Wahoooooo!

"Dylan, there is some one here!" said Sally shaking me by my still fast asleep shoulder.

Shoulder and rest of my prone torso slowly returned to the present, shedding the depravities that my Id had forced through to my subconscious. There it was again…a noise in the cockpit. The sun was still contemplating joining this side of the earth and the odd star remained, reluctant to leave what had been a beautiful night above Suwarrow Island in the middle of the pacific ocean. 

Fumbling out of bed, dragging a still-not-quite-awake leg behind me like a gun shot victim, I dashed up the companion way to be greeted by a Cook Islander leaning into the boat from his dinghy. 

"C'mon, lets go" urged Charlie in a thick kiwi accent. He was early and I was naked. This did not seem to bother him, however my prudish conscious seemed to kick in and I hastily grabbed at the nearest board shorts and in my haste tried to wear a rash vest. Not wanting to prove any stereo types true I turned away so that he could admire my Casper the Ghost, salt pimpled backside.

I jumped into his "tinny" (read large aluminium dinghy for all those non Ozzie / Kiwi readers) and we proceeded to wake up the rest of the anchorage as we headed towards a large motor yacht. 

"This fella is coming too" - the missing front teeth provided a slight whistling sound as he spoke. 

The pungent aroma of gasoline and long dead fish tickling my nose in the predawn morn. 

Once "this fella" (another yachtie) had joined us, we proceeded towards the pass. 

"Wear that" said the man of few words pointing to a monkey shit orange life vest that looked like it would be more hindrance than help in a life or death situation.

Just outside the pass, engine went off and Charlie tossed a shirt over his shoulders. "Must sa' a prae". Oh boy, hope this is not where we all hold hands. That is not what I signed up for. 

Charlie quickly mumbled something the language of the Cook Islands. Engine on, lines out and away we went. 

Now by "lines", I can only describe them as 50 ft of 200lbs monofilament with some wonky polypropylene attached to the end with a loop. On the business end swung a large 12 inch rapala type of lure. The reason they are only 50ft long is that if they are any longer and if you delay in pulling in the catch, you will generally lose it to the local shark population. Not to be greedy, the sharks generally leave you the head. However not being French, I was no fan of bouillabaisse!

I was dragging one of the lines and enjoying the feeling of having cut off all circulation to my right hand. A couple of strikes on both the lines proved that large aquatic species were partial to what we had on offer. Charlie almost landed a big eye tuna but it slipped the hook just near the boat. 

Dolphins appeared and began frolicking in the bow wave. A usually calm and placid Charlie started hopping up and down and cursing away. Dolphins have a nasty habit of scaring off fish large and small. 

The sea was large and the wind was up. Being young and ugly I rode in the bow. Always the most comfortable spot in a pitching dinghy. Charlie the skipper was at the helm of the 25HP Yamaha and the other yachtie who started in the bow had crept back and was almost in young Charlie's lap. 

I was glad that I had no fillings as they would have all shaken loose with the jarring and bouncing. The odd wave leapt up and slapped me in the face just to remind me who was boss. We trolled a bit further, my nipples hard enough to cut glass thanks to the wind chill. Nothing. 

Big plans had already been made. There was to be a large potluck on shore that evening with all the fish to be provided by Charlie. His reputation was at stake here! Bitterly disappointed, we headed back home. 

"We go bak at 11" 

"I'm in!" 

"I will skip the next one" said the other older gentleman who probably was not expecting or used to the rough conditions that were in play. He was the owner of a 90ft motor yacht that has stabilisers and deep pockets. 

Out we went again. No "prea" this time - must be a once a day thing. Lines out and 15 minutes later something was tugging on my lure. 

"Whoa, I got something!"

"Git it in, quik". 

I started over handing the garrotte wire line into the pitching dinghy. Not having had a chance to even marginally tire the little sucker at the end of the line it protested by trying to zoom off, taking the line with it and creating the 200lbs mono equivalent of paper cuts on my already soggy "been in the bath for 45 minutes" hands. 

Back to the polyprop, I was determined to land this beast. Hell, if pacific islanders can do it, so can I!

Overhanding at almost 6 ft of line at a time, I drew the fish closer. The time old fisherman's game of "what he got?" being played out by the two of us. Charlie by this time had brought in his line and the lure was leaping around in the bottom of the dinghy creating more excitement in a game I like to call "where do i put my feet". 

I saw a shimmer, "MAHI!" 

False alarm, was the lure in its mouth. "Tuna!"…

It got closer. Stripes. A Wahoooooooooo. 

Never caught a wahoo before. Probably lost many a lure to the bastards, but never landed one. I redoubled my efforts. This whole process probably taking in total 15 seconds from bite to landing.

Charlie grabbed the end of the line and flicked the 4ft wahoo into the dinghy. 

We then proceeded to give it its last rites by blessing it on the head (repeatedly) with a heavy bough. We both did a little jig in the dinghy and with a lot of macho handshaking and congratulating. 

Lures went back out and dolphins popped around to see what the commotion was about. 

One fish would be enough and we headed home.