Marlin Hunting

When the sun is high and the sky is cloudless, the surface of the Caribbean Sea turns cobalt blue. But on this day off the coast of St. Lucia it was overcast and windy. Rain came and went in hesitant waves. The water’s surface was dark and moody.

We’d spent the morning hunting for blue marlin but none of the seven rods trailing bait had gotten any hits. I’d chartered the boat for only half a day, so I was running out of time. I’d grown up listening to my late father’s epic stories of landing giant billfish in waters just like these. All my life I’d wanted to do the same.

But now, I had doubts. I could see from his sideways looks that the first mate had doubts, too. How could I have the strength to pull in a fish that can weigh over a thousand pounds? Four grueling hours of fighting for inches isn’t uncommon when reeling in a blue marlin. Sheer exhaustion has driven powerful men with oversized biceps to cut the line and quit.

In Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea, a fisherman battles a blue marlin for three days off the coast of Cuba. The first mate probably couldn’t imagine a middle-aged woman all of five +foot nothing competing against that.

But my own doubts had more to do with whether or not I could kill a blue marlin. It’s one of the most beautiful species of fish on the planet. Its soul is reflected in the iridescent blue dorsal fin which almost immediately fades to brown when the fish is captured or killed.

The captain and mate had assured me that any marlin I caught would be given to families in a nearby village. It would feed many hungry mouths and the villagers relied on these occasional gifts to get them through the year. As a subsistence fisher and hunter myself, this assuaged my guilt. Mostly.

When it happened it took me by surprise. I saw the heavy-duty rod on the port side bend almost in half, which told me a massive fish was on. The captain immediately shifted the boat into neutral as I dropped into the fighting chair.

The captain ran to the rod and strained to lift it from its holder before handing it to me. The fish had other ideas. The captain was a small man, even by West Indian standards. Though taller, he probably weighed as little as me.

His timing was a half-step less than perfect. With the boat already heaving in the waves it was all the fish needed to catch him off-balance. The stern was short and didn’t offer much protection. In a single bounce of his feet, the marlin had him one leap from being yanked overboard. Yet, the man wouldn’t let go of the rod and reel which had cost his boss more than $2,000. Loyalty to his employer was about to drag him into the sea.

The captain tried to backpedal but to no avail. The marlin drew him closer in stutter steps. I figured, “If he’s going, I’m going with him.” I leapt out of the chair in the same instant the captain’s body lifted off the deck. I threw my arms around his waist then braced my foot against the transom. I hoped we’d clear the dual engines’ propellors before plunging into the water. But my added weight was enough to stop his momentum. It gave him the chance to recover and change direction. He handed me the rod as I eased into the fighting chair again.

I pushed my feet hard against the footrests to gain leverage. I felt the full power of this remarkable force beneath the surface. How many pounds was it? I wondered but would never know.

I managed to keep the rod tip up and didn’t give the fish any slack with which to escape. After what almost happened to the captain, I was afraid I might not be able to stay seated without strapping myself into the chair. The straps hung limp on either side and my hands were too busy to grab them.

It turned out to be unnecessary. Not long after, the enormous pull from the other end of the line slackened abruptly. He’d managed to spit the hook and escape. The drama was over before I’d even glimpsed the other actor.

In subtle ways, the first mate treated me a little differently after that. The captain and I fell back into the easy camaraderie we’d already established. His view was that I was Grenadian; a fellow West Indian, as my stepmother had been from Grenada and my father is buried beside her on that island. The captain knew I’d fished the waters off that coast too, just as my father had. It didn’t hurt that I grew up eating callaloo, ox tail soup, and our shared favorite; “curry goat.” We also shared an obsession with fishing.

In fact, I couldn’t get enough, especially on this trip. After we pulled the lines in and headed for port, he called the boat owner from his cell. They offered me a deal if I chartered the boat again the following day. I couldn’t resist.

It was another afternoon of choppy seas but that didn’t bother me. It was the thought of never again going up against a legend that made me anxious. I didn’t know when I’d have another chance, and realistically, I wouldn’t be coming back any younger or stronger.

In Fred Waitzkin’s book, The Last Marlin: The Story of a Family at Sea he writes about that moment when a seasoned fisherman can sense something is about to happen. He just knows that the prey is within reach.

Suddenly, that feeling was palpable to me. This was it. My heart beat faster. The air felt heavier. It was as if I could see the marlin circling the boat beneath the water.

For the second day in a row, a friend of mine was along for the ride. Before our trip to St. Lucia she’d never been in a boat before and certainly not in rough water. And she didn’t fish. But she was a champ—never got seasick, never acted bored.

I looked at her excitedly and asked what I thought was a rhetorical question. “You feel it?” She looked at me blankly. That threw me. This sense of something imminent was so overwhelming I assumed it was obvious to everyone. I looked at the captain. He grinned and nodded. He felt it too.

We strained to look for color changes in the water, debris, anything that might attract a marlin. He slowed the boat as we watched and waited. It was the marlin’s move, but it was ours to react at just the right moment.

In my mind I prayed to the fish gods, beseeching one to give its life to me. I promised to offer praise in return; a Song of Solomon painted in refrains of iridescent blue.

We made another wide circle. Nothing. The captain reluctantly straightened the wheel and increased speed. The boat’s wake stretched into the distance; a tumble of waves and spray.

That’s when I saw it. At first, it was a tiny shape not much darker than the water, maybe 100 feet behind us. Then his head lifted higher, and I swear we made eye contact. He followed us, matching the boat’s speed.

The first mate was on the flying bridge directly above me. He pointed astern and shouted, “Marlin!”

The fish stayed visible a moment longer, then like a submarine periscope it slipped beneath the surface and was gone. It was as if his only intention had been to see us.

We returned to the dock empty handed again. I was disappointed yes, but also relieved. In the end, I hadn’t killed the precious and achingly beautiful blue marlin.