THE AWAKENING

This is a short story about the passion, excitement and determination of two fishermen who catch a marlin after 15 years of trying.

THE AWAKENING

“Wake up Mike,” Steve said, shaking me vigorously. “It’s 4:45am and if we don’t get going the sun will be set before we’re on the water.”

Steve’s voice drifted through the drowsy mist of oblivion. I rolled over and thought for a moment, before jumping out of bed and dressing as fast as I could. Minutes later we were tucking into fresh bacon and egg rolls and enjoying the sweet aroma of hot coffee.

“Looks like it’s going to be a beauty,” Steve said, glancing through our cabin window as the pink glow over the ocean reinforced the forecast of an almost cloudless, sunny day.   

“Sure does. I can’t wait.”

Would today be the day we would finally catch a marlin?

*****

Thirty minutes later our old but reliable 24-foot Caribbean Crusader was sliding out the Bermagui channel, with the half light of the crisp dawn reflecting on the still, flat ocean that promised much for the day ahead.

We’d been sports fishing together for more than 15 years and had caught almost every species available except the ‘big one’ - a marlin! We’d both hooked up several times, but were beaten by these magnificent warriors of the ocean. 

Today, everything should be in our favour. 

We were fishing off Bermagui, in New South Wales, where 90 years earlier legendary US western writer Zane Gray shocked the world by catching world record marlin. 

It was the Easter holidays, the perfect season for marlin.

And I’d even worked out it was the 87^th time we were specifically targeting a marlin. This was the same number of days Santiago – the hero in Ernest Hemmingway’s “The Old Man and the Sea” – went without catching a fish before his amazing adventure. 

I first read about Santiago in my early teens, and it was still my go-to book on all of my “big” fishing trips.

We stopped outside the entrance to fill the live bait tanks with yakkas and a few salmon, then Steve opened the throttles and the V8 inboard roared to life, thrusting us due east for the continental shelf, where the ocean plunges more than 1,000 metres and it was only 20 kilometres from shore, the Shelf’s closet point to the mainland in Australia.

Just before the sun lifted fully across the horizon we slowed and tossed out some bait lures. It was great timing because within 15 minutes Steve had caught a nice 10kg albacore tuna and I had a frisky 3kg bonito ready to be rigged and dropped out as live bait.

The words of the song “Luck be my Lady” kept rolling around in my head, and so began the long, patient wait – trolling the live bonito on a 24kg rig from the port side outrigger, about 60 metres back; a large, skirted, bubble-generating teaser about 30 metres behind the middle of the boat; and a very active salmon on 15kg gear about 40 metres back on the starboard outrigger.

We knew we were at the ‘shelf’ when suddenly the water temperature jumped almost two degrees, as the currents from deeper water hit the drop-off, pushing warmer water and all types of feed to the surface. Now it was simply a matter a turning north, staying in the warm currents . . . . . and waiting.

Steve won ‘scissors – paper – rock’ to take the first hour on the two rods while I kept the boat on the right speed and course, based on the way the baits were ‘swimming’. Then we alternated on the hour.

The sun was hot, there was only a slight breeze, and every now and then we’d investigate a patch of diving birds or an oily slick on the water, which might indicate large fish attacking bait fish below the surface. But everything was quiet.

Finally, we passed Montague Island – a 200-acre island about halfway between the mainland and the Shelf and an area famous for its fish and rich nutrients brought about by the East Australian Current - then kept heading north before circling in a big arc to go closer to the island on our way back south.

I wasn’t sure of the time, but it was about halfway through my second turn on the rods when suddenly the 24kg took off on a short run, maybe only three or four seconds, but the screaming of the reel saw both of us spring into action. 

“Something’s scared the heck out of the bonito”, I called to Steve, watching as my bait skipped across the top of the water, typical of fish being chased.

Then nothing!

Everything went so quiet I could hear my heart thumping against my chest. I carefully moved the rod into the game-chair holder, clipped on the safety chain, adjusted my fishing harness and excitedly climbed into the game chair. 

More nothing!

“Out the back!” Steve suddenly yelled, and I looked up to see the water boiling behind where the bait should be. Everything seemed to happen in slow motion - I could clearly see the bonito leap out of the water, followed by a mighty splash as a giant body launched from beneath the waves and smashed it with its bill, before they both crashed down beneath the waves.

More nothing!

“It didn’t hook up”, I called out, half in despair. 

“I think it just stunned the bait and hopefully should come back,” Steve countered.

Almost on cue, the reel gave what I thought was a joyous scream as line snapped away from the outrigger and peeled off at a massive rate. The reel carried 1,000 metres and it seemed like 200 metres was gone in a matter of seconds. Quickly clipping the reel to my harness, I lifted the rod into the gimbal and yelled: “I’m locking up” as I pushed the drag to our locked-in setting.

It was almost over then and there - my arms felt they’d been ripped from my shoulders as the force of the drag launched me off the seat. I would have plunged overboard if the harness hadn’t been chained to the game chair. 

What a beautiful, powerful beast.

“Marlin”, Steve yelled again, and I looked up to see about four metres, or 13-feet of majestic striped marlin soar spectacularly into the air, flashing its bright blue stripes and shaking its head vigorously, trying to throw the bait.

Back bent, I kept winding as fast as I could. If the tension went off the line, that fish would be free in an instant. 

That’s when what I thought would become my most exciting fishing adventure slowly and steadily became a nightmare – the knotting in my stomach, the tearing of back and arm muscles, the scorching sun taking its toll, and the emotionally draining concentration as at first this magnificent fish took hundreds of metres of line as it tried to escape, then swam at speed toward the boat as I reeled like mad and Steve gunned the boat away.

I kept picturing Santiago’s small skiff being towed across the ocean, and instantly understood that story better than I ever did before.

Gritting my teeth I just committed to the job at hand – lifting, winding, watching and trying to relax every time that fish peeled off line that had taken me ages to recover. The more it pulled or "guided" our boat across the ocean, the more exhausted I became. And the more I felt empathy with Santiago.

This time I was determined to win, no matter what the cost.

***

It was late afternoon when we motored toward the gantry, and I’d been sprawled exhausted on the floor beside that magnificent fish for most of the 90-minute journey home.

I almost cried as we dragged that beautiful fish on board. We’d planned to tag and release it, but Steve noticed the double-hooked rig had wrapped around it’s bill and mouth, so it wouldn’t have survived.

As I looked into its huge eye I felt not joy, but a wave of sorrow.

“Thank you,” I whispered, “and I’m so sorry. At least you weren’t torn to shreds by a shark, like poor old Santiago’s wonderful catch.”

As we tied up to the jetty I stood up, aching all over, not really ready for the back-slapping and adulation of the dozens who had gathered to see our catch. 

Talons of exhaustion tore at my body, then suddenly everything became a blur. I heard an almighty crash and felt a thud as I collapsed unconscious on the deck.

A strident voice forced its way through the misty clouds of subconsciousness. Slowly opening my eyes, I realised I was no longer lying on the deck. I was on the cabin floor beside my bed.

“Come on Mike – wake up! It’s now five o’clock and we’ll never catch a marlin if you don’t get your act into gear!”

© Paul Hughes