Skip to Content

Sailfish

By: Author David Edwards

Posted on Last updated:

Photo source from Steve Dougherty Photography. It's a picture of a sailfish.

Source: Steve Dougherty Photography

SAILFISH FISHING

By Brian M. Finnigan – February 27, 2017

Growing up in southeastern Idaho, summer weekends consisted of fishing some of America’s greatest blue-ribbon trout streams and rivers.

My dad was an avid angler. There was truly nothing else he’d rather do than flog the river. Our method of choice was spinning outfits and throwing Panther Martins or Rooster Tails. We (dad and two brothers) occasionally put a periwinkle or trout fly on a hook if the time was right. We all knew how to flyfish with various proficiency levels, but the idea of fishing in the 1980s was to put cutthroats and rainbows on the table, not practice an ancient art.

So, like it or not, fishing is in my blood. I grew up dreaming about offshore fishing, not believing I’d ever have the opportunity. We were not a wealthy family, and it was obvious that the guys on the PBS fishing specials were spending a lot of cash to experience catching a tuna or billfish.

Fast forward to my third job out of college, which landed me in Tacoma, Washington. A few weeks after being hired as a marketing manager for a large financial services firm there, I was introduced to my new boss, J.A.

J.A. is a true “old salt.” He looks like a cross between Hemingway and a gray Captain Ahab. Unmarried, Vietnam Marine Corps veteran, Irish, and a lady’s man well into his 50s, J.A. was quite the character.

Women dominate the marketing discipline, and I was the only man besides J.A. in a department of 15. He took a liking to me as a fellow fisherman and gave me a copy of “Crunch and Des” a month into working together. He would regale me on breaks with fishing stories from Panama at the Royal Star, the East Cape, and PV. Like most good anglers, he was full of advice about fishing and life. J.A. always had some great words of encouragement like, “Finnigan, I’ve already forgotten more than you’ll ever know.” And, “Finnigan, I’m always right. And even when I’m wrong, I’m more right than you are.” Because, you know, fishermen show love through ridicule.

But J.A. was also a great teacher of survival in the corporate morass. I’ll never forget the conversation we had where I was bemoaning some of my colleagues’ political and manipulative maneuverings. He said, “Finnigan, think of yourself as that big, wise bass resting at the bottom of the lake. You look up and see a tasty rattletrap darting through the tules. Don’t rise to the bait, Finnigan. Don’t rise to the effing bait!” After that lesson, anytime in my career, I heard his voice when I saw someone playing politics in the office. This lesson helped me become a chief marketing officer at 36 years old.

The day came when J.A. waltzed into my office like he had just won the lottery. He said, “Finnigan, we’re goin’ fishin’!” I thought he meant we would go down to the bay and try to catch some of the chinooks in season, but I was wrong.

“I booked us three days off the East Cape, Finnigan. I will get you into a tuna or blue marlin that will turn you into a real man.”

I was overjoyed. I was finally going to get a chance at a yellowfin or a marlin?! J.A. booked us at the Palmas de Cortez on the East Cape of Baja to fish in the Sea of Cortez. He had been fishing there since the late 1970s and knew the place like the back of his hand.

Upon arriving at the hotel, I was immediately put to work. There was no way J.A. would use the “broken-down, 30-year-old refuse excuse for tackle” that the Mexican captains’ offered. No way. He and I lugged $10,000 worth of rods, reels, lures, leaders–you name it. There were three tackle bags alone, one weighing at least 30 lbs.

We worked for hours testing the drag on six Penn 50-wides and a 30-wide for live baiting. Everything was pristine. I’d never seen 50-lb. mono, which J.A. always called “string.” The sheer size and beauty of these reels enthralled me.

I was scared. I was scared to death because I had heard stories of blue-water fishing from J.A. for a year, my favorite being one where it took him four hours to haul in a 285 lb. yellowfin tuna wherein he was wedged into the corner of the transom and his knees were shaking like “tuning forks.” But I felt better knowing that after the fish was gaffed and pulled into the boat, he fell on his face and “cried like a Union soldier getting his legs sawed off.”

We got up at “oh-dark-thirty” to begin the trek across the sand to board a boat’s “garbage scow,” as J.A. liked to call them.

“Finnigan, I have rules, and you will follow them. There’s no drinkin’ on the boat. You don’t want to be four Corona down when you hook a big tuna; she’ll kill you. We stand up. Chairs are for pu**ies. And the Mexicans don’t touch my reels. You’re doing the work.” He admonished me as we met the captain and mate, and they offered us a cafe with a leche.

J.A.’s Spanish was quite good while he was on the boat. Off the boat, he only knew how to say “la quenta, por favor.” As I listened to him speak with the captain, I could hear him say several words. I heard “atun” several times, but I kept hearing “pez vela” which I couldn’t make out. I asked J.A., and he answered, “Sailfish Finnigan, Humberto says there have been a bunch of sails in the water lately.”

As we motored out and the sun began to rise, Jim instructed me to scan the water for marlin dorsals as they floated near the surface. Watching the plastics bounce behind the boat surprised me how relaxing and somnolent this kind of fishing was.

As I dutifully scanned the surface, I realized I had not been looking behind me where I sat on the starboard gunwale. I knew better than that, being a lifelong hunter. Invariably, the buck is not on the hillside you’re glassing; he’s sneaking behind you to escape.

As I turned to look over my right shoulder, I had one of those moments of shock that soaked every cell in my body with enough adrenaline to float a battleship. There, right beside the boat, was a sailfish with his entire sale erect and out of the water. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know what to say. For an instant, I didn’t even think it was real.

I acted. I yelled out, “SAILFISH!” in what I thought was my normal baritone voice. I expected the captain to cut the motor, turn the boat, or perform another furious action. I expected J.A. to jump on the live bait rod and send a bonita to catch that sail. No.

I heard uproarious laughter.

I look at the captain as he and the mate keep saying “niñita, niñita!”. J.A. was laughing, too; his laugh is one of the most infectious I’ve ever heard. He then sprung into action, picked up the bait rod, and threw the Bonita into the water as the captain maneuvered the boat to let the bait free-spool to the sailfish. The sail chased the Bonita, and he ran, taking 50 yards of line off the reel, but in the end, the sail didn’t strike. He may not have had his morning coffee yet.

Once the rod was back in the holder, J.A. started laughing again, and the Mexicans joined in. I wanted to be on the joke and ask what was so funny.

“Finnigan, do you have any idea what you sounded like when you yelled? You screeched like a seven-year-old girl! “Niñita” means “little girl,” he said while wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes. “SAILFISH, SAILFISH,” he mocked in his best falsetto reenactment. “SAILFISH, SAILFISH,” he repeated as the captain let go of the wheel and throttle to hold his belly in laughter. I was red with embarrassment.

“Finnigan, I don’t care what else happens on this trip; I have the best fish story ever. I will tell everyone you know, and I know about your first sail!”

And he did, and I still hear about it occasionally. I guess all fish stories aren’t about the “big one” or the “one that got away.” Some fish stories are about an over-excited 20-something man screaming like a little girl.

mm
Latest posts by David Edwards (see all)