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Join Date: Feb 2002
Location: Farmingdale, NJ
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Fish Story...really....read!
Here's a "fish story" that'd I'd like to share with you guys. I orginally wrote it as a tribute piece, for a friend that passed away a couple of years ago.
JUNE MEMORIES
June 8th, 1985.
My close friends Mike Costa, (a longshoreman), and Matt Billerman, (a fisheries biologist), were joining me for the inaugural offshore trip on my then-new 25 foot Wellcraft, the Land Shark.
The NOAA weather report had called for light & variable winds out of the south-south west, and seas less then three feet, with intermittent showers, and some light fog and haze. Our strategy was, conditions permitting, to head southeast, towards the southwestern edge of the Chicken Canyon. If conditions did not look right there, we intended to run further offshore to the triple-wrecks area.
We had planned to get an early start, hoping to shove off at first light, and so had prepped our tackle, picked up a flat of Mackerel, and two tins of chum the evening before. Mike and I then spent the night aboard the Land Shark, and Matt had planned to meet us at the boat just before daybreak. We awoke to a torrential downpour that limited visibility to a bit less then 200 yards.
At that time, my boat was berthed at Cove Haven Marina, at the extreme navigable end of the Manasquan River. It was raining so hard, that we could not see the nearest channel marker from the marina’s entrance. I did not relish spending the morning aground on a mud bank.
Matt arrived around 4:30, bringing us warm coffee and Dunkin Donuts. Fortified with a breakfast like that, we were ready for anything!
We eventually decided to brave the rain and limited visibility, shoving off just before 5:30 AM. We cautiously picked our way from channel marker to channel marker, until we reached the deep, wide channel just short of the route 70 bridge. Once free of the no-wake zones around the bridge, we jumped on plane, hoping to arrive at the Manasquan railroad bridge before it closed for the first train of the day. No such luck! We arrived just in time to see the bridge close, and were delayed an additional fifteen minutes. As we stemmed the tide just above the bridge, Matt suggested making a quick pit stop at Hoffman’s Anchorage, as the coffee had “stirred things up a bit”, and he needed to use the facilities….arrrgh!
The span finally opened, and we idled up to Hoffman’s fuel dock, tying up, and making a last minute decision to augment our bait supply with a flat of Bunker. Matt rushed off to use the “facilities”, so, we waited. 10 minutes later, Matt jumped back aboard, and said something like “Well, what the hell are you guys waiting for?” I cranked up the Land Shark, and my crew cast us off, quickly taking shelter under the enclosure as we backed away from the dock, ignoring the evil stares of other fisherman who’d been waiting their turn to tie up.
Hurray! We were on our way, at last.
The ocean was as calm as the proverbial millpond, with only the slightest hint of wind coming out of the south. Unfortunately, it was still raining cats and dogs as I throttled the Land Shark up on plane. I pushed the single 220 horsepower outboard up to a comfortable 4000 rpm cruise, simultaneously entering the coordinates of a wreck on the southwest corner of the Chicken Canyon into the Loran-C. The numbers on the Loran unit’s display indicated 53.4 nautical miles distance remaining, with a ground speed of 25.6 knots, and, 2 hours and 5 minutes to go. I checked my watch; just a few ticks past 6 AM. Damn!
We saw only a handful of boats on their way to the grounds, which would randomly appear and disappear behind haze and fog. We estimated visibility to be no more then a mile or so. Most of the time, it appeared as if we were alone, in a universe defined by a gray overcast, gray water, and rain. Lots and lots of rain. We were all quiet and somber, lost in our own thoughts, with only the occasional voice over the VHF snapping us out of our reverie.
30 miles to go, and the dash mounted sea temperature gauge seemed to be stuck on 57 degrees….not a good sign.
10 miles to go. We were running along the western edge of the Chicken Canyon, when the sea suddenly came to life. First, we spotted a pod of Minke Whales, their tail flukes leaving sinuous swirls on the ocean’s surface. Further along, we encountered leaping schools of migrating, football-sized Bluefin Tuna, heading northeast. I switched on the Lowrance X-15 paper machine (remember those?), and saw readings of bait down to 60 feet or so. Experience has since taught me to stop whenever I see such signs, but we were tyros back then, and thought we knew better!
We arrived at the vicinity of the “Sub Wreck”, as we called it back then, shortly after 8 AM. Matt and Mike began rigging up outfits, as I checked the drift. A few minutes of plotting our progress against Loran numbers showed that the drift was setting us towards the northeast. Perfect!
We had left a tin of chum out on deck to thaw on the way out, and it was now just a bit mushy on top, while the sides of the can were still cold to the touch. Over it went, suspended in a plastic milk crate. Mike adjusted its height, just allowing the open end to lap the water’s surface, speaking of which, was now registering 59 degrees on the Dytek temp gauge. “Still too cold” we all agreed.
We then set out three lines, all baited with “Ham & Eggs”, a combination of Whole squid and Mackerel fillets. Our long (150 feet out) and middle (75 feet out) lines went out first, the weighted baits carefully set to a depth of 50 and 30 feet, respectively, then held in place by balloons. We set the short line out as a flat line, with no weight, letting it out until we could barely see the bait on its end. We took note of the fact that, even though the water was a clear blue-green, the low overcast seemed to limit light penetration to possibly 50 feet or so.
While we were setting up, the rain had begun to fall even harder, drenching us through the sleeves and uppers of our slickers. The three of us retreated to the cabin, getting out of our rain-gear, and munching on Dunkin Donuts washed down with cold coffee. We started debating our chances of success. Matt told us that one of the local newspaper scribes had reported that most boats targeting Makos, so far this young season, had reported hooking at least one every-other trip. “So, who gets to keep the half-a-Mako?” I quipped. That’s when it happened….
The clicker on the middle rod started screaming, as if we’d snagged a tractor-trailer off a highway overpass. We rushed out on deck, forgetting to put on our slickers, just in time to see what appeared to be the largest Mako in the world launch itself skyward, like a Trident missile gone berserk, just a few boat lengths off our starboard side. Matt and I stood there in awe, mouthing the usual obscenities one is prone to do in such a situation, while Mike, putting us to shame, as he was the least ”experienced” of the crew, grabbed the screaming outfit, slammed the drag lever to strike, and struck the fish as hard as he could. Nada. Zilch. The Mako had thrown the hook. We had all been asleep at the switch, and we paid for it, dearly.
“Damnit!” I yelled. “Well” said Matt; calmly “There goes our half a Mako.” “How big do you think it was?” questioned Mike. Matt and I both agreed on her having been at least 250 lbs, and probably more like 300+ (later experience taught me to agree with the first estimate).
We recovered quickly, and reeled in the now empty line. As Mike was reeling it back in, the clicker on the long line began ticking away. Matt quickly pounced on that outfit, sliding the lever back to free spool, disengaging the clicker, and thumbing the spool in one smooth motion. The line began streaming out, accelerating with each yard taken. When Matt thought the unseen shark had had enough time to swallow the hook, he flipped the drag lever forward, reeled up the slack, let the line come tight, and jabbed at the fish. Line poured off the reel slowly, but smoothly. Matt looked at me, and suggested it was probably a Blue Shark.
A few minutes passed and Matt had worked the fish to boat side, where the three of us peered into the clear water, expecting to see a Blue Shark. What we saw, instead, was a pointy nose, a lunate tail with side keels, and an open mouth filled with curved scimitar-like teeth. “It’s a Mako!” we yelled in unison. I went for the flying-gaff, and then realized that I’d forgotten to bring it! It was back home, hanging from the rafters of my brother’s garage, and not doing us a lot of good, right about then. In the meantime, Mike had grabbed the leader, which did not make the still green Mako any happier. He started thrashing around, and Mike almost lost his balance, so he let go. I grabbed the leader, and crouched down against the gunnel, trying to gain leverage and maintain my footing on the slippery deck (why do some boat dealers insist on waxing non-skid?).
Matt passed the rod to Mike, and disappeared down into the cabin, re-emerging moments later with his 12 gauge shot gun. “Bring his head to the surface, and hold him there” he said to me, as he fed a cartridge of buckshot into the breech. I pulled the thrashing Mako up, and Matt nailed it right in the center of the back, directly over the gill arches, severing the beast’s spine. It flipped over, pulling the leader out of my hand, and took off in a writhing imitation of a back-stroke, taking line against the drag and arcing around the bow.
Mike handed me Matt’s rod, and scrambled around the cabin. “The lines’ right around the towing-eye” he yelled. He reached down, and carefully freed it, while I began reeling in the slack, then, I felt resistance. He was still on!
I got the leader within reach, and Matt grabbed it. Mike had gotten back to the cockpit by now, and had grabbed a straight gaff, which he sunk into the Mako’s gill arches. I reached down with a second gaff, grabbing the shark’s broad tail, picking it up, and worked the loop end of a tail rope around its caudal penduncle. I cinched the loop tight, and tied the tail rope’s bitter end to a stern cleat. The Land Shark had drawn its first blood. I looked at my watch…it wasn’t even 9 AM!
Later, when we were sure the Mako wasn’t likely to come back to life, Matt and I worked the fish around the trim tabs, and towards the motor well. Mike gave us a hand when the shark’s pectoral fins snagged on the edge of the transom cutout. We finally dragged the beast into the cockpit, tail-first. We congratulated each other, and then agreed that we were meant to land that fish, as we had made quite a few “Keystone Cops “ moves, and did not lose it despite of all the mistakes.
The remainder of day saw us catch and release 6 Blue Sharks. At one point, they were so thick around the boat, that we actually gave up on catching them. We were having just as much fun feeding the darned things, tossing whole bunker and mackerel to them as they swam around the boat.
We finally decided to call it quits and headed back for the barn just after noontime. We arrived at the inlet sometime after 2:30 PM, and decided to run up to Clark’s Landing to weigh in our catch, and take a few pictures. We got the fish up on the scale, and it told its tale: 147 lbs. Certainly not the largest shark caught that day, but it was still our first Mako!
June 21, 1988
Matt Billerman and I had arranged our vacations to coincide with the third week in June, so we could enjoy a full week of Mako fishing.. It was a Tuesday, the weather was absolutely gorgeous, with light westerly winds, and partly cloudy skies, and the water temp was in the mid to upper 60’s. Quite a few Makos had been captured in the triple wrecks area the week before, so we chose to start there, zeroing in on the resting place of the Jacob Haskell, right at the western end of the drop off.
As we approached the numbers, we found the area teaming with life. There were slicks, chicks (Stormy Petrels), Mola Mola (Sunfish), and whales everywhere. I glanced at the sonar, and saw bait and plankton readings clustered at the thermocline, 25 feet below. The water temp rose from 63 to 67 just short of the numbers, so we stopped to check the drift. It was setting us eastward from the shallows, right over a nice slope, and into deeper water. Conditions couldn’t be much better.
Out went our three lines, and a bucket of chum. It did not take long before our first customer of the day arrived. A feisty Mako, of perhaps 150 lbs, swallowed the bait on the far line, hooked himself, and catapulted itself skyward. Matt battled him for about five minutes, before the Mako began a series of leaps, gyrating like a whirling dervish while airborne, The Mako managed to wrap the piano-wire leader around his body, kinking it badly. One more jump, and the leader parted.
The leader was replaced, and the line set out again. It was now late morning, so we decided to tempt the fish gods by having an early lunch. “Notice that no one’s saying much, today” said Matt, gesturing towards the VHF. The radio chatter had been subdued all morning, leading us to conclude that no one was exactly slaying them.
The breeze started freshening about then, picking up to about 10-12 knots or so. I pointed out that we were drifting into a natural slick, and went forward check the sonar for signs of life. As I passed the first holder on the starboard gunnel, I happened to see the tip bounce. A bounce that was out of synch to motion of the boat. “Hey Matt, looks like we have company….” I never got to finish the sentence, as I was interrupted by a screaming run-off.
Matt pulled the rod out of the holder, with the line still screaming out against the light drag and clicker. He thumbed the lever to the strike position, and let the fish come up tight, and hook itself. It did so, without slowing down a bit. This was the far line, again, and it was already out some 50 yards away from the boat, before the run off. “There’s gotta be at least 200 yards out by now, and this thing isn’t slowing down, at all.” He added, “If this is a Shark, I’d hate to see it.” “Are you thinking, like, a big Bluefin?” I asked. Matt just looked at me, shrugging his shoulders. He backed off on the drag lever a bit, as there was now roughly 300 yards separating us from the unseen fish.
In short order, I cleared the lines, fired up the outboard, and asked Matt if he was in danger of getting spooled, “Not yet” he answered. “Notice something funny? We’re in over 200 feet of water, and this darn fish hasn’t sounded yet.” So, perhaps it wasn’t a Tuna, after all.
Eventually, the fish settled down. Matt began the laborious process of pumping it back to the boat. I stood just aft of the helm, ready to adjust Matt’s harness, or to spin the boat clear of the line, if necessary. That’s when I happened to see submerged shadow out of the corner of my eye, and looked down. A six-foot long White Marlin was placidly swimming just under the boat, oblivious to our presence. I pointed it out to Matt, who shook his head in amazement.
Matt kept up steady pressure, and eventually, a remnant of the balloon used to hold the bait at a preset depth, broke the water’s surface a few yards away. The line had been set at a depth of 60 feet, which meant that the fish was now almost close enough to see.
Instead, we saw a silvery flash, and a splash right by the shredded balloon. Bluefish! They were slashing at the trailing balloon, attracted by the motion and color. Where the hell had they come from?
Matt held the rod tip as high as possible, lifting the balloon above the marauding Blues, backing off on the drag, as the 50 lb monofilament was almost certainly frayed by now. The fish seemed to immediately sense the lessening drag pressure, and uncorked another scathing run. Matt could only watch in frustration, as he dared not advance the drag lever beyond the quarter mark. He had begun the fight with 50 lb test, and was going to have to finish it with much less!
Over an hour later, the fish began to tire again, and Matt gained line, painfully, inch by inch. Finally, in the distance, I began to make out a purplish shape, with flashes of gold and yellow. It was a definitely a Tuna. It seemed to have spotted us as well, as it made a mad dash away from the boat. This time around, however, it could only run off less then 50 yards against the light drag, which Matt immediately gained back. The fish was now less then a boat length away, and its elongated, chartreuse second dorsal and anal fins identified it as a Big “Allison” Yellowfin. The finlets along its back seemed to glow with some inner fire, bright yellow against the blue-green water.
“Matt, just a few more feet, and I’ll have the leader, bud.” Matt had to be tired by now, yet, he wasn’t showing it, as he short stroked the Tuna the remaining few yards to boat side. I finally grasped the leader, and pulled the Tuna right up to the starboard side, where I reached down with a short gaff, sinking it just under his gill plate. Matt was there immediately with another straight gaff, which went into the Yellowfin’s head. Working together, we heaved him into the Land Shark’s cockpit. He was finally ours!
There was a problem, though. The damned Tuna was too big to fit into the 172 quart cooler we had, even sans head and tail. “I’ve got an idea” I said to Matt as he bled and cored the fish. I ran down into the cabin, and rummaged around for an old sleeping bag that I kept aboard, in case someone fell overboard in cold water, and needed some protection against hypothermia after we fished them out. If it’s insulation kept a human warm, I reasoned, why wouldn’t it keep a fish cool? Matt and I placed the Tuna inside the bag, along with 200 lbs of ice, and took care to spray it with the wash down hose every fifteen minutes or so, on the way back in.
We eventually managed to weigh that fish; minus its head, tail, and entrails, it registered 158 lbs on a certified scale, which meant it probably had an undressed weight over 200 lbs. A nice Yellowfin, by just about anybody’s standards.
Matt Billerman passed away on July 16, 2001, at the age of 44, after a yearlong bout with cancer. Over the years, we’d shared many adventures together, catching many Makos, Tuna, Cod, and Pollock. I consider him about the best sportsmen I’d ever had the pleasure of fishing with. I can’t ever step on a boat, or wet a line, without thinking of him, and all the good times we had together
Matt Billerman with his first Mako
Matt Billerman with his 158 lb (dressed) Yellowfin
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