Big Rock Marlin Tournament

Big Rock Marlin Tournament

After work one day in May of 1993, I walked through my front door to find Annie waiting for me with a mischievous smile.
“What are you grinning about?” I asked.
"We're going big-time fishing."
“Do tell.”
“Do you remember that I sold Pete Manuel a Delta boat last year?”
“Yes, the Delta Dawn. We fished on it several times with the previous owner.”
“Right. Pete called to ask if we wanted to come to Cape Hatteras and fish the Big Rock Blue Marlin Tournament with him on the Delta Dawn.”
“What’s the Big Rock Tournament?”
"It's one of the biggest sport fishing tournaments in the country. Over 200 boats enter and fish six days for a million-dollar purse."
“Sounds expensive,” I replied guardedly. “What’s the entry fee?”
"At least $2500, but Pete says he’ll pick up the tab. He needs a crew."
This sounded better by the minute.
“When is the tournament?”
“Second week in June. We’ll stay at Pete’s place in Beaufort, on Cape Hatteras.”
“There’s no way we can fish six days in a row. That’s for youngsters.”
"No, not all six days. They have daily tournaments as well. Pete said to come up Friday, and we’ll fish Saturday and Sunday."
“That sounds great. Why is he doing this for us?”
"I gave him a good deal when we sold him the boat. Now he’s returning the favor."
“You must have put that southern charm on him. Tell him to count us in.”
Annie jumped into planning our expedition.

A few days later, she asked, "How long do you think the drive is to Morehead?”
“About eleven hours straight through. I think we ought to make a two-day run out of it.”
“I was hoping you would say that,” she said with a mischievous grin.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Remember we saw the movie Cape Fear last year?”
“How could I forget. Robert De Niro was an all-time bad guy.”
"I looked it up, and Cape Fear is an area in North Carolina. Right along our way. I want to stop over and check out the movie location.”
Being an actress, she loved all things related to film and acting.
“That ought to be cool. You have the greatest ideas, that’s why I married you. Make the arrangements.”

***

A few weeks later, we left Cocoa Beach for an eight-hour drive to Elizabeth Town, where Cape Fear was filmed on the Cape Fear River. Before going, we watched the movie again to pump Annie up. We turned off IH 95 in North Carolina to take a farm road through woods and rolling tobacco fields. Upon reaching Elizabeth Town, I felt like we had stepped back in time to small-town USA from 1950. Tobacco drove this village of 3,000 people, with packing plants, farm stores, and truck dealerships on clean streets with well-kept houses. As I explored the farm town, I noticed a small municipal airport. Tobacco must be profitable. At the town square, I avoided chain restaurants in favor of a diner called the Corner Café. Pickup trucks parked in front of it told me this was a local’s hangout where Annie might find out about Cape Fear.
We entered and sat at an old, but clean, wooden table with metal chairs and no tablecloth. A friendly, middle-aged, blond waitress in a white apron with her hair in a bun came to our table.
“What do you recommended?" Annie asked her.
“The meatloaf special of the day,” she nodded. We ordered two of those and coffee.
When she came back with steaming cups, Annie asked her, “Do you know about Cape Fear?”
“Honey, we get fans in here every week nosing around about that movie. It’s brought us a whole lotta business over the years. What most people don’t know is this whole area of the state is called Cape Fear. Over there across the highway is the Cape Fear River, where they filmed the river scenes."
“Is it creepy like the show?”
“Not during the day, but nighttime’s a different story. You don’t want to be back in those woods on that river in the dark.”
Annie’s eyes widened.
“Were you here when they filmed the movie?”
“Which one? I was right here at the Corner Cafe both times, you know. I’ve spent my whole life working here. The first movie in 1962 starred Gregory Peck and Robert Mitchum. I might have been only 16, but I knew Robert was a hunk. He ate here for most breakfasts. He looked tough, but once you got to know him, he was a softy.”
“Oh, you lucky girl,” Annie said with stars in her eyes. “What about the second time? Who did you see?”
“They filmed right outside on that street, and I saw every one of them.”
“In the movie, Robert De Niro gave me the creeps. Was he really that bad?”
"In costume and makeup, he scared the bejeezus me. But out of costume, he was really good looking, if you know what I mean," the waitress giggled.
“I know what you mean.” Annie winked at her. “What about Nick Nolte?”
“He ate here every day too, laughing and smiling and flirting with waitresses. I made sure he mostly sat at my table.”
“Were you that taken with him?”
“I would have run away with him in a heartbeat.” She rolled her eyes.
“I’m so glad we came here for dinner. Thank you for the stories.”
“Anytime. Enjoy your meatloaf.”

We left the diner as setting sun shadows crept across the town square. Annie relived movie scenes like she had seen them yesterday.
“This town hasn’t changed much. That parking lot is where De Niro harassed Nolte,” she pointed. “And in that alley over there, De Niro beat up three thugs.”
“Let’s walk down to the river. It might be interesting to see at sunset.”
“Okay,” Annie said. “It’s almost dark.”
A few minutes later, we stepped onto the Cape Fear River bridge. Though the sun had dipped behind a hill, the bridge’s lights had yet to turn on. A smell of rotted trees and damp, muddy water floated off the water. A logjam of rotted trees had stacked up against a piling. The river gurgled as it pushed with inexorable strength to break limbs apart, sucking them underwater, through the bridge, and onward to the ocean. We stopped in the middle of the dim crossing to peer into an upstream gloom. Thick, tall trees lined both sides of the slow-moving river, blocking a view of neighboring farmland. At river level, we were in the river’s shadowy, ominous world, hidden from the city.
“I can imagine being on a houseboat tied up to a tree at night right around that next bend,” Annie said. “This forest is too thick to walk through, so I’d be trapped on the boat. Then De Niro sneaks up on us with his little skiff and..,”
Suddenly, an eruption of sounds from many small creatures flittered through the air around us. Annie shrieked, and I cursed as bats left their daytime roost under the bridge and beat broad wings to reach nighttime darkness. Fleeting black shapes swarmed around us as we screamed in terror and dashed off the bridge. Behind us, clouds of bats rose like black raindrops rising upward.
“Oh, Gordon. Those bats scared me to death. What if they had bitten me? My heart is pounding.”
"Me too. Thank goodness those damn things are going the other direction. Let's go back to our car."
We walked quickly back to town. Bats were among the few animals that scared me, so I wasn’t hanging around. We found our car and drove to a hotel for the night.

The next morning, Annie awoke early to pack our luggage.
"I didn't sleep well last night. Let's get out of town. I've had enough of Cape Fear. Take me to the beach.”
Three hours later, we landed at Pete's condo in Morehead, North Carolina. After unloading our gear, Pete, a tanned, wiry, middle-aged fellow with not much hair, and his wife, Stacy, a younger, tall, blonde with a ponytail, took us to the tournament headquarters at Big Rock Landing Marina near Beaufort Inlet. Friday’s fishing and weigh-in activities had finished, but tournament officials and admirers still milled around the marina. It seemed everyone congregated to talk to Pete. With a perpetual smile and friendly conversation, he introduced us to officials and participants from around the country. After a while, we broke away and drove to a restaurant for a fresh seafood dinner overlooking the bay.
Once seated and with drinks delivered, Annie said, “Pete, tell me about this tournament.”
“The Big Rock Tournament started 20 years ago. Now it’s the Super Bowl of fishing in America. Depending on the number of entries, the payout for all of the tournament is around $1,000,000. There are categories for all kinds of fish and different days. We are only entered for marlin tomorrow; that's my specialty. Tournament proceeds are also donated to charities. Over the last ten years, Big Rock Foundation has given $3.5 million to tournament charities."
“Which kind of marlin will we be chasing?” I asked.
“These offshore waters are the best blue marlin fishing grounds on the East Coast. That’s the money fish this weekend. A few whites are caught, but they’re too small to win anything.”
"Why is it called Big Rock?" Annie asked. "I didn't see rocky land when we drove into town."
"Fifty miles offshore in the Gulf Stream, there's a geological formation on a ten-mile long fault line called Big Rock at 520 feet deep. Reef fish congregate there, providing a feast for blue marlin. In 1957, Jimmy Croy caught the first blue marlin on the East Coast at Big Rock. After that, this area blossomed into fantastic blue marlin waters, and soon the Big Rock Tournament was born."
A waiter stepped up to serve our dinners of fresh Mahi, clams, and calamari.
“Mmmmm. This looks great,” Annie said.
“It doesn’t get any fresher or better than this,” Stacy boasted. “Fresh off the boat.”
"I've been looking forward to dinner with you all week," Annie replied. "They don't have seafood this delicious in Cocoa Beach. It's such a disappointment that we have so little fresh fish from the Atlantic side. The Gulf side of Florida has much better-eating fish."
We dove in for an unforgettable seafood feast.

After a while, Annie asked Pete, “What’s the payout like? Not that we would take any winnings.”
She was curious but wanted to clear the air right up front, ensuring they knew we didn’t expect winnings for our free ride.
"There are many categories,” Stacy said. “Each with entry fees of $500 or more per boat. Some are daily prizes, and others are weekly totals. We're signed up for the biggest Blue Marlin of the Weekend category, which pays $327,250.”
Annie grinned, and her eyes lit up. Mine too. Just thinking about catching a fish to win a purse like that pumped up my excitement level. This was a huge step up for us from local tournaments in Cocoa Beach. I decided to learn as much as I could about marlin fishing from the master, Pete.
“Have you been fishing all week?” I asked.
“No, no. That’s too hard. Just this weekend. By the way, do you know we have bluefin tuna here in the winter?”
“Really? It must be pretty rough out there that time of the year,” I noted, thinking winter storms with big waves and cold wind would be too much for a southern boy like me.
"No, it's not what you think. We discovered blue fins only one or two miles offshore during the winter. Nobody ever looked for them close to shore, but one day a boat broke down not too far out. While drifting around, they put down lines and were almost pulled overboard when a big bluefin hit."
"Wow. How big do they get?"
"These are immature ones, mostly 200 to 400 pounds. However, last winter, one of my clients brought in a 619 pounder," Pete said with eyes twinkling.
“Those are small ones?”
"Yeah. Up off Prince Edward Island in Canada, they catch many in the 700 to 1,000-pound range."
“That’s too big for me. My back is not in great shape anymore. Do you have a fighting chair on your boat?”
“No,” he said firmly. “I only fish standing up. If you aren’t a good enough fisherman for that, then I don’t want to waste a marlin’s life by cheating with a chair.”
“Unh. My back is a mess. I don’t know how long I would last with a belt.”
“Everybody’s back is hurt if they fish for long, so I designed a custom bucket harness. The rod is clipped to my harness, so I don’t use my arms to fight a fish. The fight is transferred to my legs and back.”
“I can’t wait to try it. I might have to order one for my boat,” I said. Fishing requires lots of toys. “What’s the weather going to be like tomorrow?”
"Clear skies and windy. We'll have three to four-foot rollers until we hit the Gulf Stream, then five to six-footers. Don't worry, my Delta handles rough water better and faster than any other boat out there. That's why I bought it from Miss Annie."
Better handling than those marvelous Vikings, I wondered? I hoped so for the sake of my bad back.
“That’s right,” Annie replied. “Lloyd DeSousa started Delta Boats and crafted his own molds. His reputation sells Deltas all over the world as both diving and fishing boats. They are real workhorses.”
“The Delta Dawn is the finest boat I ever drove,” he bragged.
“I gotta tell you, Pete, the first owner of that boat named her Perseverance. It’s bad luck to change a boat’s name. I hope we don’t have problems tomorrow because of that new name.”
“No problem with that sailor’s myth. She's been running perfectly as the Delta Dawn for a year now. We'll be okay. Speaking of which, now that we finished dinner, let's go see her and take care of some last-minute details."

Pete and Stacy said farewell to their friends, then drove us to their boat at a nearby harbor. We walked down a pier bustling with fishermen loading gear into premier sportfishing boats.
“Have you ever seen so many Vikings and Bertrams?” I murmured to Annie.
They are the Cadillacs of Sport Fishing Yachts.
"Yes, at the Miami Boat Show last year, I checked out several. There's nothing like them."
“We don’t have any at Port Canaveral.”
At the Delta Dawn, we met our first mate, Justin.
After introductions, Pete asked him, “What did you hear about today’s catch?”
“Pretty slow. Only a couple of small blues.”
“Good. It’ll be better tomorrow,” Pete said with a fisherman’s eternal optimism. “It won’t take much of a fish to move into the lead. I have to take care of some business now. Make sure you have four dozen packages of ballyhoos for us. The biggest you can find.”
“Will do, Captain.”
We proceeded to a marina bar where fifteen boat captains assembled with enthusiastic conversations. Pete sat at a table with an inner circle of fishermen, while Annie and I leaned against an outer wall.
The tournament President stood and said, “I believe everybody’s here that needs to be here. Thanks for entering our tournament this year. If you already fished this week, you've been through this before. I see new faces in this group, so I'll go over our rules again. We don't want any problems tomorrow. There are nine levels of prizes with categories for marlin, Mahi, wahoo, and tuna. Both in daily and weekly totals. Payouts will depend on how many boats enter. Of course, the big payout is $525,000 for the largest blue marlin of the week. Overall, there will be about $1,000,000 in prizes."
A murmur swept through the crowd. Annie and I looked at each other and grinned.
“Now for the rules. Marlin categories will be for heaviest as well as catch and release marlins. The minimum size marlin weighed in will be 400 pounds or a minimum length of 110 inches. If you boat a marlin but don't weigh it in because it is too small, you will be disqualified. We want to minimize the number of marlins kept. We don’t care when you leave port but don’t drop lines in the water before 8:00 a.m. and lines out at 2:00 p.m. When you hook a fish, radio in on channel 71 with the time hooked and again when your fish is lost, boated, or released. Special prizes are awarded for first fish of the day, highest points first, and each billfish released, so catch fish as fast as possible."
He paused, “Everyone with me so far?”
Heads nodded.
"Last of all, weigh-in closes at 6:00 p.m. Attempts to increase fish weight by inserting weights, ice, or water will disqualify that boat. Our Rules Committee reserves the right to cut open any fish for inspection. We also reserve the right to require a polygraph for any winner. If no qualifying fish are caught in a category, that category money will roll over to next year. That’s pretty much it. Are there any questions?”
“Who’s gonna win?” asked one captain, bringing a round of laughter.
"If that's it, good luck, everybody. I know you have other business to attend to, so I'll see you at weigh-in tomorrow. Goodbye."

After he left for his next marina meeting, Pete said, “Now we’ll get down to business. Who’s in on the Calcutta? This is just for boats in this marina.”
“What’s a Calcutta?” I whispered to Annie.
“Private betting.”
Pete spent the next half hour collecting enthusiastic side bets as old rivalries and drinks fueled serious but friendly competition between captains. One captain gave Pete an especially hard time.
“Captain Pete, are you going to be driving that little old 36-foot boat from Florida? What’s her name?”
The crowd silenced.
“Do you mean the Delta Dawn, Gene?”
“That’s the one. I hear her little diesels haven’t been running right.”
The crowd laughed, making Pete sit up straight.
“There’s nothing wrong with my engines. As a matter of fact, they’re running faster than your what? Oh yeah, Change Order. By the way, was that highway contract the only way you could afford a big boat?”
More laughter. The gauntlet had been thrown down.
“Pete, my Viking is better than your what? Delta boat? Are you going to be at your favorite canyon tomorrow?”
“Somewhere out that way.”
"Give me a call when you start back, and I'll bet you $1,000 that I make it back to the dock before you.”
“You’re on, and you’ll regret racing that overpriced boat of yours, Gene.”
Cheers and laughter erupted as $2,000 was added to a growing pot on Pete’s table. Several more bets were made on his race. Annie and I watched with great interest as money piled onto Pete's table. When the betting finished, Pete counted $15,000 in cash for the side bets.
“Now comes the most important part of the Calcutta,” Pete said. “Who’s gonna hold our money? I don’t know about the rest of you, but I don’t trust anybody but me.”
Boos and wadded up napkins descended upon Pete. He dodged with laughter as intense conversation followed for a while with no conclusion.
Finally, Pete said, “Quiet down now. I don’t blame any of you for not trusting me. My suggestion is to give the cash to someone neutral. Maybe a lady.”
"You mean one of these barmaids?" someone said. "That's not going to happen. We'd never see her again."
Laughter again as heads nodded in agreement.
"I agree. How about the beautiful Miss Annie?" He pointed at her, shrinking against the wall. “She’s from Florida and going to be on my boat.”
She gasped. I laughed as a room full of crusty captains turned to inspect Annie. Her wide eyes and shocked face convinced them of her innocence.
“I’ll go along with that,” one captain said.
Others murmured their agreement also.
“Come up here, Annie,” Pete said.
Trembling with trepidation, she walked to his table.
"Can you protect fifteen thousand dollars?" Pete winked at her. He put the pile of money into a bag and handed it to her. She turned in a circle, looking at each captain in their eye. They looked back with stern faces.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this,” Annie announced.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” a captain responded. "Now, don't have an accident and drop our money overboard."
Laughter erupted throughout the room.
Holding onto the bag tightly, Annie walked back to me and asked, “What am I going to do with all this cash?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Upon concluding his business, Pete turned to us and said, “Now I want to show you my workshop.”
He led us to a small wooden shed next to his pier.
“This is where my serious work is done,” he said proudly.
Inside, many rods, reels, and dozens of trolling skirts in many colors lined the walls.
I admired several Gold Penn International 130 two speed reels mounted on bent-butt broomstick thick rods. The largest and best rigs money could buy, costing around $1,500 each.
“I like your taste in gear, Pete.”
“Only the best for me.”
“What line do you spool?”
“Only green fluorocarbon that is invisible to fish.”
The best, of course.
“How much do you put on top of your regular line?”
“I don’t splice my lines. You’re looking at 1,000 yards of fluorocarbon.”
My eyes widened.
“I always have 1,000 yards of line on a marlin reel. It takes that much if you hook up to a thousand pounder. If you break off a few hundred yards on one fish, there isn't time to wind on a new line. I just tie on a new leader and keep fishing."
“I haven’t seen 1,000-yard spools.”
“I get them special order straight from the factory. Their salesman visits me regularly,” he said with a grin.
I shook my head, thinking this might be my only chance to use high-quality gear like this.
“I don’t worry about costs when a big purse is at stake,” Pete said firmly. Tenacious competition glowed in his eyes.
Pete pointed at a vise and cutting tool station on a table. "I custom make all of my skirts, with different shapes for marlin, wahoo, dolphin, and tuna. I change colors as baitfish change during various migrations up and down the coast. Sometimes I troll ballyhoo with skirts, other times a skirt only, and always a naked lure on a shotgun line mounted on my overhead rod holder.
“Annie let’s get away from these smelly baits and go look at boats,” Stacy said.
“Good idea.”
They walked down the pier, strutting and putting on a show for the boat hands.
Pete proceeded to give me a lesson on advanced bait rigging, explaining that the smallest of wire and twist nuances added realism to bait and lure swimming. We finished rigging and searched for our ladies. We found them drinking wine with another lady on a Bertram.
“Time to go home,” Pete said.
“I enjoyed meeting you,” Annie said to her newfound friend.
“Good luck tomorrow,” her hostess responded.
“I’ll be so glad to go home,” Annie said as she and Stacy climbed off the boat. “I’m tired of guarding this bag. I want to hide it somewhere.”

We drove back to Pete’s condo. Annie nervously looked around the street and yard before leaving his car. She held her money bag tight as she scurried through the front door. Inside, we said good night, then went directly to our bedroom. Annie closed the door, then put her bag on the bed.
“I’m so glad to be back,” she said. “I’ve got to make sure it’s all here.” She counted with shaking hands, ending up with neatly stacked piles of money. “Fifteen thousand dollars even. I’m so glad. Gordon, go to the kitchen and bring me some aluminum foil.”
After I retrieved foil, she proceeded to wrap the money into oddly shaped bundles.
“Where are you going to hide that cash?” I asked.
"In the safest place in a house. Those captains know where Pete lives, so they might come sniffing around here tomorrow while we're fishing. These are going into the freezer, disguised as food. No one will find them there," she explained with a devious smile. Annie took her bundles to the freezer and returned with a sigh. "I'm so glad that cash is out of my hands. Now I’ll be able to sleep.”
We went to bed, though the anticipation of a big fishing day kept me up for quite a while. I usually don’t sleep well before a day of fishing.

The next morning, a warm, southeast breeze blew over the dunes, bringing an earthy salt smell. At 4:00, we joined Justin on the Delta Dawn. Her pair of engines purred, releasing fishing smells of diesel fumes mixed with salt air as we loaded gear onto the boat. Annie and Stacy organized food in the galley, while I placed spare clothes and equipment into the forward cabin. On our boat, I made all the arrangements for a fishing trip. Today, watching Pete and Justin make last-minute preparations was a treat for me. Under the cockpit lights, I marveled at a multitude of rods and reels mounted on the overhead rocket launcher, with spares hanging in ceiling racks in the cabin below. Pete climbed three steps up to the open flybridge and settled into his Captain’s Chair. Justin untied our dock lines and pushed us away from the pier. Pete slipped his engines into gear. He turned away from the dock to begin another adventure. Annie and I watched from the cockpit as Pete idled into Beaufort Inlet’s channel. He joined a line of Vikings, Bertrams, and other sportfishing yachts idling with only their running lights. They looked like a formation of navy ships leaving a harbor for battle.
“Look at those bad boys,” I said to Annie. “This is going to quite a day.”
“Yes, it will.”
After Annie and Stacy settled into cockpit seats, I climbed to the flybridge and sat in a chair next to Pete. I watched him adjust an array of electronics glowing in the dark. We followed other boats through the inlet as open Atlantic waves greeted us to begin a rocking day. Most boats took a southerly bearing, but a few like Pete turned east. He set his speed to 22 knots, running at a slight angle to three-foot rollers.
“Where are we headed?” I asked.
"Most boats will run fifty miles south to Big Rock along the Continental Shelf drop off and work that ledge. That’s the closest fishing ground and will be stacked up like a parking lot. Some of us are making a longer 18-mile run southeast along the shoreline. At the tip of Cape Lookout, we'll turn east for 58 miles to reach a 9,000-foot drop-off. That’s one of my favorite marlin spots.”
I noticed red and green running lights spread from other boats around us, traveling in a loose pack. Pete set a course on his autopilot, then talked to me about landing a marlin.
“With just three men on board, teamwork is essential. Have you caught a big fish before?”
"As a matter of fact, I hooked a large yellowfin tuna on this boat with its previous owner. I brought it to the gunnel but lost it during the gaff. Our mate couldn’t handle a heavy fish by himself. When he let go of the gaff, the tuna wrapped it around a drive shaft. That was the end of fishing that day. We limped home fifty miles on one engine. I learned how not to bring in a big fish.”
“You’ll reel in the first marlin, Gordon. Stacy will take the wheel when you hook up so I can come down to help land it. I use twenty feet of 200-pound wind on leader. We will either gaff or release the blue, depending on how big it is. You know your way around a boat, so listen for instructions from us on what to do. Once the leader comes through the rod tip, Justin will grab it and pull the fish in by hand. You keep reeling and step back out of the way, but don’t reel the leader tight. With slack on the line, it won't snap off or pull you in if the fish surges.”
“I can handle that. What about other kinds of fish?”
“Anything besides a marlin is for the girls to bring in.”
I hoped Annie would catch a fish today.

Pete stayed a mile offshore as the eastern sky gradually glowed where a golden sun peeked over the ocean's edge to watch fanatical fishermen. Daylight revealed the Change Order running a hundred yards to our starboard side. Pete slowed a bit to fall back, then pulled in a few hundred feet behind her, drafting for a smooth ride.
“Good move, Pete.”
He nodded. “Gene hasn’t been fishing long, but he thinks a big boat makes him a champ. We’ll show him.”
I settled back in my chair to contemplate Mother Ocean, forgetting my frantic work world in Florida. A boat on the open ocean gives excellent stress therapy as waves rock a boat in a hypnotic pattern.
Twenty minutes later, Pete said, “See those breakers?” He pointed at white water offshore of Cape Lookout’s tip.
“They look serious. Are we going around them? There’s a line of buoys running around the shoals.”
“Following those buoys takes too long. The shoal’s sandbars constantly move around and are only a few feet deep in many places, but I usually have good luck finding a trench between the sandbars. That saves us time but can make for a dicey run.”
"We have the same thing at Cape Canaveral Shoals, where many a ship has gone down over the years."
“Tell the girls to get ready for rough water.”
I looked over the rocket launcher and yelled, “Big waves are coming up. You better hold on to something.”
They gave me a thumbs up. Pete pulled away from the Change Order to choose his own course through the menacing shoals. This will be interesting. Foam and salt spray gusted through the air. Thunder grew in crashing water as Pete moved southeastward, looking for the right conditions. The closer he took us, the higher the waves appeared. Pete gunned his engines, swinging northward toward a fifty-foot wide streak of blue water between sandbars. He stayed in his seat, holding onto his wheel while I stood and grabbed rails. To the starboard, a ten-foot swell broke with a roar, rolling white fury that pushed us sideways and splashed water on everyone in the boat. A sandbar on our port side built another swell headed away from us. I watched Pete run up the backside of swells, then drop back along the front side of approaching waves before they broke. Back and forth he zig-zagged. A master captain at work. He adjusted his throttles up and down as thunderous breakers danced around the boat. Spray drenched us as Pete, with a hard game face on, guided the Delta Dawn through breaker after breaker. Suddenly, we popped out of crashing shoals and settled into calm, blue water on the Cape's north side. We made it. Pete sped up and plotted a northeast course. I climbed down to the cockpit that rocked less than Pete’s high perch. One by one, other boats in our group emerged from arduous journeys through immense shoals. They spread out, barely in sight of each other as they steered toward fishing grounds.

I grabbed rocket launcher rods and handed them to Justin as we prepared lines and baits for battle.
“Those shoals were rough,” Annie said. “I’m glad I was looking backward.”
“They were the worst ones I ever saw,” I said. “Pete is a heck of a captain.”
"I hate going through those," Stacy said. "Another hour, and we'll drop lines."
“I can’t wait,” I replied.
At full speed, we raced across water sheltered by the shoals. Diesel fumes in the cockpit reminded me of my last ride in this boat. Fumes had given me a headache and made me dizzy when the wind blew at the wrong angle. Some boats had exhaust systems that kept diesel fumes out of the cockpit, but not the Delta Dawn. The sun had now risen above the horizon and quickly dried my shoal drenched shirt. Ten minutes later, we emerged from the shoals' protection to enter open Atlantic water with four-foot waves parallel to our course. Sideways rollers were much smoother than running head-on into waves, but they still strained my back.
When Justin began attaching skirted ballyhoos to the lines, my adrenaline rose. We were almost there. He pointed east at rougher water, where the color turned from blue to black along a distinct edge. We had reached the Gulf Stream. Three-foot waves broke west of the line, while on the east side, six-footers rolled at ten-second intervals. Pete's timing was impeccable as we came upon the Gulf Stream just a few minutes before starting time. When his electronics showed 8:00, Pete motioned to Justin to drop baits and then radioed in to announce our baits were in the water. Justin released ballyhoo baits from four rods set in the gunnels. Two baits skipped in engine whitewater ten yards behind the transom, with two more spread further back on twenty-foot outriggers. Pete managed a naked ballyhoo one hundred yards back from a shotgun rod. He slowed and turned northward on the west side of the dark water line. Only one other boat could be seen in the distance. It could be the Change Order. The other boats from our group had scattered into deep water.
After putting on the shoulder harness and a fillet knife on my belt, I sat in the cockpit beside Annie.
“What’s the knife for?” she asked.
“If I get pulled overboard, I’ll cut the line before a marlin takes me down to drown.”
“Oh,” she said seriously. “I’m glad you thought of that.” Changing the subject, she said, “It’s good to be moving slow. Now, I can go below and not be thrown around."
“Yes, Pete races full speed most of the time,” Stacy said. “Cockpit and flybridge seats are the only stable places to sit. There’s no way to stay below.”
“The Delta Dawn sure handled those big waves well. Most boats would have knocked us silly,” Annie replied.
“The first marlin will be mine,” I said. “Any other fish will be for you and Stacy.”
Annie smiled. “I want to catch a fish in this big-time tournament.”

We zig-zagged along both sides of the color line for an hour with no bite. Pete stood facing backward, watching for the slightest glimmer of a bill or dorsal fin stalking a bait. He steered with his hands behind his back like a pro. Annie went below to escape diesel odors and prepare a midmorning snack. Though rough water pitched her around in the confined galley, her sea legs were as good as any mate, keeping her steady down there. My experience found that taking a break to eat usually caused fish to bite, and sure enough, an outrigger line snapped, and a reel screeched as line peeled off.
“Fish on,” Justin yelled.
Pete grabbed his microphone to report a hookup. I watched to see what kind of fish had hit. When Justin picked up the rod and reeled to set the circle hook. A monster bull dolphin jumped thirty yards behind the boat. Pete radioed again to report a dolphin hookup.
“Annie, go catch that fish,” Pete yelled from above.
She scrambled out of the cabin to where Justin adjusted the reel’s drag. He put the thick rod into a holder on the transom as the dolphin began a long run.
He stepped aside and said, “It’s all yours, Annie.”
“I don’t have a belt,” she said with a perplexed look.
“Leave that rod in the holder and just reel. That sixteen-pound reel is too heavy for you to use with a belt.”
She stepped up to the monstrous fifteen-inches-wide by eleven-inches in diameter reel, grabbed its six-inch-long handle, and proceeded to turn it with the ease of a winch. The rod built for marlin barely bent for a mere dolphin. Annie cranked line in while her gold and green fish tail-walked, shaking his head in anger. The rod served doubled duty as a support for her in the rocking boat.
“That’s a huge dolphin,” she said. “I can’t believe this reel turns so easy.”
Justin laughed. “It’s built for marlin, not minnows.”
Within a few minutes, Annie brought her gorgeous fish alongside the boat. Justin gaffed the enormous dolphin, lifting it aboard with practiced ease. Annie laughed while Stacy and I cheered for the first catch of the day.
“That’s the biggest fish I ever caught,” Annie squealed. “I’m not even tired. What a reel.”
"Wow," I said. "Dolphins aren't that big in Florida. Too bad we didn’t enter the Ladies category.”
“That would probably be a winner,” Pete said, then radioed in a catch.
My adrenaline pumped as we rebaited and trolled again. If anybody could catch a winning marlin, it would be Pete. Dollar signs danced in my mind.

“We got company, boss.” Justin pointed at a boat a half-mile away, heading toward us at high speed.
Pete raised his binoculars and growled, “That’s the Change Order. Last time I went out, Gene followed me around all day, trying to move in on my fish. Wind them up, Justin."
After he retrieved our baits, Pete pushed his throttles forward and turned north, running with the waves. We raced away from the Change Order until she was out of sight.
"Where are you going now?" Justin yelled at Pete.
"I'll make a run to the U-boat wreck where we caught that big one last month.”
Justin turned to us. "It's a rough twenty-minute run, so sit down for a while."
During the ride, a strong tailwind blew exhaust fumes back into the boat. My head was not happy sniffing fuel. Neither was Annie, so she went to the flybridge to clear her head.
When Pete found the 9,000-foot drop-off, we dropped our lines again to troll up and down big waves above the cliff. Baits went airborne when leaving the top of a wave and crashing into the bottom of swells with splashes. If I was a marlin, I would eat one of the colorful baits. After thirty minutes of no action, Pete changed the baits to different color skirts. A half-hour later, he changed them again. Though waves rarely got to me, the combination of diesel exhaust and large waves at slow speed had me nauseous, so I climbed up to Pete for fresh air.
"You have to keep your eyes on those baits,” he said. “A marlin will surface behind one and trail it for a while. Sometimes they strike the bait with its bill to kill it, then circle back for easy eating. Other times one will watch for a while and then leave."
“Is that the Change Order?” I asked, pointing to a boat in the distance.
“Yes. Gene hired the first mate from a Boston boat to be his cheap captain. That captain doesn't know where to fish around here, so he’ll use radar to stalk us all day trying to steal our spots. He knows I catch more fish than anyone else.”
I hoped he would find fish today. I focused on our baits racing up and down like a roller coaster, leaving a bubble trail to attract fish. Where was a stalking marlin? An hour later, I rubbed my blurry eyes and traded places with Annie in the calmer cockpit. She gladly climbed to the flybridge to escape awful fumes.
"Do you see that?" Pete yelled.
“Yes," Justin said. To me, he said, "See that frigate bird circling the shotgun bait?”
I’d been watching the water, not the sky. Sure enough, a frigate with broad black wings glided in tight circles high behind us.
“A dorsal fin is tracking that ballyhoo,” Justin told me.
Pete reeled the shotgun bait in like it was trying to escape. A curious marlin followed until it was close to the boat. Justin picked up a transom rod and released line, dropping a skirt in front of the billfish. The excited marlin’s bill flashed as it slashed at Pete’s colorful enticement. Justin released his drag, allowing the bait to drift as if dead.
“Come on,” he said, encouraging the marlin. “Come on.”
A scythed tailfin circled several times, then line screamed off the reel.
“Fish on,” Pete yelled.
Justin tightened his drag, causing the circle hook to snag the marlin. An angry, dark purple brute with broad, lavender stripes exploded from the sea, rising high, fiercely shaking its head. Its baseball bat length, tapered bill slashed back and forth as water poured from its sides. Its cueball sized black eye looked through my soul as the giant fish arched over and dove back into black water. Line screamed off the reel. The line’s angle entering the water showed the fish diving deep. Pete slowed the boat to reduce strain on the reel.
“That’s a money fish,” he yelled. “Don’t lose it.”
“Take it,” Justin ordered, stepping back to clip the massive rod and reel into my harness. I leaned back with my hands on the golden reel. I reached for my knife to make sure it was in place. Justin held onto the back of my harness to keep me from falling overboard. Trying to reel was pointless until the marlin finished its run. The shrill squeal of line spinning off the reel pumped my adrenaline to full blast. Downward the strong marlin dove. Deeper. Deeper. Suddenly, the line went slack, causing me to fall back into Justin.
“Damn. Damn.” I screamed. The massive marlin had stared me down, then used its immense strength to dive hard enough to break free. I reeled in slack line to find the rig intact. The hook had pulled loose. Pete and Justin both cursed also. I hung my head and slowly took off the harness. I couldn’t believe I had been so close to landing my first marlin that might have been worth thousands. Then poof. I lost it. My turn with lady luck had come and gone.

Wasting no time, Pete sped up while Justin dropped the lines again. We trolled numerous locations and directions with constant skirt changes, trying every trick Pete had. His radio remained silent; no other boats were hooking up either. When the wind was right, or wrong depending on your perspective, it blew noxious diesel fumes back into the cockpit as it rocked hard in six-foot waves. I didn’t look forward to going back against them.
As the day passed, the Change Order occasionally bobbed up and down in our view, like a ghost tracking us. The radio told us lady luck had turned her back on the Change Order also. When two o’clock snuck up on us, we reeled our baits in while Pete called headquarters, stating our lines were out of the water with no fish to weigh. Then he radioed again.
“Change Order, Change Order, this is Delta Dawn. Come in.”
“Delta Dawn, this is Change Order. Are you ready for a race?” Laughter in the background.
“Are you sure you want to tear up your new boat?”
“My Viking can handle any weather. Your little dinghy doesn’t stand a chance.” More laughter on the radio.
"You know where I am. Come by, and we'll start racing. Get ready to pay me off.”
Pete yelled to us below, “Get ready for a rough ride in this water. Batten down the hatches and tie everything down. The Change Order will be here soon to start the race.”
I watched clouds rolling in and hoped the temperature would cool off.
“Don’t worry about these clouds,” Pete said. “There’s no rain on the radar.”
“This will tear up both boats,” I said to Justin. “Does he do this often?”
"All the time," Justin shook his head. "So far, he has the fastest boat in Beaufort Inlet.”
"Boys and their toys," Annie chimed in. "It's a good thing Deltas are heavy-duty workboats, not pretty cruisers with lots of extra features to break. Most of them are dive boats that spend years in the tropics without trouble.”
“I have to admit I spend little time making repairs,” Justin agreed.
“The best seats will be here in the cockpit,” Stacy said. “If you need to go below, you better do it now. It will be too rough once we get going. Pete’s not going to lose this race.”
“You got that right,” Justin said.
“Good point,’ Annie said.
“The way Pete drives, we’ll probably get wet. Would you bring us jackets?” Stacy asked.
Annie went below to take care of things, then brought jackets and sandwiches to the cockpit for the crew.
“Time to go,” Pete shouted as the Change Order came into view on our port side.

While the crew settled into seats and grabbed rails, I ascended the flybridge ladder, taking food and a jacket to Pete. I sat down and watched him set his electronics to begin our journey back. He shoved his throttles forward. His engines rumbled, pushing the Delta Dawn up the face of an oncoming wave that crashed into the boat’s sharp nose, sending spray and foam around us. At the top of the wave, a stiff southern breeze whipped across our cockpit.
“How far is the run back?” I asked.
He looked at his instruments. “Eighty-six miles, depending on how we cross the shoals. That‘ll be about four hours.”
“At what bearing?”
“Southwest at 270 degrees. With the wind from the south, we’ll have a 45-degree angle on these waves.”
“That’s the perfect angle for racing,” I said. Hitting them head-on ends with a crash on the backside of every wave.
“Yes, it is,” Pete said with a grin. He looked over at the Change Order, even with us now. “We’ll see how well that new captain can drive.”

The Delta Dawn’s engines maxed out at 2,600 rpms in smooth water. I had driven her in rough water before at 1,900 rpms, about as fast as I had wanted to push her. Pete had her at 1,900 rpms now. I watched him navigate waves with precision. Driving against the waves, we hit one every five or six seconds. At the bottom of a swell, he would angle at 45 degrees toward a breaking crest. Right before reaching the top, he turned sharply into the wave to prevent rolling his boat over at high speed. He kept our pace slow enough to prevent us from flying airborne over a wave top and crash or even nosedive into the bottom of the next swell. A few of those would cause significant damages throughout the boat. As soon as his boat cleared a wavetop and tilted forward, Pete turned southwest again, surfing down a swell’s backside to gain speed before climbing up another one. He worked in a trance, conquering wave after wave. The secrets to maximum boat speed were maintaining smooth control of both speed and direction angle for extended lengths of time. Half an hour later, both boats were neck and neck, grinding through a brutal contest I would expect from teenagers, not grown men.
“I’ll put more pressure on him,” Pete said with a determined face. He slid his throttles forward a bit, increasing the Delta Dawn’s tachometer to 2,000 rpms. Slow up a wave’s face, a quick turn at the top, faster down the backside. Over and over. I watched the Change Order’s skill at traversing rough water at speed. Her larger engines would beat us on smooth water, but these rollers called for more than just full speed ahead. She kept up with us speed-wise, but the rookie captain didn’t have Pete’s finesse, resulting in a jarring ride, even for a 60-foot boat. He charged his way through and over battering waves, launching into brief airborne flights before landing with heavy crashes that exploded in spray. Her short antennas whipped back and forth with each swell. Even more violent were thrashings of the thirty-foot outriggers. Without a doubt, her passengers were having a jolting ride that would eventually wear them down.
“Take over for a while,” Pete said an hour later. “I need a break. Increase the speed to 2,100 rpms. We have to grind the Change Order down.”
I slid into his chair, increased our speed, and then turned my hat around to keep it from blowing off. Navigating through waves took all my concentration as I continuously turned the wheel while maintaining my bearing back to port. I held onto the wheel tightly as the flybridge threw me in all directions. Pete went below, and Annie came up to sit by me. A wave slung her into the chair as sea spray blew across us.
“I’m so glad to get away from those fumes,” she said. “They gave me a headache.”
“A pounding boat is not the place for a headache. The fresh air up here will clear your mind, but you have to hang on and flow with bent knees, like being on a horse. My back is killing me.”
“I’ll hang on, but I’m hurting too. Pete’s nuts to push a boat this hard.”
“Look at the Change Order over there,” I nodded to where she smashed hard through waves. “She’s staying up with us but taking a beating. Things will start breaking on her before long.”
“I’ve never seen outriggers bend so much.”
“Right. They would have broken on our boat by now. Think what’s happening to her gear and cabins of expensive furniture.”
“Right. A Delta takes a beating better.”
I swerved with a big swell, then settled into a trance of steering and watching my compass. A quick glance at the Change Order showed I now had a fifty-yard lead; small, but a start toward a win. Occasionally I used a towel to clean my glasses. An hour later, Pete's head showed up on the ladder. When he stepped onto the flybridge deck, Annie grimaced and went below to diesel fumes again.
“How are you holding up?” he asked me.
“Okay. I’ve handled rough water many times before.”
“You’re looking good.” He glanced at the Viking, now one hundred yards behind us. “Now let’s put an end to this race. Increase the rpms to 2300,” he said with a sneer.
“2300?”
“Yes, my Delta Dawn can do it.”
“Okay, it’s your boat.”
I increased the speed. The engines whined louder as waves approached faster. I turned the wheel rapidly, crashing harder and more often than I had ever pushed a boat. My boat would not have taken this punishment.
“This is like racing motocross,” I told Pete.
“That’s right.”
The Change Order valiantly stayed up with us for a while, but the beating took its toll. She stopped when we approached the shoals. Something must have broken.
“You take over,” I said. “I’m not wrecking your boat.”
We switched seats.
“Not bad for a small boat driver,” Pete complimented me.
“Are you going around those shoals?”
"Yes, its low tide. In places, the water's only two or three feet deep. None of the boats will chance it now."
“I’m glad to hear that.” The last thing I wanted to do now was rerun through those shoals.
Pete grinned and adjusted his course, making a tight turn around the easternmost shoal. He led the rest of the boats in our pack by at least a mile, maintaining his speed up all the way back to Beauford Inlet to show off his big lead to tournament watchers. He sounded his horn as we passed through the jetties and continued to Big Rock Landing Marina.
I was thrilled to slow down. All of my muscles ached fiercely, especially my wrecked back. This would be a pain pill night for sure.
Pete docked his boat as fans approached to see our catch.

Annie and I were in a daze, stumbling around in a post ocean stagger. The crowd murmured when Justin placed our large dolphin on the dock.
“Can I weight it?” Annie asked with a grin.
“Of course. Unofficially. I’ll take care of it.”
Pete talked to the dockmaster while Annie adjusted her hair and lipstick. He beckoned Justin and Annie to the front of the crowd. They walked to the scale where Justin hung her dolphin up to weigh it.
“Folks,” said the announcer. “We have what would be the first-place dolphin in the Lady's category with fifty point five pounds.”
The crowd erupted into cheers.
“However, this fish won’t win because the Delta Dawn did not have a Lady’s entry.”
Moans emanated as Annie pouted.
"Pete, next year, you might win if you enter several categories."
Laughter from the crowd.
“I will if Annie is on my boat next year.”
Cheers from the crowd.
“I’ll be here,” she assured him.
Pete bent over and whispered to Annie, “Leave your fish here for Justin to clean. People are waiting for your Calcutta money. Let’s go get it.”
"My money?" she replied with surprise.
"It's yours until you return it," he said quietly. "I don't know where you hid it."
“Let’s go to your place.”

Pete drove us back to his condo. Annie scanned the yard looking for trouble, then she and Stacy jumped out of the car and entered the house.
“I didn't see any other fish weighed in," I said. "Were any marlin caught?"
“No,” Pete replied sadly. “Only one small marlin was caught today. It’s been a tough week. The biggest marlin all week was 456 pounds. I'm sorry ya'll came all the way up here for no marlin."
"Oh, no. Today was the best fishing trip of my life. You can't catch a fish if you don't have a hook in the water. Thanks for having us up here and crewing your boat."

The ladies returned a few minutes later with Annie carrying the money bag. They jumped into the car and unwrapped the frozen money as Pete drove to his harbor. When Annie proudly took the bag into the bar, the waiting Calcutta betters clapped and cheered.
“We were about to send a patrol out looking for you,” a captain said, bringing laughter.
“What took you so long, Pete?” another asked.
“I didn’t take a short ride to Big Rock like the rest of you. We went far north.”
“And what did you catch?”
“Same as the rest of you. No marlin. But Annie caught a 50.5-pound dolphin.”
Cheers rang out. Annie bowed and sat at a table to count her money.
I noticed Gene sulking in a corner.
“How much did she win?” somebody asked.
Pete shook his head and smirked. "Nothing, I didn’t enter her."
More laughter.

Annie turned $15,000 over to one of the captains, then she turned in a circle to look at all of the captains and said, "Thanks for trusting me, boys. I like ya'll up here at Cape Hatteras. We'll come back and hold your money any time."
Cheers and catcalls told her she would be welcome.
Pete spoke up. “Speaking of money, I was the fastest boat coming back in. Again,” he said smugly while looking at Gene. "That will be $1,000, please."
The captains laughed again.
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. My boat is faster, but my rookie captain didn't know how to drive it."
"Why didn't you drive it?" Pete drove the nail in hard. “I drove my boat.”
Howls broke out as Gene stomped out of the bar.
Stacy hugged Pete and said, "He always wins, even when he loses."

The party moved into gear as bets were paid and stories told of fish and boats. There was no place I would rather be than in the company of fishermen with drinks raised to Mother Ocean.