FREIGHTERS

All things about the ocean fascinate me but freighters hold a special place in my heart. When cruising off shore in southern California almost all freighter traffic you see is either headed for or from the Port of Los Angeles. Being one of the busiest ports in the world there are ships that arrive and depart all day and night, 12 months a year.

For the sake of this blog I use the term freighter generically to include all manner of cargo carrying ships. They can be oil tankers, grain haulers, container ships or banana boats. To me they are all beautiful.

If we are going off shore in search of fish we usually leave in the middle of the night. What times depends on where you want to be at day light. You are always on the lookout for freighter traffic but particularly as you approach the “steamer lane”, a zone the freighters are supposed to stay in as they steam into and out of Los Angeles harbor. You first pick them up on your radar which tells you where they are and gives you an idea of the direction they are traveling. Then you watch for their lights where you know they are supposed to be. Like all marine vessels they have a red light on the port (left) side, a green light on the starboard (right) side and a white light on the mast and stern.

You first see their lights as they come over the horizon. Through your binoculars you distinguish red or green to tell which direction they are going. You try to estimate their speed to make damn sure you are clear of their path. They are a lot bigger than you are. From a distance they look like any other boat. As they approach you see the lights are way above the water line. As the huge, steel giant passes in front of you, the distance between lights tips off its size. In a full moon you can see an outline of the ship but most dark nights your imagination must draw a picture. I always love it when we pass just astern of them as they go by. Looking up at this behemoth as it passes you brace for the wake and the waves created by this mass moving through the water. Seemingly moments later the lights disappear into the night.

In daylight these freighters first appear as a dot on the horizon. I must confess if we are trolling for fish I steer our boat to intercept its path. I want to be as close as possible when it passes. As it gets closer it begins to take shape. A container ship is stacked high with up to several thousand containers. Tankers have very little superstructure. Freighters have booms for loading and unloading cargo. Each one has its own look.

As it heads our way the bow wave comes into view. The bulbous bow of the more modern ships is designed to allow the vessel to slip through the water effortlessly. It creates a wall of pushed water that is a sight to see. Because of their size they appear to be moving slowly. Wrong. Their speed exceeds all but the swiftest of the fishing boats. Most have the names of their shipping line painted in large letter on the side of the hull, a floating bill board of some the world’s great shipping companies.

If you are close enough you may see a single individual on the flying bridge but you almost never see a soul. It is as if they are ghost ships, remotely controlled by someone in a foreign port. It can be rather spooky. As they go by you see the flag of the country where the boat is registered flying from the stern railing and the name of the vessel and its home port, always some romantic place such as Amsterdam, Singapore or Hong Kong. My imagination runs wild.

If they are empty or have a light load the water line is well above the water and the propeller is often slightly exposed. Churning slowly it is inconceivable that the chunk, chunk of the propeller is driving this beast through the water. Crossing the wake you witness the enormous turbulence created by what just passed. Often, miles astern the water is still churning.

I think of many things. What are they carrying? Since a large part of the world depends on inputs and exports to and from other countries it is a good bet there are tv’s, clothing, cars, dolls, engine parts, fertilizer, petroleum and bananas heading to God knows where. What nationality are the crews? What is it like where they come from? What have they seen as they traverse the globe? Did they encounter pirates off the horn of African? I’ll bet they passed through some brutal weather with monstrous seas to get here. There is a story to be told by each of them.

ONE SUNDAY

Unlike our usual summer weekend routine we slept in this particular Sunday. Mid-morning, wanderlust set in and we decided we could not waste this gorgeous summer day and it behooved us to cruise outside the harbor for a while and see what was going on. I called my Dad and asked him to join me and my two oldest kids.




While cruising through the harbor at the mandatory 5 knots, I called a good friend on the marine radio (this is before cell phones) and asked him if he had any bait. He lives on the bay front and keeps a bait receiver in front of his house stocked with live mackerel. Mackerel are great marlin bait and also for the rarely sighted swordfish. We also had aboard a couple of squid we always kept in the freezer for swordfish as well. We transferred a half dozen mackerel to our bait tank and headed out the jetty.



Boat traffic can be quite dense around Newport Beach on a summer Sunday and this day was no exception. I decided to go south to Laguna Beach and then out from there to some of the underwater seamounts that often attract baitfish which in turn attract marlin. There are a couple of deepwater canyons that come in close to shore in this area and it is not unusual for billfish to follow these canyons in quite close to the beach. It is not common but it does happen.



About 4 miles down the beautiful coastline is a rocky point that juts out into the ocean called Abalone Point, aptly named, because the point has a hump to it in the shape of an abalone. We were about 3 miles off shore here when I saw the tail and dorsal fin of a swordfish dip below the surface a few hundred yards ahead of us. I slowed the boat down, idled up to the spot, cut the engine and waited. About 10 minutes later he surfaced close by. You’ve seen babies with a wide open mouth trying to scream but nothing is coming out. That was me. This fish was in the 450 to 500 pound range and loaded with attitude. He laid on the surface with his sword pointed at us in that regal manner they have.



We baited our heaviest, 80 pound test line, outfit with a live mackerel, dropped it back about 50 yards and began to circle the fish with the hopes of getting the bait directly in front of him. At that point we would cut the engine, hope and hang on. We did this for close to an hour. During this time we do not make any noise that might spook the fish. We changed bait from the mackerel to the squid and even tried a brightly colored marlin jig. Mr. Fish just kept turning with us, never allowing us to get our bait right in front of him. We made one last pass with the squid, he turned towards it, then dropped below the surface. We watched our squid descend from view. Sometimes they strike like a freight train. This one took the squid and began a slow deliberate run. My Dad set the hook and the fight was on.



Fighting big fish standup style, which is the norm on the west coast, requires a belt and a harness. The belt to stick the butt end of the rod into and a harness that goes around your shoulders and is attached to the reel in order to allow your arms to rest while your shoulders, back and legs absorb the enormous force exerted on the rod and angler by a fish of this size. The bad news for us and particularly for my Dad was that we did not have a harness with us on this day.



My Dad gets it when it comes to fishing. He gets that it is only partially about the fishing. Teaching your kids how to bait a hook and the hours spent in their company were priceless excerpts in an all too brief period of our lives. I was fortunate enough to have spent countless days on the ocean with my Dad and on this day two of my kids were sharing in one of the more memorable days of all of those.



Over the years we had several encounters with the gladiator of all fish. He had never caught a swordfish and here we were with a chance to fulfill a lifetime dream for him. He had great strength, tremendous will and was tough as nails. Knowing where we were at this moment, he was ready.



One hour went by. The fish would descend hundreds of yards below the surface then rise again. It was as if he was toying with us, annoyed. Boats were standing off to the side of us, watching the battle. He would cavort on the surface, as if showing off to those watching, then spool of 400 yards of line straight down into the depths. All of my Dad’s hard work to get him to the surface for naught.



In the second hour the wind came up and it was hard to stay upright. My Dad, standing braced against the rail with his arms hanging on to a rod bent double. The effect of fighting this brute without a harness was beginning to take its toll. His arms became like noodles. I asked him if he wanted me to take over for a while. I knew the answer but I had to ask.



In the third hour it was all he could do to keep from dropping the rod altogether. Brief spurts of hope kept him going as we now had the mighty fish close to the boat on several occasions. As the fish got close we could clearly see his enormous size in the crystal clear blue water. Each time I felt he was close enough to gaff, I would come down the ladder from the wheelhouse, grab the leader and try to pull the fish close enough to gaff. Each time, with the leader in hand and the fish so close, a wave would knock us away and the fish would take off on another run.



Each time my Dad was that much closer to complete exhaustion. You cannot imagine the stress on the entire body, particularly the back, of a standup fight with a fish this size. Fifteen minutes in to the fourth hour, we had the fish up to the boat again. My kids, 8 and 10 years old at the time, stood off to the side and watched. I did not want them anywhere near when we sunk the gaff into this fish that was nowhere near being subdued. In fishing circles they call this a “hot” fish. This dude was the hottest of all hot fish.



I put the boat in reverse one last time hoping to surge close enough to allow me time to get down the ladder, grab the leader and take a couple of pulls to get within range. I shifted the boat from reverse to neutral and headed down the ladder. I got a couple of good turns on the leader, reached for the gaff and “pow”. There was a loud noise like a rifle shot as the line broke. We watched as the fish slowly swam deeper and deeper, out of sight. My Dad and I were speechless. We sat on the rail for a long time without moving.



Not a word was said as I climbed the ladder, put the boat in gear and headed to port. My Dad’s resolve to prevail was such that his back was never the same. He fought back problems for the rest of his life because he would not give in to that fish. In no hurry, we cruised slowly back to Newport Beach. I will forever have etched in my mind the image of my Dad. As I looked down from the wheelhouse he was sitting on the stern, shoulders slumped over, staring nowhere, still in disbelief.

SWORDFISH

There is no argument that the lion reigns as the king of the animal kingdom. There may be animals that can run faster or jump higher, but in a face-off with a lion they know they are toast. When you leave land and venture beneath the surface of the world’s oceans, the broadbill swordfish is afforded the same title and respect within the salt water world of fish.

Their bravery is unquestioned as they have been known to attack boats, great white sharks and even killer whales when provoked. Tales of their strength, power and endurance have mesmerized fishermen for generations. Their long, broad bill, hence the name broadbill swordfish, is their weapon of choice and when wielded by a creature reeking of muscle from that bill to its powerful tail it makes for one ferocious fish when poked in the chest.

From an ocean anglers standpoint they are the ultimate prize. There are those who have pursued them their entire lives and not succeeded. Sightings are rare to begin with, getting the fish to take a bait even rarer and then the real battle begins. They are generally seen on the surface, with their tail and dorsal fin above water basking in the sun, resting between sojourns up to several hundred fathoms deep in search of food. The distance between the tail and dorsal fin is a tease as to how big the fish is. Smallish would be 150 pounds while the larger ones are 400 pounds plus.

In southern California, where I live, the usual strategy is to approach the fish as slow as your boat will go, so as not to spook him with loud noise or the wake of the boat. Some will cast a live mackerel off the bow, others will let a mackerel or 2-3 foot long squid (imported from New Zealand) out from the stern and circle the fish in an effort to stop and drop the bait directly in front of the swordfish. No easy task when the fish continues to turn with the boat. It is not unusual to circle a swordfish for up to an hour only to have them descend out of sight as if to say, thanks but no thanks.

If the fishing gods are smiling on you a strike can occur at the first pass or as you are about to pull your hair out in frustration. As you stop and your bait sinks in front of them, they drop below the surface. If the fish is not interested you will wait until you realize you have been stiffed. If he is interested he will circle the bait, out of view, waiting to strike. If he does, there will be no doubt as to what just happened. He will either grab the bait and begin his run or whack it with his bill with tremendous force, then pick it up and begin his run. In either case your adrenalin rush has just gone off the charts.

If you contain yourself and remain patient during this moment of all moments, you let the fish swim with the bait for a distance to ensure a solid hookup. At the same time the reel is put in gear the skipper guns the boat forward to straighten out the line and set the hook. It is at this time you realize you are in the big leagues. Stung by your hook the broadbill takes off on a run of such force and speed your loaded-for-bear tackle you were so proud of seems woefully inadequate for the task at hand. In an instant your arms turn to spaghetti and you’re in the top half of the first inning.

I’ve got to relax for a moment and take a deep breath. I will save for another blog my tales of triumph and despair in dealing with the gladiator of all fish.

THE RED CARPET

A thought occurred to me while watching the recent Emmy’s. Jimmy Fallon did an outstanding job of coming up with a fresh approach to what has become a tired format, by the way, but that is not what I wanted to discuss here. It is the attention given to the Red Carpet before, during and after the various entertainment industry award shows and the near manic obsession with and analysis of the dresses and gowns worn by the female attendees. More precisely, who it is that is passing judgment on these ladies and either praising or humiliating them before a viewing audience of millions. Half of that audience happens to be men and as a seasoned observer I feel I must speak out on their behalf.

For the purposes of this blog I am making the assumption that when a woman dresses for an evening out with her man she dresses to please HIM. Sure she has colors and styles she likes but she wants him to approve. If it is a casual night out she dresses accordingly as she also would for a romantic, candle lit dinner. Men do the same. I know when I dress for the evening with my lady, if I am met with “You’re wearing that?” I quickly retreat and change clothes.

Which brings me to my point? Why are those critiquing the Red Carpet ladies, for the men of America, either women or those with a decidedly female bent? Why are they telling men what looks good on a woman, especially what looks sexy? I don’t think they have a clue what looks sexy to men. I have heard these women media types say “That’s a very sexy gown” and I had to rewind to make sure we were looking at the same woman. Those one shoulder gowns they seem to love, no way. Doesn’t do it for us. Those outfits that force them to lay on a slant board on the ride to the show, ahhh, no.

To rectify this situation, I have a proposal. For the next big entertainment awards show, say, the Oscars, lets select a media crew to work the Red Carpet that represents the men of America. It would be a cross section of guys representing varying ages and interests. For the inaugural group I suggest we go with a group of 5 guys. They would be stationed at various spots along the Red Carpet to offer their insight. Microphone in hand, they would give the country their opinions of the various ensembles from a man’s perspective.

There are many men worthy of being one of these 5 but, just to start the ball rolling, I will select our first group. To begin, I am going with Joe the Plumber. Fiercely American and obviously not afraid to speak up, he will be perfect for greeting the ladies as they ascend from their limousines. Second, how about George Clooney? No further explanation needed. Half way through their journey along the Red Carpet would be Dale Earnhardt Jr., a popular NASCAR driver that would give us a good southern, red neck perspective. Next would be Kobe Bryant, an admirer of the female form and a fashion plate in his own right. The anchor man is Jimmy Kimmel. A glib, naturally funny and master of the off-the-cuff comment kind of guy, that is needed here. If the women of the Red Carpet care, and I know they do, this group would give them an honest opinion of what men think of their choice of wear for the evening rather than what other women think.

I doubt if you would hear the words “stunning” or “exquisite” from this group. More like “fine” or “awesome”. But whatever they say we would finally hear how MEN feel about the fashion choices of the ladies of the Red Carpet. If you think this is a preposterous idea, consider this. Supposing, when the next Oscars come along, instead of having women critiquing the ladies, we had men critiquing the men. Can you imagine hearing a man telling a nationwide television audience that “He looks so sexy this evening?” I don’t think so.

If the truth be known, give us a lady with slightly askew hair, over-sized mans dress shirt, faded blue jeans and bare feet, and we will go quietly into the night.