Hunched halfway over the boat’s edge 43 miles from the Texas shoreline, my arms screamed with the fire of struggling muscles as a pleaded with my fingers not to let go. The padded fighting belt strapped around my waist slipped sideways. The thin blue straps of my chest harness snapped tight. I groaned as the harness dug into the back of my neck, sending a spasm through my back but preventing the red-and-black fishing rod from plunging into the Gulf. I yanked upwards, cranked my reel twice and panted with exhaustion. I had no idea what creature was fighting me on the other side of this spaghetti-thick fishing line, but one thing was certain: that sucker was big.
It was my second off-shore fishing excursion and I was determined to take home a victory in my family’s traditional First, Most and Biggest competition. The 14-pound Red Snapper I pulled in just after sunrise secured my “First” title. The beast now thrashing at the end of my line would, without question, put me in the running for “Biggest”.
Off-shore fishing to me is like the grown-up version of those kiddie carnival games where you toss a string over painted plywood and pull back a surprise toy. You never know what’s going to appear at the other end of the line, but by God you’re going to fight like hell to finagle it over that tricky wooden edge. In the case of the breaking-my-back catch on this Port O’Connor-launched fishing trip, no crashing wave or screaming muscle was going to keep me from discovering the particularly massive prize at the end of my monofilament line.
This deep sea battle began beneath a scorching midday sun. After a morning of tossing back an array of Red Snapper — a bright, peachy-red, round-bellied fish that happened to be out-of-season — our expert guide, Steve, decided to take a stab at a more intense open-ocean adventure. Slicing up a jumbo-sized bait fish, he slid the 6-pound head-half onto a hook that would rival the Captain’s and cast a steel leader off the boat’s back side. The rod tip twitched then dipped then twitched again, teasing us as smaller fish nibbled chucks off of our super-sized bait. And then, WHAM, the rod swooped toward the waves, the reel whirred with sound of line escaping and the boat’s excitement level shot to the sky.
I jumped toward the rod, yanking it out of it’s holder, jamming the butt into my rod belt and cranking the line back onto the reel. Within minutes my confident cranking turned to desperate attempts at rotation, making my above-water attempts to wrangle in the beast below rather futile. My focus shifted from pulling this creature up to keeping myself from joining him overboard. I yelled for backup as my back muscles screamed and my biceps trembled.
Kurt, my fishing-guru step-dad, grabbed the rod and, in unison, with him yanking and me reeling, we inched the monster from his 200ft-deep lair.
“This could take thirty minutes or three hours,” Guide Steve said, smiling through his sandwich as our ocean animal pulled out another 100 feet of line.
“I hope it’s a huge Grouper,” Kurt panted between pulls.
“Don’t let go!” my mom shouted from the other side of the deck.
“Maybe it’s a Hammerhead!” Steve exclaimed between bites.
“So. Cool.” I choked out between breaths.
For easily an eternity I cranked and Kurt pulled until a flash of very angry silver darted by beneath us. Another heave and three quick reel-turns brought a fin into view. A very large, very pointy, very shark-like fin.
I’ve watched enough Shark Week shows to know what happens next. The fisherman yelps with excitement as the camera zooms in on that fear-inspiring fin. In his attempts to get a good look to predict length and weight, he loses his balance and tumbles overboard into the awaiting jaws of his seriously pissed-off shark. A feeding frenzy ensues, which makes for amazing television and a not-so-amazing open-casket funeral. Thanks Discovery Channel for educating this city girl on exactly how NOT to catch a shark.
When that sharp, silver tail of my own deep sea creature finally broke the surface, water went flying, but my overexcited feet stayed firmly planted on deck. At least 240 pounds of sheer shark power dove back towards the depths and we fought against our ailing bodies to drag him back into view. A lifetime later, our Sandbar Shark gave in to the inevitable and all 8+ feet of his prehistoric power resigned to a stint at the surface.
We had done it. For the first time I had caught a creature bigger than I am. In this master battle of human willpower over shark endurance, my weakling biceps and incessant mantra of “don’t let go!” triumphed over his forceful tail and animal instinct to survive. I leaned over the boat’s side to snap a picture with this majestic creature, and was captivated by the sparkle of it’s skin in the sunlight and the dinosaur-like eye that stared blankly up at me. Even high-definition television can’t come close to capturing the almost tangible power of a shark swimming inches away or how stone-like its beady eyes are. The fear that usually clutches me every time I wade into salt water or motor out into the open ocean, a fear that seemed well-founded while watching the feeding frenzies of Shark Week, was nowhere to be found.
When the cameras stopped flashing, Steve snapped the line with a long metal pole and the shark that took an hour to come into view, disappeared in seconds. In it’s almost imperceptible wake it left behind a body full of burning muscles, a boatful of awe-inspired smiles and a “Biggest” title that my sisters are going to have a heck of a time trying to beat.
One Bite at a Time 