Matthew Lindsay

Last Friday, my dad and I took my brother-in-law Steve, sail fishing for his birthday. We’ve gone out several times before with other captains, but always been been skunked. If Steve caught one today this would be his first.

We had booked a half-day charter with Capt. Mike on his 31ft Contender, “Whatever’s Bitin’.” We met him around 7 a.m. off the Jupiter Inlet and loaded our bag that contained beer, “snackables”, donuts, cigars, and a back up radio into the boat. As we climbed aboard, the captain was attempting to load the bait into the live well when we had our first problem: the 3-dozen-or-so-ten-dollar-a-piece goggle-eyes he kept in a net hidden under the hull had been stolen. His bait – our bait – had been swiped clean by the clandestine bait pirates of the Jupiter Inlet.

With a furious captain and us aboard, we headed a few hundred yards offshore to an artificial reef where goggle eyes are know to gather. Normally, you catch them about 3 a.m., in the dark. It’s unheard of to string them in the light four hours after their breakfast. But our captain did a great job. He stayed cool and calm and we were able to reclaim a couple-dozen for our hunt, though you could see he was still agitated by the mornings swindle.

Loaded with some goggled-eyed ammo, we headed a couple miles further offshore. I was standing next to the Captain when yelled “Elephant ears!” over the hum of the motors. Slightly confused, I saw he was pointing out to the horizon where you could barely see larger rolling waves. He explained that is where rougher colder water meets with the calmer warmer water just near the Gulfstream. That’s where the fish are. Other things to look out for: birds, flying fish and a steady weed line or debris, which the captain would call “da-briss.” These were all signs of where our catch could be lurking below.

We settled in what looked like a nice spot, with a bird overhead, rougher waves and “da-briss.” There was a slight wind, perfect for using the kite. This allowed us to keep the bait just on the surface of the water, splashing around, alluring the sailfish we’ve been trying to catch for the last couple of years. While setting up the rig, the captain would tell us stories of “kite woes” describing how much a pain-in-the-ass using it is: often hard to control and getting tangled in the lines with sometimes more than one sailfish on.

We had two lines on the kite, and free lining on the port and stern. Everything was setup. We had the right bait, rigged the right way, in the right conditions. Waiting for our game, the crack of the first beer was opened slightly after 10 a.m., then came the steady stream of jokes and witty stories to ease the silence from the lack of action. As we bobbed around for a bit our captain let us know, “He’s not feelin’ it.” We bring in the bait, crank the motors and head further south.

With my new-found sea knowledge, I could tell he put us in a better quality spot, meeting all the requirements from earlier. There were also some other boats, but not too crowded. Cargo ships would pass on the outside, while a few touristy type boats would try to pass us on the inside, threatening our rigs. Our best effort was to wave them off, then make outrageous suggestions on what they were doing instead of paying attention. This led to the captain to tell his story about some not-so-bright clients he once had. He described them with little knowledge of fishing and even less knowledge about boating.

“They’d point to a random boat,” he said “and ask me, ‘Hey! Where’s that boat going?’ That’s like me pointing to a car on I-95 and asking, ‘Hey! Where’s that car going?’”

This led to us coming up with our own dumb questions to ask Captain Mike, while we passed the time. Eventually, the idea to make a book of dumb questions arose. Then DVD’s, then T-Shirts. We had our whole enterprise figured out as we waiting for something, anything to happen.

While the jokes settled down, time was running out on our half-day charter. We had about an hour left and no bites. It was starting to creep up in the back of our minds, that we might get skunked again. Our week long hype and over confidence was straining into dull conversation. We could overhear Captain Mike, who was talking on his cell phone, say he was running out of things to talk us about. At the bow, I was talking to Steve about my plan for the next few years in life when then I was interrupted with “Fish On!” bellowing from Capt. Mike at the stern.

Steve sprung to action and set the hook like a pro. I grabbed my camera as dad and the captain took in the extra lines. I was shuffling around weaving in and out of three-man crew, trying to stay out of the way but still close enough to still feel the action. Steve was starting to strain the rod, but regaining control just before the fish walked on it’s tail for several feet trying with everything it had to shake out the hook. That was our confirmation. It was our allusive sailfish. With the fish back under the water, Steve requested the belt. I paused shooting long enough for my dad got the belt on Steve, knowing that would make for some awkward juxtapositions. With the rod strapped in, and Captain Mike behind the helm, we crept toward Steve’s catch as he reeled in. We were making some ground before there was another jump. “You’re doing just fine, Steve!” along with other words of encouragement was keeping the Bostonian brother-in-law going strong.

We could now see the large shadow like distortion of the sailfish not more than a few feet from the boat in the emerald colored water. Steve was able to keep the fish on and the line steady enough for the captain to grab the bill and my dad to grab the tail to bring the fish aboard. With hooks lines and rods cleared, Captain Mike, Steve and Dad lined up behind the fish, which was as long as all of them put together.

Soon after the picture, the sailfish was back in the water, still with energy. We got the water flowing nicely over the gills, until he took off and disappeared. Handshakes, pat-on-the-backs, and maybe a quick father and son-in-law hug for Steve followed. For him, a childhood dream was just checked off the list. “I can remember being, in Boston, eight years old, in the snow, and remembering that I just wanted to be in Florida fishing,” he said.