SAILING THE SOUTH PACIFIC Passage to the Marquesas Lois Joy Hofmann

The One that Got Away

April 4, 2002
It is a beautiful sailing day. Pacific Bliss is gliding along comfortably at 8 to 9 knots, one
reef in the main and one in the jib, gently rolling to the northeast swells. Sparkles of sun dance
upon the whitecaps. Puffs of sheep's wool crown the top of the swaying mast. The salt crystals
deposited on the trampoline by the immense blue Pacific twinkle like a million diamonds.
There is life out here today, over a thousand miles from the nearest land. Pairs of blue-and-
yellow bonito weave alongside the hulls, pursuing schools of flying fish dashing frantically from
the crest of one wave to another. The four of us stand on deck for a long time, braced against the
dagger boards, watching the marvelous marine show. We wonder when the next predator in the
food chain will arrive, attracted by all the commotion.
It doesn’t take long. Just as we take a break for lunch, the whirl of the reel announces a fish
on our line. Doug rushes to the rod mounted on the rail behind the port helm. The rod bows with
the strain; the force is too heavy for him to lift it out of the rod holder. By the time he cries,
"Slow down the boat!" the line breaks and the fish swims free.
"Could’ve been a tuna...had to have been over forty pounds…this monster pulled harder
than anything I've ever felt in my life."
Now, with a new line and lure, we all sit here in the cockpit, patiently awaiting the next
strike.

The Second One that Got Away

April 6, 2002
Today, I awaken from my afternoon nap to hear commotion topside. "Lots of birds and
dolphins," Doug informs me, "and where there’s dolphins there's fi-i-sh.” The reel whirrs as
Doug rushes to the holder, picks up the rod, and begins to play the fish.
"Slow ‘er down!" he yells.
"How? We're sailing." Gunter heads for the controls at the starboard helm.
"Yeah, I know, at 8 knots. Turn into the wind, quick." Doug can barely hold onto the rod.
"I'll backwind the main and go into irons! Gunter protests. “Okay, Lois,” he pauses and
shrugs. “Start the engines."
"Both of them?"
"No, just the starboard. I don't want the line to be tangled up in the prop."
I start the engine.
Doug holds on as the fish swims out with the line, forcing him to walk the forty feet to the
port bow with the rod bending over the lifelines.
"We need more control," Gunter yells. "Help me pull in the jib."
I rush to help. Thank God we have roller furling to make the job easier—like rolling up a
window shade. Even so, I grab the lifelines for support as Pacific Bliss sways with the waves.
"Now, we can start the port engine,” Gunter says. “Since Doug is upfront with the fish."
I start the port. The mainsail is still way over to starboard; we had been on a broad reach.
But we let it be and push directly into the wind and rolling swells.
 SAILING THE SOUTH PACIFIC Chapter 2, Passage to the Marquesas 2

"She's down to two knots now," Gunter shouts.

"Good." Doug grits his teeth. He walks the fish back to the port helm so that he can brace
against the seat. Armin has unpacked the West Marine waist belt from the center cockpit locker.
Now he fastens it around Doug’s midriff so that he has some leverage to play the fish.
Doug lowers the rod, reels furiously, then raises the rod, pulling with all his might. His
forearms are tensed and taut. His biceps are bulging. His face is as tight as his body. "I know
he’s over forty pounds…could be double that. He’s the largest fish I've ever played."
The monster pulls the line underneath the dinghy, which is hanging on the davits at the
stern.
"Don't let him go under the boat!" Gunter yells. He is ready at the starboard helm.
"I'm trying to prevent that," Doug calls back.
Twenty long minutes pass. Doug is playing out, but the fish is still going strong. He hands
the rod to Armin. "Here, take it for awhile. He’s one tough guy. Smart. And powerful."
The fish plays out the line again. He is now directly in the back of the swim ladder behind
the port helm.
Doug posts himself alongside Armin. "Keep the line tight. Otherwise he'll run."
Armin gets the hang of it. Lower the rod. Reel in like mad. Lift the rod. Pull back. He is all
concentration—determined, focused.
"This fish is really big," Armin turns to me, grim-faced, this stout man of few words.
After ten minutes, Doug takes the gear back. The fiend is fighting hard again; there is no
time for the wide Doug-smile. Instead, his every muscle is rigid. Doug works the fish, just as he
taught Armin. Lower the rod. Reel in like mad. Lift the rod. Pull back.
"I see him," Gunter says, "he's behind the dinghy. Hiding from us. We’ve got him now.”
"A giant yellow-fin," a smug Doug declares.
Armin unhooks the stanchion to the swim steps.
Doug steps boldly down for the kill.
"Don't let him take you into the drink with him!" I warn.
This ogre might just take our valued crew member as his revenge.
With all his strength, Doug pulls the yellow fin toward the swim steps.
Suddenly, the reel screams. The monster gathers all his strength and makes one final dash
for freedom.
"Oh no," Doug groans. The fish drags Doug down to the very last swim step. There is
nowhere to brace himself. Below him lies the vast Pacific.
The rod is bowed to breaking.
And then it is all over. The rod slackens. The fish swims free.
The lure has broken in two—right at the last fastener.
Or maybe the fiend bit it there.

"Well, at least we’re learning how to do it," Gunter says as we trim the sails. "I didn't know
anything about stopping the boat, going into the wind, and all that—just for a fish."
"Now you know.’ Doug answers. It's a big deal, catching a fish from a sailboat."
"I guess so. Next time, couldn't we just drag him behind the boat, fastened on a cleat, until
he gives up?"
"We could.” Doug’s face turns pensive. “But somehow it doesn’t seem fair. Sometimes the
fish just has to win.”