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Zero for two. That’s all I knew. Countless hours. Days. Gallons of fuel. A lot of lost sleep.
The first week of January I watched it go off. Every charter captain in Venice, LA was landing giant yellowfin tuna, day after day. All my buddies, (that really don’t understand fishing) kept asking, “Man, when are you going to get a jumbo like so and so?”
What they do not see is that I do not fish where the jumbos live. Getting there means a lot of moving parts when you are based somewhere else, working a full-time job, and raising a six-year-old. I swallowed my pride and told myself maybe I would get my shot.
February rolled around and the social media posts slowed down. Fewer and fewer jumbo yellowfin showing back up at the dock. I did not care. I was going to shoot my shot.
First two attempts I hooked five pelicans, fifteen sharks, a jack crevalle, and five blackfin tuna. Not exactly tournament winners. I came home quietly, kind of defeated but did what I always do and just went back to work. Because unfortunately what social media never shows is the days when even the best captains in the world come home with clean ice. If you do it enough, it will happen to you. You will eventually get got.
A few days go by, and I finally see a good weather window and said forget it, I am trying again. Third time is the charm, right?
I called Robbie Carter. “Hey man, put us down for tomorrow. We are sending it.”
We left Cocodrie, LA at 3 AM on a wing and a prayer. No music. Crew all sprawled out on some Ocean Tamer bean bags. Six lives riding on Sionyx, Garmin radar and a tired/grumpy Captain that had slept 3 hours the night before, of course while rolling 40 miles per hour through the fog and darkness.
I was the first boat to the spot. I had talked to just about every charter captain from Grand Isle to Mississippi. Even a few from Alabama. We put out four ballyhoos and started pulling them around while scanning for life, waiting for the big boys to show up.
The Venice charter fleet started stacking in. Still nothing for us. An hour passed. Radio silent. No birds. No sharks. No bait. No blowups. No marks on sonar. Now I am surrounded by forty boats. All Venice all stars who do this every day from the same location.
Then I see some life. I watch Blake Rigby and Donnie Jackson both hook up and land two absolute dinosaurs. My mind starts racing. What are they doing different? We are pulling similar baits in the same water. Is it luck? I pull my whole spread in and switch out colors.
Hours pass. Now only three of us are left. Wind ripping twenty miles per hour and it is getting rough. I sigh and tell my crew, “Well boys, this is trophy hunting. I might list this boat for sale if we go zero for three.”
Quietly I prayed. “God, please send me a big one. Let me know I can compete with the big boys. Show me that I am indeed cut out for this.”
If you know me, you know I may not have every fish answer there is or the slightest bit of patience. I may not have the biggest, fastest, prettiest boat. I may only fish this area once a year. But there is absolutely zero quit in me. And one thing’s for sure, this dog will hunt.
Two o’clock and still nothing in the box. A couple of guys napping. One complaining about no music. The rest have eaten four thousand calories worth of snacks.
Then all of a sudden, the shotgun goes off. The whole boat comes alive. My good buddy, Greg Metcalf grabs the rod. All horsepower and a human winch. He makes quick work of it but I can tell from the first run that it’s not the right one that we need.
Giant bonito.
Morale dips, but at least there is life and we conquered the Chinese fire drill with zero tangles.
I will not give everything away, but let’s just say I had the bright idea to think outside of the box and try something different. Something I learned elsewhere, targeting a totally different species. I sent it way back, checked my drag, put the clicker on and walked back to the wheel. “This is the one, boys.”
About five minutes later we slide back over the area where I saw giants blow up earlier. At 2:40 PM I say one more prayer. “Lord, just send me one good one.”
The reel starts screaming. A giant run. And finally, the right one.
My thrown together crew of misfits turned into a well-oiled machine. Lines cleared. Chaos taken care of. One v one. Good versus good. Greg versus dinosaur.
Two hours later we laid her on deck. Snapped a few photos and clapped hands then it was back to travel business. I graced my crew with the best tunes anyone could ask for and pointed my one off, custom homemade 35’ Nerowalker back toward the house, way far west, thanking God for another day on the big pond and for reminding me why I keep coming back.
Just a homemade metal boat with a part time captain all the way from Cocodrie, LA competing against the millionaire Freeman mafia out east with nothing but elite dudes behind the wheel.
Maybe I don’t suck after all.
She weighed 195.8 and has me sitting on top of the Louisiana Tuna Wahoo Classic for a few days at least.
God’s plan.
