Barriga Llena, Corozone Contento

“Connor--- I need help---”

I could hear Dana's cries from the v-berth as I stood in the galley washing dishes. Though clearly bemoaning something or another, his tone didn't contain the compelling urgency that would accompany a true alarm. I began walking forward toward the v-berth, using steps carefully timed with the swell so as to minimize the effort, when he clarified:

“I can't get my shirt off...”

followed by groans. He came into view and I laughed at the scene. He was lying on port with head aft, as is typical for the forward berth, and had begun to remove his plaid over-shirt from over the chest, as opposed to at the sleeves. Halfway through, the shirt folded back on itself and wrapped his shoulders while his elbows pinned the lower half in such a way as he couldn't loosen either side. I grabbed the colllar and pulled it back while Dana sighed in relief and fell to the mattress. Poor fellow was all tuckered out. Indeed our first day out of Bahia Tortugas had been a long and exciting one...

We left at about 1000 with beautiful, warm weather. We motored out for the first hour or so before we picked up the ocean breeze- 10 to 15 knots from the northeast. Ankle high rollers washed Ardea toward the southeast as we set full sail and killed the engine.

We admired a few passing pods of whales, though they were far off and, while it may seem blasphemous to say so, whale sightings do begin to lose their luster. A close encounter with the great mammals may never diminish in glory, I think because it is so bewildering as an animal to be near to something so large and powerful, that might have its way with us and our vessel without much afterthought, and yet that is so convincingly peaceful. It might be more fascinating to watch a human that's watching a whale than to stare directly at the latter. Our miniscule eyes reflecting the understanding that this big fellow won't use his powers against us; our expressions grateful, unused to relying on the mercy of distant ancestors that stayed in, or perhaps returned to, the sea. Yet no one ever watches a whale with suspicion. Sharks one always regards with suspicion. Rays, too. I'm not too proud to admit that while swimming in the sea I've regarded even some rather small fish, which experience and rational thought assured me were harmless, with constant over-vigilance. Whales, though, are most trustworthy creatures; even the face of the nubile observer will show this. They're huge. Why don't they scare us? But, in any case, distant spouts and the silhouette of massive tail-fins arcing into the gaseous realm do over time begin to warrant only a passing glance.

As we all three sat below discussing the books we were reading and those we had recently finished, Ardea made haste. She had carried us along at nearly eight knots for a couple of hours when, at about 1300, we had a strike on the trolling rig. The same mackerel swimming plug was out again and after logging only 4 or 5 hours in the water total, it had fooled its third sea monster. I had fought the previous two and it was now Dana's turn. And fight he did. It took nearly forty minutes, complete with fish leaping clear out of the sea followed by dives followed by surface runs. At last the wily fellow was at the transom. I leaned out with the gaff and, after missing once and putting a dink in the gelcoat, the fish was hooked through the shoulder and brought on board. It was a gorgeous yellowfin tuna weighing at least twenty pounds and measuring about four feet long.

There was great excitement about. While Dana was fighting, Chittick and I had already begun preparing the side dishes- beans for tacos and sticky rice for sashimi- that we would soon inhale with the freshest meat. With the fish on board, there was a great rush to finish him. It is heartbreaking to watch a fish suffer with a gaff through its back and a hook in its mouth after a long and unsuccessful battle for its life; it's also dangerous to have such a big fish flopping about our small boat while still making way downwind (though we had furled the jib during the battle to slow ourselves down). While I held the gaff with my right hand, Dana took the one inch diameter lead pipe we use as a club and wound up. Our prey had no intention of watching idly as it was beaten to death and as it squirmed under the first of several blows, Dana's marksmanship was a step behind. A first errant pass busted the dominant lure and a second landed squarely across the back of my hand, over the third and fourth metacarpals.

“Yeeeeeoooowwwwwwwwwwww!!!!!”

I yelled in pain, though there wasn't a chance I was going to drop that fish. I passed the gaff to Dana and he lay the final blows to the generous endotherm while apologizing profusely as I danced about the cockpit, yelping and grasping my stricken paw. No stranger to injuries of a mechanical nature, I set about inspecting myself as Dana was busy stinging the tunny's spinal chord- a process by which a wedge is cut above the eye of the beast, much like one were wedging a tree to be felled, where the midpoint of the trunk lay just deeper than the spinal chord. A length of stainless steel leader wire is then inserted down the spinal chord, during which time the very dead fish will flop across the full range of its natural motion. This paralyzes further movement, which reduces the unwanted build-up of the byproducts of neuro-muscular activity, thus providing a more tender and more delicious prize. He then cut the appropriate slits in the flesh, tied the fish by the tail and dragged her behind the boat to bleed out.

Fortunately, it was clear that the bones in my hand had not been broken. I tested the range of motion in my fingers and could tell from the discomfort in my upper forearm that the tendons were somewhat traumatized. An area around the epicenter of the blow became quickly inflamed. I took some ibuprofen and applied a cold-pack and compression sleeve to the wound. Walking around with my paw raised above my heart, I was no less excited about the feast that lay ahead. Needless to say, the clubber will next time also hold the gaff.

We unfurled the jib and re-set the windvane as Dana began the long process of cleaning the tunny. We were still making over seven knots down the coast in a wonderful breeze, the likes of which we had been told of by bright-eyed cruisers of these fortuitous waters. Our incredible speed and a comfortable motion were reason enough for merriment on a warm, sunny afternoon. Now to have such a beautiful catch was an overwhelming treat. We pulled in our other lines, done fishing for a while once again, after only three hours with lures in the water since leaving anchor.

The process of cleaning and processing the tunny took about three hours and all of us at work. It was only our third fish, but, aside from the aforementioned collateral damage, we were operating like a well-oiled machine. The first order of business was to sample a bit. Dana cut thin slices and we each tried a piece without cooking or accoutrement. It was delicious and tasted of the sea in the most endearing way. Rice prepared, we got sheets of seaweed out, cut carrot and made sushi rolls with the raw tuna. Dipped in soy sauce, these were our supper as we continued to process and prepare. Conferring merrily about the fate of each fillet, we sliced a good deal- a third of the meat or more-very thin to be salted. We cut the six or seven large steaks of the finest quality and placed them in two separate bags with marinades for the following two days. The tougher meat we set aside in a separate bag to be made into soup on the third day. The remainder was filleted thin for more sashimi and to be seared for tacos at dinnertime.

Satisfied that none would go to waste, we slowly finished the work. There was a great deal of blood aft of the cockpit and a fair amount in the cockpit itself as well. We cursed our former bucket, which had been thoroughly crushed on the passage to Bahia Tortugas, as we set about cleaning the soon-to-be putrid waste with salt water collected in a small tupperware. By the end, we were all quite exhausted. Dana in particular was worn out entirely from the fight- he had barely been able to lift his gallant foe for the requisite photographs because his arms were so warn out bringing it in.

It was nightfall before our attention had wavered from the catch. By then we were nearly ready to dine on fresh fish tacos, piled high with an ever-improving slaw of cabbage, carrots, celery, avocado, onion, apple-cider vinegar and, this time, a bit of chopped brussel sprouts. We had a massive pot of spiced beans and plenty of rice to boot.

After our meal and a dessert of cupcakes, belly full and heart happy, Dana predicted he would be asleep in under five minutes. Ardea continued to clip along at a speed unbetrayed by her smooth motion in the swell. It would be a comfortable night, a good one for sleeping, which is not always so on a boat at sea. As he came off of watch and began to fix a cocoon in the v-berth, Dana proposed casually:

“I don't want to be woken up tonight for watch.”

“Well you only have one night watch from 0230 to 0430...”

“Yeah but I want to sleep all night. If you guys take my watch, I'll buy your drinks for a night at the bar in Cabo.”

Chittick and I looked at each other briefly, knowingly. This would not be a difficult decision. Dana continued:

“But we're not going to some white man, seven dollar blue blender drink that's three feet tall place. We're going to a local bar.”

Done.

For those who know Dana, it won't come as a surprise. The man is not afraid to open up his wallet for a simple pleasure which he's conceived to be of great immediate importance. His brother would be proud. But now, his duties delegated, his plaid outer-garment laboriously unsheathed, the hulking, sated angler sank deep into the cushions. Just all tuckered out.