About a year ago, I found myself in immediate need of a new
boat.
Someone at my marina had just put his 32-foot Topaz on the
market, and after a quick conversation with my wife and a far longer inspection
by a marine surveyor, I made it my own. At that point, I needed to figure out
just what I had bought.
Some things, such as the electronics, the outriggers, and
the two diesel engines, were already familiar to me. Other features, including
the refrigerator, generator, and livewell, were more-or-less self-explanatory.
But a few things left me baffled.
Two shielded electrical plugs near the front of the cockpit
had no obvious purpose, being too small to accept a shore power cord and not
configured to take a typical household appliance plug. Then there were two of
the stern rod holders, which were notably deeper and stronger than all of the
others, and held fishing rods far more erect than such holders usually did.
I eventually discovered that the two power outlets were for
electric reels, which allowed anglers to winch in their fish—most often
tilefish caught on deep bottom 400 or more feet below—without having to crank
them up by hand, while the rod holders were designed to hold heavy, bent-butt
rods that would let fishermen catch big pelagic fish such as bluefin tuna
without having to hold the rod in their hands, and free them from the trouble
of matching their strength and endurance against those of the fish on the other
end of their line.
In other words, both the plugs and the rod holders were
designed to take the “sport” out of sportfishing, by allowing anglers to kill
fish without putting in too much physical effort.
Ernest Hemingway, whatever his other flaws, was a skilled
and devoted offshore angler. He once observed that
offshore fishing for bluefin tuna “is a back-sickening, sinew-straining,
man-sized job even with a rod that looks like a hoe handle. But if you land a
big tuna after a six-hour fight, fight him man against fish until your muscles
are nauseated with the unceasing strain, and finally bring him up alongside the
boat, green-blue and silver in the lazy ocean, you will be purified and will be
able to enter unabashed into the presence of the very elder gods, and they will
make you welcome.”
And yes, catching big fish really can feel that way,
although I’ll admit that I never endured a six-hour fight with a bluefin. My longest
contest was just a bit shorter, five hours and thirty-five minutes, and it took
place long ago, when I was just beginning to run my own boat offshore, and was
not yet prepared for the challenge.
The boat was a bare-bones center console, just 20 feet long,
powered by a single 115 horsepower outboard. It was designed for commercial
fishing, and so lacked seats or other amenities typical of recreational
vessels, but it was all that I could afford at the time. I had already pushed
it far beyond its intended purpose, catching sharks 30 miles south of Montauk,
New York and tuna much farther than that off Fire Island. I owned two
legitimate offshore rods and reels; the rest of my gear was more suited to
bluefish and striped bass than to sharks and tuna.
Still, a September morning in 1984 found a friend and me
about 20 miles southeast of Fire Island Inlet. The ocean was mirror-calm,
broken only by small puffs of spray where baitfish, pushed by bluefish and
bonito, shattered its surface. We set up a chum slick, put out three baits, and
waited for something to happen.
Before long, a fish picked up one of the baits and slowly
began to swim away. I took the rod in my hands and, when the fish began to
speed up, signaling that it had the bait fully within its mouth, took the slack
out of the line and drove the hook deeply into its jaw.
At first, there was only weight at the end of the line, and
then the fish slowly moved away, pulling line off the reel’s spool. For a
moment, it approached the surface, appearing as an amorphous, blue-silver form
that was still too deep to reveal any meaningful shape or size. Then it swam
off again, and I moved to the boat’s bow so that my friend, at the controls,
could give chase and hopefully keep the fish from taking all of my line.
The rod’s slotted metal butt bit into my stomach; trying to
fish offshore on a slender budget, I was still spending money on adequate rods
and reels, the rod belts and harnesses we view as essential today seemed like
costly luxuries then.
Unfortunately, one of the things that I did spend money on
were Teflon washers for the drags in my big offshore reels, which are designed
to put enough pressure on the fish to tire it out, but not enough to break the
line. Those washers couldn’t endure the long fight, and I soon found myself
with half the line gone from a reel that was no longer able to pressure the
fish enough to wear it out.
Seeing no other way to continue, I jammed my right hand
between the reel’s spool and the frame of the reel, then told my friend to slowly
back off on the throttle, until the engine was in neutral and the fish was
forced to tow the full weight of the boat.
It was a little painful, but it worked. For the next few
hours, the fish—we still didn’t know what it was, but assumed a big shark—dragged
the boat around, tethered by the line and my fingers jammed in the reel. I
could feel the rod dip every time the fish swung its tail. I was sitting on the
cooler that held our lunch, acting as a sort of tow post as the rod’s butt
carved an ever-growing bruise on my gut and blisters grew along the pads of my
fingers and the palm of my hand.
The blisters eventually popped, slack skin tore away, and
only the raw meat of my hand was left to press against the snubbed line. Still,
the fish swam on—for a while. But at some point, maybe four hours in, it
stopped.
Now, it was my turn.
The boat ran up on the fish, I put some line on the reel,
and finally ended up in an up-and-down fight, as the fish circled deep,
directly below. With the reel’s drag disabled, there was no easy way to get the
job done, but I found that if I kept my hand jammed in the reel, freezing the
spool, I could lift the fish a few inches when it circled in, and if I eased my
hand just a bit, while maintaining some pressure, I could limit the line that
it took when it circled away.
Maybe five hours in, things got to the point where I could
still gain line when the fish swam toward me, but could hold on when it circled
away. The rod would bend down toward the water when the fish moved off, but
when the stresses peaked, it was the fish, not me, who yielded line.
Then, probably mere minutes before the fish finally came
into sight, I felt a bump on the line, and in surprise uttered “What…?”
Then I felt a second bump, and the fish was gone.
I reeled in the remains of the line, only to find a long,
tapering slice at its bitter end. It told the tale of a piece of chum that got
stuck on the line, and of a bluefish that, seeking food, slashed at the chum
and, in doing so, set the fish free.
I’m still not sure what I fought that day, although my best
guess is a tiger shark that probably weighed over five hundred pounds, and
might have gone close to one thousand. Fishermen caught such big tigers back
then.
After the fight, my right hand was raw, my left hand was
blistered, and I sported a deep purple bruise that ran from the top of my thigh
to the bottom of my ribs. My back was so stiff that I couldn’t stand straight,
my legs cramped, and my fingers refused to bend. On Monday, I shuffled into the
office, still bent over, my hands wrapped in gauze, and the first person who
saw me blurted out a horrified, “What happened to you?” and I gave the only
possible answer.
“I had a GREAT weekend.”
Because as a sport fisherman, I’d just had the fight of my life, an
experience that the folks with the electric reels, and those who never take
their rods from their holders, will never know and perhaps couldn’t even
understand.
Getting a little beat up is part of the sport fishing
experience, although anglers often try to exploit modern technologies, and so
avoid most of the effort and pain. That’s nothing new. Even back in the
1930s, Hemingway scoffed that
“There is tackle made now, and there are fishing guides expert in the ways of
cheating with it, by which anybody who can walk up three flights of stairs,
carrying a quart bottle of milk in each hand, can catch a gamefish over 500
pounds without even having to sweat much.”
Today, some will undoubtedly dismiss such sentiments as
mere artifacts of Hemingway’s supposedly archaic, “macho” personality, yet to
do so ignores the attributes that separate sport fishing from mere recreation.
Whether someone runs in a marathon, surfs Hawaii’s Banzai Pipeline,
or fights big offshore fish, they engage in a physical and mental challenge
that tests their skill, their strength, and their endurance, the very
attributes that define the concept of “sport.” It is that challenge that
distinguishes sport fishing from other sorts of angling. The fact that someone
might have killed a fish while using a rod and reel doesn’t mean that they were
engaged in sport, for it is the process, and not merely the end, that defines
the activity. After all, Rosie Ruiz might
have crossed the finish line at the 1979 New York Marathon, but given that she
rode the subway to get there, she was not a competitive runner.
Sport, regardless of its nature, is generally defined by a
set of standards and rules intended to promote fair competition. Such rules
might prohibit the use of performance-enhancing drugs, prevent amateurs from
being forced to compete against professional athletes or, in the case of sport
fishing, prevent an angler from using technology and equipment to take unfair
advantage of a hooked fish.
In the late 1930s, a group of prominent sport fishermen
decided to establish a set of standards that would bring fair competition to
saltwater fishing. Their task was difficult, because they weren’t trying to
regulate contests between two human athletes, but those between a willing
person and an unwilling marlin or tuna. The result of their efforts was
the International Game Fish
Association (IGFA), which was established on June 7, 1939.
The purpose of the IGFA was,
and remains, “the conservation of game fish and the promotion of responsible,
ethical angling practices.” To promote angler ethics, the IGFA has adopted
a set of rules that
became the gold standard for fishing tournaments and, more widely, for the
sport of saltwater fishing.
Such rules have a common theme—preventing the angler from
having too much of an edge over the fish. For example, fishing rods “must
comply with sporting ethics and customs…rods giving the angler an unfair
advantage will be disqualified.” The breaking strength of the line may not
exceed 60 kilograms (approximately 130 pounds). Electric reels are prohibited,
as are hooks that are likely to snag somewhere in a fish’s body, even though
such fish never actually struck the angler’s bait or lure.
Harpoons are prohibited. Gaff handles may not be more than
eight feet long, to make it more difficult to gaff a fish that still has the
energy to fight. Multi-pronged hooks may not be used while fishing with bait.
Angler conduct, as well as equipment, is codified.
“From the time a fish strikes or takes a bait or lure, the
angler must hook, fight, and land or boat the fish without the aid of any other
person.” “If a rod holder is used, once the fish is hooked, the angler must
remove the rod from the rod holder as quickly as possible.” “The act of persons
other than the angler in touching any part of the rod, reel, or line (including
the double line) either bodily or with any device” will disqualify a catch, as
will “Resting the rod in a rod holder, on the gunwale of the boat, or on any
other object while playing the fish.”
Such rules established a standard for ethical conduct that
saltwater anglers followed, at least in principle, for a half-century or more.
While most fishermen didn’t adhere to every detail of the IGFA standard unless
they were competing in a tournament or seeking a world record catch, the basic
principles of a one-on-one fight, removing the rod from the holder when a fish
took the bait, and utilizing gear that allowed a fair fight were widely adhered
to.
Today, that is not the case.
Standards may have first begun to decay in the northeast
tuna fishery, when prices offered for giant bluefin rose so high that even
well-heeled anglers began fishing for the market, and adopted the use of
harpoons and other commercial gear to better assure a payday.
The decline might have begun when many fishermen, often new
to angling, began to focus solely on the end result—a dead fish in the cockpit
and social media likes—and displayed little patience for putting in the effort
required to learn how to catch such fish by sporting means.
And maybe fishing technology just began to advance too
quickly for angling ethics to keep pace. Whatever the cause, ethical
sportfishing is on the decline.
Today, most anglers think nothing of keeping the rod in the
holder after hooking a fish, and fighting their fish with the boat rather than
with their own sinew and muscle. They thus avoid the “back-sickening,
sinew-straining, man-sized job” while they merely crank in the line, which is
often a technologically advanced braid with an actual breaking strength of 200
pounds or more, until someone gets a chance to stick the fish with a harpoon.
Unfortunately, such behavior is often displayed on
televised fishing shows, where questions of ethics are seldom, if ever, raised.
Electric reels are now standard equipment for those fishing
deep in the ocean, even when the quarry is swordfish, which were once revered
as the ultimate angling prize.
The idea of a fair fight between man and fish has, in large
part, been lost.
Some might ask why that matters.
There are, after all, many reasons to fish, all equally
valid. One person might fish as a livelihood, and sell all of their catch.
Another might fish to feed themselves and/or their family. A third might fish
merely for recreation, enjoying a day on the water without worrying about
ethics or standards or rules.
But one of the inevitable products of sport is respect,
even concern, for one’s opponent.
One can argue that the fishermen of Hemingway’s day failed
in that regard, as they typically killed every fish that they caught, hanging
them on a scale and then, far too often, dumping them back into the sea. Yet
their thinking evolved, to the point that concern for their quarry engendered
some of the first meaningful research and conservation efforts. Michael Lerner,
one of the IGFA’s founders, was also the founder, and significant funder, of
the American Museum of Natural History’s Lerner Marine Laboratory on
Bimini in the Bahamas, which was established as a place “where the basic
questions of marine biology could be probed to their final solution.”
Sport fishermen continue that tradition today; the best
example might be The Billfish Foundation,
and its dedicated efforts to advance scientists’ knowledge of sailfish, marlin,
and swordfish.
You don’t see the electric reel crowd, or the folks with
harpoons, taking that sort of interest in fisheries science; they tend to focus
their efforts, if they make any efforts at all, on things like artificial reefs
and fish hatcheries intended to increase anglers’ landings, rather than benefit
wild fish populations.
They have the right to do as they please, but I prefer to
remain a relic of the past.
I’ve been bewitched by blue water, and blue water fishing.
I still remember my first yellowfin tuna burning the skin
off my thumb when I foolishly tried to use it to break that fish’s first run. I
still remember the blue marlin that exploded, without warning, from a flat
summer ocean as it tried to steal the nice mahi that I was reeling in. And I
will never forget being locked into hours-long fights with fish that turned my
hands numb, made my back scream, and caused my legs to break into
uncontrollable spasms.
Such memories recall some of the highlights of my life.
Having spent many hours fishing offshore, and having
devoted much of my energy and time to marine fish conservation, I think that
we, as a coastal people, will lose something of ourselves as sportfishing dies.
And, as counterintuitive as it might sound, I believe that the fish will lose
something, too.
-----
This essay first appeared in “From the Waterfront,” the
blog of the Marine Fish Conservation Network, which can be found at
http://conservefish.org/blog/
awesome, great read … thanks for sharing… 🤙🏼
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