Fishing on board the charter boat Humdinger with Capt. Brett Fay and crew member Kaniela Guieb, angler Zarmun Duke caught a fish of a lifetime on Jan. 9, reeling in a 676.5-pound blue marlin after an 1 hour and 35 minute battle.
Surprisingly, the big blue piled on the smallest lure in the spread — a six-inch Marlin Magic AP lure, rigged with a tiny 8/0 hook, fished furthest from the boat on what is known as the stinger rod. Unfortunately, the fish came up dead, but with the hook almost straightened, it was fortunate the fish was not lost and could be eaten.
Another hefty blue marlin was caught the following day when angler Russell Morrow boated a 626.5-pound blue fishing with Capt. Kevin Hiney on the Ku’uipo. On the same day, Capt. Fay and Guieb on the Humdinger kept their big fish hot streak alive when angler Ryan Moreno caught a 406-pound blue marlin.
Knowing there were big blues around I was grateful to be out on the water the following day. As the outboard motors hummed and the skiff slowly rocked to a gentle blue sea, I happily watched the colorful combination of fishing lures doing their best impression imitating prey species for big offshore pelagic predators.
I reminded myself that of all the places I’ve fished in the world, for a year-round fishery Kona is undoubtedly the best.
Surveying the sky, looking for birds that were fishing too, I watched a USAF C-17 practice a touch and go landing at the airport. Looking at the large, battleship grey, military transport plane, my mind drifted back in time. A time when I used to fly on the same C-17’s and fish in a place a little different than Hawaii.
And now for something completely different.
Baby, it’s cold
outside
It’s the year 2004, and I’m on the frozen Ross Sea of Antarctica. My latitude is 78 degrees south and I’m headed to my favorite fishing spot captaining a bright red, tracked tank-like vehicle called a Piston Bully (PB). It’s probably the safest vehicle to be in when it’s minus-70 degrees outside, blowing 60 mph and in a total whiteout. It’s the austral spring, but it sure feels like winter.
Cruising at 5 mph, I can’t see more than 25 feet in front of me and have to intently focus on my GPS to follow a safe track leading me to the next red flag. The red flag flapping and snapping in the wind is attached to the top of an 8-foot tall bamboo pole, known as a wand.
On nicer, spectacularly beautiful days, I strategically placed wands every 100 yards to all my favorite fishing holes, some up to five miles away from my remote field camp.
For four seasons on the ice, the wands, repositioned every year, were my handrails and lifelines that kept me from driving into crevasses, over thin ice or into open water in frequent whiteout conditions.
After an hour of seeing only white and red, a bright orange square hut appears it the PB’s enormous windshield. It’s my fishing hut, my home away from home, and my sanctuary. A place where I can get some solitude, for it can be challenging working and living with others in a tiny remote field camp in the middle of nowhere for months at a time.
Upon arrival, I circle the secluded wooden shelter — which stands about nine feet tall on its skids, 12 feet long and five wide — to determine that it’s still in one piece and if there are problems I need to contend with while staying in the warm vehicle for as long as possible.
On this particular day, spindrift from snow accumulated and laying on hundreds of miles of frozen ocean have plastered one entire side of my hut, giving it the appearance of a giant ski jump.
Fortunately, the entrance door is positioned on the leeward side of the South Pole, where hurricanes known as HERBIES originate and are commonplace in the coldest, highest, driest and windiest place on earth.
The PB gets parked on the leeward side of the hut facing into the wind, so the door doesn’t get blown off when opened, the mechanics at McMurdo Station about 20 miles away get angry when doors fly off of PB’s.
I’m excited to go fishing, and just like preparing a boat, there is plenty to do before the lines go in the water. Wearing extreme weather clothing, I exit the warmth of the vehicle, to the sound of the Antarctic wind howling around the hut.
The door is frozen, but several hard as you can yanks open it. It’s beyond cold inside the hut, and the first thing to do is find the blue tip matches so the propane heater can be lit. With a shaking hand, the yellow flame at the end of the wooden stick bounces up and down as it goes into the ignition hole and a little roar signals the metal heater has come to life.
It only takes the hut about a half-hour to heat up. In the meantime, its time to set up the electronics and camera gear. My one arm-bandit fishing reel, the kind I used in Florida, designed for deep drops, is patiently waiting for me to attach the battery so it can spring into action.
A variety of black pelican cases of different shapes and sizes get transferred into the hut. The cases house sonar equipment, a Furuno NavNet and black box, an underwater color video camera that can go to depths of 500-feet and a smaller black and white video camera that has a maximum depth of 100-feet, as well as tons of batteries and plenty of food and drink.
Once the hut is sufficiently heated a large circular Styrofoam lid is removed from a 4-foot diameter hole found in the floorless section of the shack exposing the frigid waters of the Ross Sea. It won’t be long before Wally — a 1,200-pound Weddell seal — shows up. Wally is an amazing free-diver, I can watch him chase fish on my sonar too.
By this stage of the game, you might be wondering what I’m doing other than freezing to death. The short answer is I was working on the longest standing Antarctic marine mammal research project.
Knowing I was a fishing captain, I was asked to use my fishing abilities and attempt to get a better understanding of the distribution of prey species that marine mammals and birds relied upon by documenting what was under 20-feet of ice.
The National Science Foundation was interested too, and our project received a grant for me to pursue even higher goals, which, the description would go well beyond the length of this column.
Back to fishing
Once the 1.5 KW transducer attached to the end of a 30-foot pole gets lowered into the water — going past 20-feet of solid ice — the color display on the sonar immediately shows the bottom lying at 2,000-feet.
Big red individual fish signatures are just off the bottom, and smaller fish signatures are near 400-feet. Clouds of thousands of ctenophores (combed jellyfish) are marked just under the ice and giant waves of krill pass by from 150- to 400-feet. It looks like another good day to fish.
Over time the deep drops with the one-arm bandit, fishing with handlines, and using the underwater cameras help me identify the signatures I was receiving on the sonar. I could easily see and record the fish eating my baits in water in depths of 2,000-feet. I could also watch Wally chase and skillfully catch the slow-moving Antarctic cod in those unimaginable depths.
On a side note — I only needed to catch a couple of Antarctic cod to determine their signatures and distribution. The majority cod were released, but a few were dinner for Wally.
The mid-water fish were caught and identified by the use of handlines and good old fashion sabiki rigs. The deep water underwater video camera was used for verification as well.
As I fished, the hut slowly stopped rocking, and I could hear the tempest outside slowly subside. Upon investigation the storm was gone, a new world of white appeared.
Mount Erebus, a 13,000-foot active volcano with a long white plume always drifting from its white summit to the north, rose out of the ice behind me. Opposite of Erebus, on the horizon, the saw toothed-ridges of the 13,000-foot Royal Society Mountain Range gleamed and sparkled in splendor.
Looking around, I humbly felt a mere speck on a vast expanse of the frozen ocean surrounded by mountains that sat like patient Buddhas, silently waiting and watching what nature does best without man’s help.
Back in the present, in Hawaii, a big smile spreads across my face. It t reminds me that I’m blessed to live here and grateful for the exotic places my fishing career has taken me. I know other captains and crew feel the same way too. They just might like it a little warmer.
