Bellingham, WA
May 11, 2004
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Brandon trying to land Moby... |
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Editor's Note: This a dispatch from Heather and Brandon's Canada to Cabo Expedition. Click here to check out their full report.
By Brandon
"This is what you wanted!" Heather half-shouted, half-laughed. It was true, I had spent a lot of time spouting off about how I longed to hook into a monster, some angry leviathan of the deep that'd tow me and my kayak around the Sea of Cortez like a toy. But, like a lot of ideas born in the comfort of a warm, dry setting, far from anything more perilous than a scorching cup of hot cocoa, now that it was happening...I wasn't so sure. Finally, after no less than a hundred feet of line had stripped off the whining reel, silence returned. I swallowed hard as the reality sunk in: I was hooked into Jaws!
For nearly a month we'd been feasting on the fresh seafood treasures of Baja as we paddled and camped southward out of San Felipe. Barracuda stew, chunks of cabrilla scattered across Mexican pizzas, and endless trigger fish tacos. My mouth watered each time the rod started jerking in its holder. But just as we'd grown more comfortable with rowdier weather conditions, I'd grown complacent landing the small, meal-sized morsels-of-the-sea. What about a tiger shark, I began to wonder, or a giant marlin, tail-walking its 300-pound self across the dark waters of Bahia Las Animas? High stakes adventure--just what we came for! Right?
Zzzzzzziinnggg! The line took off again, this time swinging my bow towards the wide open sea. My heart nearly pounded out of my chest! I was a mere fifty feet from the shore of vertical cliff, and two-foot rollers lifted and dropped my boat in steady rhythm. Normally, I would have had the rod in my hands by then and gotten on with the fight. But this time I was paralyzed. If I put down my paddle, I lose control of the kayak. No control means I end up in the drink, fair game for what was surely the angriest tiger shark in the sea, my nasty treble hooks embedded in its flesh-ripping mouth. I looked over at Heather again. "Well?" she prodded. "Get on with it, man! Our dinner's getting away!"
I had to think smart and fast. My credibility as the great, fearless provider was bee-lining it to Puerta Vallarta. "Let's head for shore!" I cried out. "I'll fight it from there." Truth is, I wasn't all that scared of fighting the thing from my boat-I was afraid of landing it. The 6-and 8-pounders I'd pulled on deck had been trouble enough, thrashing wildly for their lives as I struggled with pliers in one hand and a hickory skull-basher in the other. How could I possibly handle a creature twice my size, infinitely more powerful and with countless rows of razor knives for teeth? Zzzzing! The line took off again. I started paddling hard along the cliffs.
After a few hundred yards we came to a steep pebble beach boxed in like an amphitheater. As Heather surfed in to land, the beast again yanked my bow towards the sea. I braced to steer it around and then stroked for the beach. In no time Heather and I had wrestled the boat onto dry ground and finally, as Heather raced to get the camera, I picked up the rod...
I dug my bare feet into the pebbles and leaned with all my weight against the doubled-over pole. "Holy $#*@!" I let out. Shark nothing, I'd hooked into a freekin' whale, I was sure of it! The beast didn't give an inch; the pull only renewed its anger, and it took off for mainland Mexico once again. When it finally stopped I cranked on the reel a scant few times before the next pull. How the line or pole hadn't snapped I had no idea, but I had to tighten the drag or I'd never bring Moby to shore. I gave the dial a couple turns and tried reeling, but something was wrong. There was no give, and no line stripped out like it had been. The creature had wrapped on a rock.
As Heather framed shots from all angles, I announced that I would re-launch and see if I could free the line. I was sure my beloved partner in life and adventure would try talking me out of it. I waited to hear her words, "No, Baby, it's too dangerous. Cut the line and be done with it." But instead she offered, "Get in! I'll help shove you off!" Damn!
Cranking on the reel between strokes, I paddled to where the line disappeared below the surface. "You're smarter than a fish," I chanted. "Smarter than a fish." I looked back at the beach, and Heather gave a wave and smile as if I were a five-year-old who'd just stood up on skis for the first time. Then the beast bolted, and I barely kept from flipping over. I'd forgotten to loosen the drag. With every twitch of the giant's tail I was forced to throw my weight and brace for life. After the third time I reached for the reel and released the drag altogether, then watched in horror as the unbound tension sent the line into a melon-sized bird's nest of tangles and knots. I stared in disbelief. "$#*@!"
Completely defeated, and before things got any worse, I unsheathed my knife and pressed the blade to the piano-wire tight 50-pound test. The line severed with a sharp 'ping'. My dream fish, along with any scrap of pride I may have had in reserve, was gone. I let my head fall back and for minutes I just gazed glassy-eyed at the dull, lead-colored sky. I knew I wouldn't get another chance like this. I didn't deserve it. You hesitate, you lose, sucker.
When I lifted my head, Heather was in her boat and paddling towards me. She'll put it in perspective, I thought. She'll have some wise advice so I can leave this experience with a deepened sense of challenge, struggle, and perseverance in the face of adversity. Whatever she says, I decided, will be my mantra from here on out; a life message I'll pass on to our kids one day; a modus operandi of high adventure. Her boat finally glided to a stop next to mine, and her words poured forth: "I got some awesome pictures, Baby!"
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