are, you have the last laugh now.
Less than 10 minutes into the fight, I knew I was in trouble. The harness I had brought would not match up with the gear I was using, and it kept popping out of the reel causing my belt to shift. I was trying to fight the tuna and my gear. That was not going to work.
Soon my sciatica was singing louder than a fat lady at an opera. I knew I couldn’t last much longer. Every time I gained line on the tuna, I would do something wrong. I know how to fight a tuna, but could not will my body to cooperate. Capt. Peters told me, “I can see this isn’t your first time fighting a tuna. Just use your left arm to keep the rod straight.” I was too focused on the task at hand to tell him that he was right. I had caught over 100 tuna and knew the proper form, but I had never hurt this badly. When the fish bent me over into the embarrassing position that no offshore angler likes to be seen in, I knew I didn’t have long before one of my screaming body parts blew up. My forearms became so swollen that my tendonitis wraps popped and fell to my wrists. I willed myself to do exactly what you are not suppose to do when fighting a tuna. I used my arms and my back. I didn’t have a choice. As hard as I tried, I could not get into a rhythm of rocking backwards with the bent butt rod. I even tried timing the waves for assistance while pumping the rod but they were too erratic to help. I knew this was going to be my last hurrah, and I grunted and I cursed and I pumped. And I cursed some more; somehow cursing made it seem easier. I was straining so hard with my left arm I thought I was going to get sick. I thanked God that my elbows had gone numb as I continued to lift and reel.
Then I saw color. Oh, that glorious, glorious color that means the tuna is within sight and the fight is near its end. Sometimes, but not this time or at least it didn’t seem so. The tuna came close to gaffing range three times, then sounded. Each time it sounded I didn’t know if I wanted to cry or scream. Finally I heaved it to where its head was almost about to break the surface. By then, the lactic acid had built up so badly in my left bicep I could barely move my left arm. I whispered to the captain, “Hey, Captain, you wanna raise his head and I’ll gaff him with my right arm?” He whispered back, “No! You own that fish. Don’t pass the rod now. FINISH HIM!!!” Words that forever cemented for me the fact that not only is James Peters a great captain but also just a good guy!
So with everything I had left in me, I heaved back on the rod lifting the tuna’s head out of the water and screamed, “STICK THAT (unprintable)!!!” And he did! And there on the deck lay a beautiful 120 pound yellowfin tuna. Not my largest, but a beauty for sure.
As I immediately collapsed onto an ice chest I looked at it and said, “You’re my last one.” Instead of the feeling of elation I normally experience after battling a tuna, the emotions I felt this time were different. I was pleased that I had willed myself through the pain, however it was a bittersweet moment; as I knew I was looking at the last tuna that I would ever subject myself to.
I wanted to be angry with the elderly gentleman who had shortened the length of time I had to pursue my offshore fishing, but I just could not. I hoped to be lucky enough to be an elderly gentleman one day and still be mobile.
Nothing pleases me more than the fact that I was able to catch that fish while fishing with Captain James Peters and the great group of guys with whom I enjoyed my last trip with.
May you enjoy many more successful tuna adventures, my friends.
I have caught my last one............. Really.
Captain James Peters can be reached at: Osprey Charters 985-727-1400 or 504-628-0467
james@ospreycharters.net
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