Remembering Hemingway: Journal Entry #2, Passage from Islands in the Stream

Beginning of book.....written in the mid 1950s, in Cuba

Part I
Bimini

"The house was built on the highest part of the narrow tongue of land between the harbor and the open sea. It had lasted through three hurricanes and it was built solid as a ship. It was shaded by tall coconut palms that were bent by the trade wind and on the ocean side you could walk out of the door and down the bluff across the white sand and into the Gulf Stream. The water of the Stream was usually a dark blue when you looked out at it when there was no wind. But when you walked out into it there was just the green light of the water over the floury white sand and you could see the shadow of any fish a long time before he could ever come in close to the beach.

It was a safe and fine place to bathe in the day but it was no place to swim at night. At night the sharks came in close to the beach, hunting the edge of the Stream and from the upper porch of the house on quiet nights you could hear the splashing of the fish they hunted and if you went down to the beach you could see the phosphorescent wakes they made in the water. At night the sharks had no fear and everything else feared them. But in the day they stayed out away from the clear white sand and if they did come in you could see their shadows a long way away."

On a Dark Wintry Day....Thinking Back to a Summer Cruise

By Jim Field

Today it snowed. Temperature 19 degrees. Burr. Ouch!

On days like this, it is very easy--indeed, effortless--to let one's mind wander, to think back to warmer times, to the beach, from the beach to a boat, from a marina to an inlet, from an inlet to a port and a slip, and from there, well: how about to a restaurant for some food and drink? And then heading back again, tracing over the same exact track, to the barn. Yes, so easy to let the mind wander.

And what came to my mind, coincidentally, was a trip in July 2008 that the Okoniewskis--Fran, Christine, and Meghan--took with the Fields--Jim, Diane, and Ollie. The starting point was Indian River Marina in Delaware. The objective was Cape May, New Jersey, requiring passage across the mouth of the Delaware Bay. And then once at Cape May, the final, ultimate objective was The Lobsterhouse, and the fine food and brew to be had and eaten on the dock overlooking the fishing fleet and pleasure boats.

On this day, Captain Fran provided passage on his Grady. Notably, on the way back, Fran detoured to Lewes, Delaware, navigating around the breakwater, up the canal, and then, with that accomplished, ensuring a rapid return back to IR marina.

It was a blessed day, as the journal photos below reveal. Oh, may summer return expeditiously!

Note: The sons, Andrew and Jack, were away at camp, yet were missed dearly! (Yeah, right!)

Captain at helm, barking orders to deck hands


The deck hands: cute, but unruly and slow to obey


Safely moored, all ashore, Cape May, NJ


The Fields: Lewes breakwater and beacon as background


The Okoniewskis: Smooth seas, fair winds to you always!

What is This Fish? We're at a Loss

By Jim Field

Last spring we caught this fish approximately 20 miles south-south-west of Diamond Shoals bouy. At the time (and for the prior two years), the Sea Ya Bea was homeported at Teach's Lair marina in Hatteras Village. We were "extreme" bottom fishing in roughly 600 feet of water, using 4:1 reels with braided line, hand-cranking them up. We were having lots of success with tiles and grouper--and then this thing appeared.

We caught exactly one, and have not caught another since, despite many return trips. In the photo it is shown laid out on our coffin cooler in the cockpit, measuring approximately 15-18 inches in length. At the time, we expected to catch more; we haven't. When we took it back to the marina, the fish mongers couldn't identify it. (I thought they would be experts on all things aquatic; they're not.) I've looked at perhaps a dozen guide books depicting Atlantic fish; it's not shown.

As you can see, the fish was absolutely beautiful, it's orange coloring almost tropical. Similarly, look at the front-lower (presumably pectoral) fins: they taper off into thin, flowing, elongated, wispy, structures that I associate with aquarium fish.

A six-pack of beer to the person who nails its lineage! We'll let you know what we discover.

Ode to the Merchant: What's Not to Love?

By Jim Field

One of the things I love about going offshore is coming across merchant ships and getting to see them in their element, sometimes relatively upclose. To state this right upfront: I think they are majestic, beautiful objects, something worthy of our full interest.

But we mostly ignore them. To be sure, we monitor their movement to ensure we stay sufficiently clear of their track. However, beyond this chore, once the inconvenience of dealing with them is over, at most we might give them a few passing glances, not really to look at them honestly, but because they happen to occupy, temporarily, the field of vision we're monitoring for signs of fish.

These ships, I'd argue, deserve respect and genuine attention, not our neglect. They are, after all, modern manifestations of generations of ships that have plyed the oceans for ages in pursuit of commercial gain and riches. They are transiting between ports located across the globe. They are registered under countless nations' flags and manned by crews of every race and nationality. They have seen and, as their presence attests, weathered all types of sea conditions.

We revere ships from prior ages--particularly from the Great Age of Sail--but we harbor no asthetic or romantic feeleings for the contemporary large ships among us. Is it that wood, canvas, and sleek lines are beautiful, but steel and functionality are not? Perhaps so, but I, for one, am fascinated by them.

First of all, their design follows directly from their function, i.e. what they're carrying: oil, natural gas, automobiles, containers, ores, etc. Upon close inspection, some are well-maintained and freshly painted, while others are rusting and look precarious. Under a full head of steam, the bows of some--like a knife-edge--cut through the water cleanly; others sport a bulbous nose, which is revealed to varying degrees, depending upon the ship's ballast. Interestingly, these spherical appendages are hollow, and have an interesting story. Years ago, the U.S. Navy experimented with placing sonar equipment in the bow of warships inside these enclosures in the hope of minimizing interfering noise caused by the ship's wake and movement through the water. They discovered, counter-intuitively, that instead of slowing the ship's speed, the sphere actually reduced water resistence and provided a boost. Thus, we see them today on commerical carriers to reduce transit times and increase fuel efficiency.

When I joined the U.S. Navy as a young man and served on my first submarine--with the rank of a lowly Seaman Recruit (one white strip on my uniform)--my first job when underway was serving as a helmsman and lookout. Transiting on the surface, the Officer of the Deck and two lookouts stood watch on the bridge, a tiny block of space perched on top of the vertical sail. As a lookout, your assignment--armed with a pair of 7x50 binoculars--was to constantly scan the horizon and sky for contacts of any kind. After a few months, lookouts became experts at this task, easily able to spot foreign objects under all conditions. We'd pick up ships "hull down," i.e., when the very tippy-top of their masts or houses first appeared on the horizon. Once identified and reported to the Officer of the Deck, we'd monitor them and see them take shape if we were on closing tracks. We'd study each ship, and sometimes log in its name, home port, and the markings on its stack, which typically displayed the shipping company's colors and logo.

No doubt my love and facination with merchant ships carries over from these days at sea. For me, they're every bit as beautiful, in their own right, as the Flying Cloud was in its day. Our era is Late Industrial, the clipper's was largely agricultural. In all liklihood, the next generation of ship afficienados will have paintings of our merchant ships on their mantlepieces, and speak of them in endearing terms. Why don't we fishermen today wake up to this living, oceangoing history that we encounter on nearly every trip, and take in this experience as something (almost) as special as catching grand fish?

Spectacular Billfish Sculpture: Fort Lauderdale

By Jim Field

I spent last Sunday and the early part of this week in Fort Lauderdale, attending the national conference of the Society of Thoracic Surgeons (STS), which is made up of heart and chest surgeons (the guys, a few women among them, who cut and typically save you). Located right in front of the huge conference center is the pool and billfish sculpture shown above, First of all, the camera (actually Blackberry) shot does it no justice--it's size and scale are vast and impressive. It depicts the sailfish's leap into air in three distinct parts, or freeze-frame motions. The first, closest to the camera, shows the dorsal fin breaking the plain of the water. The second, at center, reveals the great fish's head and back arching upward. And finally, in the third presentation, the sailfish is fully vertical, nearly its entire body airborne.

If you stand back looking at the entire thing, and sweep your eyes from right to left across the water, you get a real sense of movement, and motion, and power, and speed, and weight, and elegance. What a creature! The artist who created this work definitely produced a masterpiece.

Final Note: the Blackberry produces an awesome quality picture, doesn't it? It's definitely a must-have feature.

Remembering Hemingway: Journal Entry #1

By Jim Field

Ernest Hemingway was--and remains--a true giant in the world of sportfishing. He was fishing for big fish off Florida and Cuba when only a handful of people had heard about it, considered it possible, or could conceive of themselves actually trying it. E.H. was a founding father of the IGFA, himself defining the early rules of the sport. He was a pioneer of tackle and fishing techniques. He was an astute observer of fish behaviors and the oceans. Early on, he set and held multiple world titles for largest fish caught.

As a boy I admired Hemingway for the man and writer he was. Studying his life, I decided that one day I would take up this sport. It took 40 years to bring this dream to fruition, but I owe my entry into deep sea fishing to him.

In future postings, I want to bring this man to life for readers. Most of today's fishermen know nothing about E.H. and his foundational contributions to this sport, and they're worse off for not appreciating him. He was a true stud, someone I'd give anything in return for a day fishing the gulf stream with him. Let me think a bit about what the next post, Journal Entry #2, will cover.

Sportfishing Terminology: #1 The Skunk

By Jim Field

A regular feature of this blog will be the discussion of terminology specific to sportfishing. Like any other endeavor, fishing has its own library of specialized terms, some dating back to the beginnning of recorded history. On the contemporary front, our Crew regularly invents its own terms, which, if original and clever, enter permanently into our tribal language. Ideally, over time, if we hang together long enough, our wives won't have a clue what we're talking about. That's the plan.

To kick off our cataloge of terms, there's no better way to start than to tee up the dreaded "skunk." The skunk denotes a fishing trip that returns to the dock without catching a single fish, or for more demanding folks, the primary targeted fish of the day, e.g., you go out in search of marlin, and return with a sea robin, and for all intents and purposes, you've been skunked.

All sportfishermen dread this calamity, and the shame it brings to each crew member--a stigma equivalent to what used to go with contracting leprosy. Getting the skunk can sometimes be no one's fault but the fish: they simply decided not to bite on the day you're able to go out and the weather cooperates. But leaving fish preferences and behaviors aside, the skunk also might suggest--absent objective evidence indicating otherwise, i.e., a fish!!--that the Crew is a bunch of losers. Masculinity is at the core of fishing psychology, and returning to shore with an empty fish box is the equivalent of castration and wearing high heels. We fished; we spent fuel money getting to the right water; we tried our best and applied all our skills--and we got ZERO to show for it. It's an unbearable situation worthy of jumping over the side, or for real men, committing sepuku (Japanese stomach-cutting ritual) in the cockpit, sitting with legs crossed, facing aft, looking at the jetting spray, with the sharpest bait knife onboard.



Because what happens, of course, is that you pull in empty handed and the boat next to you absolutely killed them--in fact, they limited out! Or, alternatively, the finicky fish were tough on every boat that day, but other guys nonetheless managed to catch one or two, and you got none, causing The Crew to ask "what the hell is wrong with us?" Perhaps it was the baits--the way they swam (hey, who rigged them?); perhaps the wrong choice of skirt colors; perhaps the speed at which we trolled--okay, perhaps the color of our damn shorts!

And what might be the exact origin of this term--the skunk? Well, we don't really know; this Crew hasn't researched it, to tell the truth. But we tie it to "stink," as in "you stink." That simple, that direct.

For a period after mooring, we do our work and suffer the humilation dearly, but then pull up, after a few necessary beers, to refocus on the next trip, and the need--the utter imperative--to catch fish in ample numbers, so as to "get the stink off the boat." In our deepest misery, when the skunk strikes us particulalry hard, we've also talked freely about taking a paint brush and painting the topside black, leaving a white line down the middle of the vessel. We're thinking: why not beat ourselves down completely, in the hope that the Fishing God might show us some mercy next time around? (That's us, always thinking ahead.)

So, in summary, the skunk is the worst thing possible for fishermen--all fisherman, of every type. For us weekenders, its downright traumatizing, requiring one or two days sitting in meetings for a full recovery. Yet for charterboat captains, it's even worse--the ultimate walk of shame for those who earn their living on the sea. In reality, it doesn't happen all that often to them--these guys nearly always manage to pull a rabbit (i.e., quality fish) out of a hat. We weekenders, however, can't claim the same magic. Sometimes, God help us, we're just plain skunked, period--say no more. And, as for the final dose of humiliation, upon returning home what do we tell the wife and kids? Do they think we're losers too?

Launching the Boat--This Blog

By The Crew

We've just launched the site and are thinking deeply about getting it underway--what's our inital course and speed, and more importantly, where are we heading with this undertaking? The "Crew" of this site--it's major contributors, each one a character in his own right--is made up of close fishing friends, and these guys will share their journeys, successes, failures, gear ideas and purchases, findings, and thoughts on our sport--to the extent we're able given full-time jobs and families.

Sometimes we fish together, sometimes alone, and sometimes with other guys, but we always talk about our experiences with one another--checking back in with the Crew. As such, from this day forward, this site will serve as our new Home Port--the place we gather to communicate with each other. And for our readers, think of this as Channel 1 on the VHF, the place you go to listen in on our chatter.

Despite what others want us to do with our time, the Crew is committed to making this site the best of its kind--"best" in the sense of communicating--honestly, frequently, and in common language (the type heard in a cockpit) the fun and miseries of weekend sportsfishing to a universe of mates--guys just like us that we haven't yet met on a slip. So stay tuned, more to come soon.

Hey, anyone know the weather off Hatteras?