Saturday, 2am, met up with Frank from these message boards, Tom and Matt. We drove up to Avila.

Before I go on, I must tell you of the three fatal errors I can make if I want to get sick on the ocean.

1) be flu-ish, or just recovering from a cold.

2) Get NO sleep. Be very fatigued.

3) Eat nothing, but drink fluids, even better if they don't mix.

Well, guess what. I almost didn't go, because someone turned on my sinuses tap and left it open. (#1) You know, when your upper lip is raw, not to mention your nostrils, from sneezing and honking liquid snot from your honker....... I will spare you the details......

Got to bed at 11:30pm before a 1:00 am wake up. Ever since feeling the WRATH of Capt. Fred Benko of the Condor, when as a 2nd deckhand, 45 minutes late for a 2 day Island Hiking trip at 5:45 am, it is understandably difficult for me to get anything but a troubling slumber when I know I must be up in a few hours to catch a boat. (#2)

Being it was a last minute trip, that I don't have a garage or a suitable place to store my fishing gear(between places right now), and probably the fact that I am pretty damn un-organized, OK I admit it, admission is the first step to recovery, right? I still had my bounce-ball flashers on 2 of my tuna bait rods, so while the other three guys were in FatCats, which, (SHAMELESS PLUG) has the BESTESTEST fish and chips in the world, I was on the boat, in the dark, in the line at Avila, cutting spectra, and winding 40lb ande on to reels....... Of the breakfast I ordered, bacon, eggs, toast, hot chocolate and orange juice and a coke, I downed the hot cocoa, the coke and half an orange juice on the way out to the bait barge. I did manage to scarf down a piece of bacon, luke-warm with the lard starting to turn white-ish on it, down.

All these three factors would later come back to haunt me............

After getting a scoop of overpriced, bait that was so fresh out of the pond, it didn't know it had been wrapped in a net and put on board a bait boat. Hey, beggars can't be choosers, I know. We pounded our way out the 12 miles out to the weather bouy. It was about a 5-6 foot cross-chop, spine-fusing, body-slamming chop, with a mad captain doing 18 knots in a hard running boat. No complaints, capt. Run run run, we did. Whoa, what is that grumbling in my stomach. Having only lost my cookies, techni-colored yawned, chummed, you know what I mean, 2 times on a boat, I did know what was to come. Both prevoius times, I chucked, and got back to fishing, feeling much better, save for the bulemic-teenage-highschool-girl breath. Well this was to be the "Perfect Stomach-Storm" Three individual factors, each, in their own right, not enough to merit anything but mild discomfort, but combining to create an evil synergy, building on eachothers strenght to wreak havoc.

BLAM, BLAM, BLAM........ the boat charges through the chop.......

The boat, no disrespect to Matt, who rebuilt it from a shell of a hull, has pretty much no where for the 3rd and 4th guy to hang on to, so while the Capt. has one hand on the wheel, and the other holding the throttle down, lest it might creep up while slamming down the face of a wave, and the person riding shotgun, knuckles white, gripping the windshield, wind in the face, eyes wide, have something to hold on to, and can see the incoming ramps that the boat will rise up and launch, the 3rd and 4th guy have an half inch wide inside-cubbyhole rail to try to hold on to, while trying not to come down on it too hard as to bruise the palm of your hand, and the underside of those back to back, ski-boat seats where the seat rises up as the boat falls down the wave, to hold on to, at the risk of crushing your fingers as it slams down on its box. WOW, how is that for a run-on sentance, Mrs. Wilson? (my 7th grade English teacher)

To be continued.............

Marco
Tell us the rest tell us the rest.

Sounds like one of those trips, but did you catch them big tunas?

-Rob

Go on...Go on... I have to have the rest of the story!!!!! This sounds like the beginning of an epic tale of big seas, sour stomachs, and big fish!!!!! At least I hope.

Thanks...I'll be standing by!

Darin

Now when the seas are "Victory at Sea" size, with wind whipping the tops off, I cna do fine in any condition. The adreniline flows and I am concentrating on survival. But when it is just snotty, and I have committed my three evil sins of sea-sickness, watch out.

It starts out, between the slamming of the boat, a small grumble. At that point, I think I can tell which side of the fence I will fall. Will it just be a litte ill feeling, that comes and goes.... or will it develop into something much more viceral.... I could tell that this was going to be a bad one. But at that point, the best thing to do would be to eat a few pieces of bread and try to quiet the stomach juices down...... but that just sounds so bad at that point. I am concentrating on just trying to hold on to the seat.

Finally, after what seems like forever, actually about 40 minutes, we reach the weather bouy.

"Set the lines out....." Matt tells us.

I set out a daisy chain, made up of six little squid skirts, ahead of a jethead lure, it mimics a school of bait, outrunning a larger baitfish. The center rod has a black and green feather, and the other corner rod has a cedar plug. All lure that have produced many fish, both this season, and the past few.....

We get the lines in, set the correct distance behind the boat, and begin to look for signs of life.

"What an Yaaa-hoo!" Matt shakes his head in discust. The boat we are passing only has one person aboard. The guy is holding a doubled over rod in one hand, and a gaff in the other. It is very evident that he is struggling to gaff the fish, as his many swipes are not fruitfull. "There are so many things that can go wrong out here, you never come out here alone, even with this many boats around, you never know....."

We focus on finding any signs of life, dipping birds, kelp and trash paddies, whales, current breaks. The boat is tossed by a cross-chop, about 5 to 6 feet high, banking one way, and dipping another.

The stomach is now begining to really grumble. I fear I am past the point of no return. I make my way up to the bow, hoping that the wind in my face will ease my discomfort. I feel the first beads of sweat on my forehead. The forcast is bleak.

Defcon 2

We trolled down swell for an hour or so, with nothing but an hours worth of propwash to show. The radio crackles of fish at 3 degrees and 13 degrees.

"Lets pick em up and run to those numbers. Bring em in guys." Matt grabs his GPS and punches in the coordinates the radio announced.

After feeling a little better running downswell, we were now going to run uphill, into the swell. Here we go again.

Slam slam slam......

Uh oh... I am now burping the copious amounts of gas that my gut is producing.

Defcon 3 I remember a lame cold war movie when it was us against the commies, and as things escalated, we would go from defcon 1 to defcon 5, being total nuclear war.

Belching is about the last place you can turn around and return from unscathed. The beads of sweat are now rolling down my face. If only I had eaten that toast.... If only I hadn't had the cocoa and the orange juice. I could almost taste the curdled milk..... I knew I that would, soon.

Slam, slam, slam.....

Defcon 4, deep breathing. At this point, you are trying to get as much oxygen as possible. Breath in, breath out. Long, deep breaths. Look at the horizon, no focus on the land, no look at the ocean. I look back on all the advice I had given over the years as a deckhand. Pinch the web between your thumb and forefinger. I was double-pinching, deep-breathing and sweating.

Slam slam slam. Deep breath, belch. It feels so bad, you almost want to hurl to get it over with to feel better, wait did I just say that. You know what that means????? The slippery slope I was sliding down just tilted even more. Uh oh, here it comes, the first of the dry-heaves.

We are entering the first stages of Defcon 5.

I, trying to look non-chalantly as possible, first wiping my brow of the gleaming sweat, glance back. Frank and Tom are facing the back behind the boat. The lack of sleep is getting to them as well.

Here it comes, "MISSION CONTOL, WE HAVE A PROBLEM"

Huuuuuu, huuuuu, I try to dry heave with as little sound as possible. Matt is scanning the water for life, the two others are facing the other way.

DEFCON 5, we have launch!@#$! I gently lean over and propel the vile bile that has risen forth of my stomach. I try to aim down, as to keep the spray away from floating back into the boat with the wisps of boat wake thrown into the air. After a good minute or so, I look over, and Matt has taken no notice.

Great, now we can go back down to Defcon 4, and 3 adn get back to fishing. Wait, one last trip over the rail, and I should begin to feel better.


More to come............ If you can handle it. : )

Great stuff Marco keep it coming!..Larry

damn....that is some pretty graphic stuff

Well, Marco, let's hear it! We're all suckers for vulgarity. Or are you still too ill to continue???

Man! I"m gripping my seat and waiting for the next posting!!! I have to know how it turns out! Hahahahahahahaha!

Darin

Sorry for the delay, and I apologize if the ending is a letdown, I have been super busy......

Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah, the Defon 4 to the three.... after what seems like forever, I have seemed to rid my stomach of all contents.... SO I think...

We have now been trolling for the better part of an hour, with nothing to show. We stopped and mooched some birds and meter marks, but no biters....

"Hey Matt, look at those birds working over there....... guys, slowly reel in your gear." I speak in hushed tones, as if the ten or so surrounding boats might hear me.

We put out the trolling gear and slowly meander through the pack towards the dozen or so birds, flitting and dipping towards the surface. I am amazed that no one else has noticed the action. Could it be that they are all lulled into a comatose-like state.

As we near the birds, about a half mile away, I mentally go over everything I had heard on the internet message boards I read. What were the guys doing that we are not????? That is it! Rapalas, the fish were on the Rapalas.

Quickly, I grab my 50 lb trolling stick, tie on a CD-18, bleeding mack Rapala and wing it off the starboard side of the boat. I watch it float towards the daisy chain, cedar plug and feather we have following us. When it reaches about where I want it in the spread, I click the reel into gear.

I love the feeling of a true-running Rapala, the tight vibrations, calling in the predetors.

After, I kid you not, about 4 seconds after I felt the rythmic vibrations begin, I notice that they have been replaced with a rapidly increasing pumping, much stronger. I look down in confusion to see line peeling off my reel. I look up to see of we had run over a kelp paddy, nope, this can only mean one thing.....

HHHOOOOOOOOKKKKKKK UUUUUPPPPPPPPPPPPPP

FFFIIIIIIISSSSSHHH OOOOOONNNNNNNNNNNNN

FFFRRREEESSSSSSHHH OOOONNNNNNEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The slumbering crew quickly snap into action, and along with it, all the carefully laid plans out the window. Guys running here, there, grab this, go there, grab a bait, wait don't forget the last troll line.

"Shoot, I forgot the corner troll stick." Matt puts his reel in the clicker position, puts it in the rod holder and begins to grind in on the troll stick.

I in the mean time am hurting this fish. Before the guys can get their baits away from the boat, I have this fish te feet below the boat, doing the death-roll.

"GAFF....GAFFFFFF" I yell.

"ZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzz"

"Matt your bait stick is bit." I look up to see that the troll stick is now on the bow and Matt is grabbing his bait stick, line starting to scream off the reel.

"Fresh one!" Matt sets the reel in gear and the circle hook starts to bite into the fish.

"GAFF, Just hand me the gaff... thanks....."

Frank puts his rod down and gaffs my fish, it is a fat one. Only about three inches of the large plug are showing. It inhaled it! I rember seeing blood streaming out of its gills as I ground it in.

"DAMN...... hook pulled......" Matt says in disbelief.

I throw my rod down and grab my 30 lb bait stick. It is to be of no avail. That was the only action we were to see that day. We trolled left, we trolled right, up and down. We fast trolled, slow trolled, trolled bait and mooched bait. We dropped jigs deep, and looked for birds and bait. I will not gross you out with more details of hwo I got sick on and off again for the rest of the day, I was miserable! I almost clicked my heels three times and wished to Auntie Emm, I don't want to be a fisherman anymore...... but I didn't.

Now I know just how miserable an all day hit of seasickness can be. I now know why handguns are not often kept on boats. It was horrible, curled up in a ball, trying to balance on the small seat, wishing I had slept a little more, eaten........

The coolest part of the day, is thinking about trying something new, and having it produce fish. I am sure that the school of tuna were following our spread of lures, debating whether or not to attack, when all of a sudden comes bombing down, a bleeding mackeral.....BLAMMMMMMO..... Fresh one................

thanks for your patience guys..... sorry we didn't plug the boat, we sure did try.

Oh and the fish, sorry it wasn't one of the pigs that were caught up there, but it did weigh 40 lbs..... not my biggest, but a tasty treat none the less.

Moondoggie

Hey Moondoggie,

Thanks for the last installment on your story! No matter what, the story makes for great memories!!!! I'm just glad to see that you got a fish after the pain you endured with the seasickness. All good man! Thanks for the great reading and keep on pluggin! I hope to be able to fish with you one day!

Take care and great fishin!!!!

Darin