Some friends and I recently did something we’ve been
threatening to do for years – we went to Hawaii. We decided that since we’re not getting any
younger, (a phantom reversal process known as “youth-enizing”) we should embark
on this odyssey while we can still rock our thong bikinis.
As luck would have it, my friend’s family owns a condo and a
boat in Kona, so our accommodations were provided. Our task, which we happily accepted, was
simply to arrive. No problem.
Upon arrival, it took a while for my carcass to adjust to
time and climate changes. My circadian
rhythm was in deep hibernation, and at 3:00 a.m. I would awake ready for my
luau. I was forced to sit in the dark in
my grass skirt and lei waiting three more hours for the dawn to arrive. Mornings come very late in Hawaii.
By the time the sun finally rose, I was famished, and,
desperate for supper, roamed the streets and beaches shrieking, “KILL THE
FATTED BUFFALO! WOMAN WANTS MEAT!” (Now I understand why native Hawaiians call
us “Howlies.”)
Saturday the agenda
called for us to sail the ocean blue and do a little deep-sea fishing on my
friend’s boat. Now, I had envisioned a “Gilligan-esque”
three-hour tour on the SS Minnow.
Perhaps a dinghy with an Evinrude and some oars. Boy Howdy! Was I
mistaken! This was not a “boat.” This was an ark…a whole lotta cubits by a
whole lotta cubits! It came with a
captain, a first mate, and 5 (count ‘em) FIVE fishing rods that stood like
telephone poles around the vessel.
Stunned, and in my usual state of unfiltered thought, I
exclaimed, “Whoa! How big are your
worms?”
Bill, the captain, said, diplomatically, “You must be
Joan.”
Bill explained that the bait of choice was lures, since the
fish hooks are so large they’d need worms the size of pythons. OK.
Roger that. I like Bill.
This sailing vessel is a 50-foot Hatteras worthy of Ernest
Hemingway named Pacific Blue, and celebrities like Dustin Hoffman charter it
for obscene fees to have adventures on the high seas.
The water that morning was calm and smooth, which prevented
the threat of nausea, and we spotted multiple “blows,” indicating pods of
whales in the water. They were
magnificent. It was inspiring to watch
mother whales bump their calves to the surface for air. I felt privileged.
However, I became concerned that we might inadvertently hook
one of these behemoths and consequently become the victims of a “revenge
swallowing,” like the Biblical morality tale we learned as children to scare us
into good behavior. The thought of being
slowly digested by the juices of the gastroenterological system of a mammoth
orca and ending up as fecal matter in the Pacific is enough to alter anyone’s
behavior pattern.
But Bill reassured me that the probability of catching
anything at all was extremely remote, so I should just relax… and start
chumming. I think he was being
facetious. I like Bill.
On the off-chance that we should actually catch a fish, Bill
sat me in the “fighting chair” so I could practice and become familiar with how
it works. But I know all about fighting
chairs. After all, I’m a mother. I’ve raised two daughters through puberty.
I’m a veteran. Besides, I watch old re-runs of “Jaws.” I was prepared for anything the ocean threw
at me.
Necessity being the mother of invention, I asked Bill if
M&M’s would qualify as authentic bait.
I’d brought a large bag for recreational consumption, and I found them
enormously alluring. Perhaps chocolate
would attract fish with similar addictions.
Bill said, “Why not?”
No sooner had I cast my candy upon the waters, than there
was a tug on the center pole, and the line whirred as it began to unwind. Bill got me in the fighting chair and yelled,
“Start reeling!”
I was right in the middle of my “Aye aye, Cap’n!” when the
fish gave a mighty heave, and nearly yanked me out of the chair. My life flashed before me, (Oh, so many
regrets) and I saw a momentary image of my obituary with the mafia motto
captioned beneath my photo: “And now she sleeps with the fishes.” I had visions
of being over-powered by an ancient marine leviathan and condemned to wandering
the great Pacific eternally lashed to the side of a rogue fish, tethered by the
seat belt of my fighting chair, clutching a bag of peanut M&M’s, my free
arm mindlessly beckoning. Not exactly the stuff of Hemingway. It gave me the
bends just thinking about it.
But Tobin was able to strap me into the chair before I went
overboard, and the battle between the Old Woman and the Sea began in earnest.
Perhaps it was my imagination, but I thought I heard John
Williams’ “Jaws” score pulsing in the background:
Duuuuuh – duh!
Duuuuuh – duh!
Duh duh duh duh/
Duh duh duh duh/
Duh duh duh duh duh duh duh duh
This titanic struggle lasted quite a while, and required the
agility of a Chinese acrobat. The beast was huge and as determined as I was.
Two gladiators going mono a mono with so much at stake.
I hollered to Bill,
“We need a bigger boat!”
He said, “Just keep reeling!”
I shouted, “It’s a great white! Get me an oxygen tank and a rifle!”
He said, “Just keep reeling.”
(I like Bill, but he has no sense of drama)
Finally, at the conclusion of this epic tug-of-war that will
no doubt go down in the annals of history as the stuff of legends, just like
Ahab and the whale, I landed the colossus…with a little help from my
friends. As a gesture to a worthy
opponent, I suggested we catch and release, but Bill said, “Are you
kidding? This is a mahi mahi – that’s
not puppy chow. These things are delicious.”
A mahi-mahi? Are you
sure it’s not a marlin? Bill reiterated
that it was an average mahi-mahi. But in
my eyes, it was EXCEEDINGLY average, which adds to the perceived body
mass. I thought it was large enough to
qualify as a mahi-mahi-mahi. Bill
conceded.
I did a victory lap to the front of the boat, threw out my
arms, and yelled “I’M KING OF THE WORLD!”
I was about to dance the “Harlem shake,” and spike my fishing pole on
the poop deck, but modesty kept me from being cited for excessive celebration
in the crow’s nest.
It is my personal code of ethics never to eat those I’ve
vanquished, so I gave the fish to Bill and Tobin.
I have decided to retire my fishing poles and hang up my
lures. I will become a fisher
emeritus. There’s nothing left to prove.
I shall be telling this with a sigh somewhere ages and ages
hence.
Dennis always taught me to be optimistic. When hunting whales, (metaphorically
speaking), be positive, expect success, and take along plenty of tartar sauce.
I did.
He and Hemingway would be proud.
