Living in The Bahamas-Wahoo Tournament

LIVING IN THE BAHAMAS
LIGHTHOUSE MARINE WAHOO CHALLENGE




Doc called me one blustery January day. “What’s up, buddy?”
“It’s been too cold and windy to get my boat out. What about you?”
“You know the Wahoo Challenge is next week. We gotta make a move.”
I perked up. “Let’s do it. Are we signed up yet?”
“Yeah, man. My brother, Sheldon, is coming from Jamaica to fill out our crew.”
“Great, I haven’t caught a wahoo yet this winter. Are we going in your boat?”
“You know the ocean will be rough. My Catamaran handles heavy seas better than your Boat Tales.”
I laughed. “You keep reminding me. What’s the schedule?”
“The Captain’s party is at Green Parrot over on Paradise Island Thursday night. We fish on Saturday. Plan on rigging lures here at my house tomorrow. We’re going against big boys, so we gotta get serious and re-rig all of our gear.”
“I’m with you. I bought new line for your reels.”
“You’re the man.”
“I’ll see you at the party.”

Thursday night, a quicksilver, winter sun dropped across Nassau Harbour against a flint blue sky as eight teams assembled at Green Parrot bar in Hurricane Hole Marina for revelry. We would be fishing the second leg of a three-tournament series for wahoo against teams that fish together year-round in serious competition. Proper preparation before a tournament required a rowdy party with calypso music, beer, fresh fried wahoo, Mac-and-cheese, and conch fritters. Stunning trophies of crystal inset with hand-carved teak wahoo were displayed to motivate the anglers.
I arrived early to nurse a beer at the bar until Doc and Sheldon arrived. When they arrived, I greeted them, “Hey, Doc, you ready to catch big wahoo?”
“Yeah, man. I just brought Sheldon from the airport, so our team’s back together.”
“Whoa, Gordon. I didn’t recognize you with a grey beard,” Sheldon said.
“I got tired of shaving; thought I’d do the Hemingway look. Do you like it?”
"Yeah, man, but you're definitely the old man on the team."
Greg laughed. “He’ll still out fish you, big brother.”
“No more free lessons from me,” I added. “You're on your own this time, Sheldon. Bartender, beer for my friends."
After all the attendees arrived, tournament director Chris Lloyd of Bahamas Air Sea Rescue Association (BASRA) explained the rules. “Prizes will be given for the single biggest wahoo as well as the largest total combined weight of all wahoo caught. Points will be added to last month's tournament and will be added again to next month’s tournament for overall series champions. Last month, Deep Drop cleaned house with the biggest fish at 67 pounds and a combined weight of 172 pounds. The rest of you are going to have to work hard to catch up with him. Can you boys do it?”
“Yeah, man," shouted an energetic crowd.
“Let’s thank Lighthouse Marine for sponsorship with all this beer.”
Another round of cheers erupted.
“Starting time is six o’clock sharp, Saturday morning here at Green Parrot. I know some of you have boats across the island, but every team has to have one member at this bar at the start. When the six o’clock bell rings, you can leave by car, boat, or helicopter.”
The crowd chuckled.
“When’s weigh-in time?” Sheldon asked.
“There’s no limit to where you can go, but be back here at four o’clock sharp for weigh-in. You can call us on Channel 16 for information during the day. No shenanigans like last year; your fish better be fresh this time. Tight lines, everybody."
Applause erupted amid toasts of beer as side bets were made between teams.
“Deep Drop wants to know if you want to enter their Calcutta,” I told Doc.
“Dude, their sixty-foot Viking can run fast all over that ocean no matter how rough the waves are. Betting against them would be long odds; no side bets for me. We need more beer. Good thing we don’t fish till Saturday. We’d have to give up either partying or fishing.”
I bought another round for my crew and announced, “The weather prediction is clear on Saturday, with winds ten to fifteen knots from the northeast. The temperature at sixty degrees will be normal for wintertime. That’s why I like your Cat, Doc. It makes those waves so smooth.”
After a late night at Green Parrot, the next day, or should I say afternoon, we met at Doc’s house for strategic planning and preparations. Our usual reels with fifty-pound line had proven ineffective at stopping monster wahoo on blistering runs up to forty-seven miles an hour. We couldn’t afford to lose a money fish, so I brought a one-mile-long spool of eighty-pound line to upgrade the reels. Doc created an electric motor to pull lines off our fifty-pound class reels. We cleaned and lubricated the empty reels, then rewound them with five hundred yards of my heavier line. We mounted our reels on thick, broomstick rods outfitted with smooth, ball-bearing roller guides instead of normal circle eyes. I pulled the roller guides off to lube them to prevent overheating and freezing during ferocious wahoo runs.
The Bahamian method for targeting wahoo was high-speed trolling. Wahoo, members of the mackerel family, were renowned for slashing through monofilament lines with their razor-sharp teeth. We re-rigged lures with eight-feet of a one-tenth inch, 450 pound, aircraft, multi-strand cable for leader material, along with high-strength, ball-bearing swivels to withstand heavy abuse. We cleaned and prepped Doc’s boat, leaving no equipment unworthy of savage battles.
That evening, Doc announced, “I have a special treat for dinner. Last week I caught a marlin in Abaco, so tonight we have Jamaican fish chowder. Tomorrow we’ll have marlin sandwiches.”
“Did you cook this?” I asked.
He laughed. “You know Miss Peggy always cooks for us. That’s why I brought her over from Jamaica, to keep us well fed.”
“That was a good move.”
After we feasted, Sheldon asked, “How are we working the morning start?”
Doc replied with a grin, “It’s an hour the wrong way if we take my boat to the harbour. England wakes early, so he’ll drive to Green Parrot in the morning to represent us. You and I will have the boat warmed up, ready to run when he comes back to the house.”
“Sounds good to me,” Sheldon responded. “I get another hour of sleep.”
"Sure, guys, I'll go there for an early start. And I'll call you at five o’clock to make sure you don’t oversleep like last time,” I retorted. “I’m going home now to get some rest. We have a long day tomorrow.”

Five thirty the next morning found me at Green Parrot with the other crews. We drank coffee, eyeballing each other with caution. We weren’t joking now; serious fishing lay before us.
“What’s the latest weather report?” I asked Chris Lloyd.
“Still a bit breezy, northeast at ten knots, waves three feet at five-second intervals. It shouldn’t be too bad. Any of you boys run into trouble, give us a call on Channel 16. In case we need to look for you, is anybody running to Hole in the Wall in Abaco?”
The captain of Deep Drop replied, “We’ll be heading north, maybe that far.”
I figured he would go south.
Another captain said to me, “We’re running over to Chub Cay in the Berry Islands. Heard someone caught a fifty-pounder there yesterday. What about you?”
“We’re going east to Exumas to see what we find along that wall. running across the wind and waves will be easier than into it.”
He grinned. “Oh yeah, you guys have that small twenty-seven-footer.”
“Okay, gentlemen, let’s get ready,” said Chris. “Every team must have one member here, or they will be disqualified. When I hit the bell, you can take off, not one second sooner.”
Eight of us placed a hand on the bar, for once not looking for a drink. When the clock ticked down to six o’clock, Chris hit a big brass bell with a hammer. Clang! Off to the races we dashed. Some anglers scurried to their dock, jumped onto rumbling boats, and roared out of Hurricane Hole into darkness toward their secret rendezvous.
I ran to my car, fired it up, then joined others charging out the parking lot. I floored my pedal, sending thick smoke from my diesel engine. I squealed around a corner and raced over the steep Paradise Island Bridge. Fortunately, the morning roads were empty. I didn’t touch my brakes when I flew down the other side to blast through a stoplight like James Bond. I turned hard left, squealing onto Bay Street, while other cars went straight or turned right, disappearing on secret routes into the night.
Twenty minutes later, I arrived at Doc’s house, with my adrenaline pumping hard. I ran to the dock and jumped on his boat. When Sheldon threw off the lines, Doc slammed his throttle forward, roaring down his canal, guided by a spotlight on his hardtop. After racing out of the canal to enter the bay, Doc set a southeast course on a thirty-mile race to the Exuma Islands.
An hour later, a silver sun rose in front of us at Ship Channel Cay, at the north end of the Exumas. Sheldon sat on the bow, guiding Doc through reefs. We nervously rode big swells up and down over shallow rocks.
“I’m glad it's high tide,” I said.
"Don't worry, mon,” Doc replied. “If we stay away from breakers, we’ll be fine.”
We weaved our way through north-to-south reefs, breaking out to approach vast, navy-blue waters of Exuma Sound. The bottom dropped almost straight down from 50 feet to 5,000 feet deep along an endless vertical wall that we would fish. Northeast winds piled waves and baitfish against the reef, bringing large fish to patrol its turbulent water. Serious six-to-eight-foot swells at six-second intervals replaced calm green waves in Nassau Flats.
“I sure do like the way your Cat handles these waves,” Sheldon told Doc.
“We’d be in trouble on Boat Tales.” Doc jabbed, grinning at me.
“My boat always handles the sea and brings me home,” I replied,
“Sheldon, you should’ve seen the last time we went out on Boat Tales. Waves came over the transom, filling the deck knee-deep with water.”
“That’s normal. Boat Tales is self-bailing,” I responded with embarrassment.
“Self-bailing me arse. When we stopped to clean fish, my dolphin almost floated out of the boat.” Greg laughed.
“There was nothing to worry about; my bilges are full of foam. It won’t sink no matter how much water comes in. But I’ll go out on your boat any time you want, Doc. Let’s get ready for wahoo.”
He put a Bob Marley CD in his stereo, then cranked up his fish-attracting subwoofer. We turned north, straight into heavy waves, for a run along the edge of the vast wall while listening to reggae.
“Get those rods ready,” Doc instructed.
“Aye, aye, captain. Do you want to use two- or five-pound weights?”
“Let’s go with five-pounders; then we can run faster.”
When I glanced at Sheldon, he made big eyes and shrugged. I attached a five-pound bullet weight between eighty-pound lines and cable leaders. At the end of the leaders, I fastened dark purple, twelve-inch lures with large 8/0 hooks.
“Hold this rod while I put the rig overboard,” I told Sheldon. “Don’t loosen the drag too much or the lure will take off too fast and backlash your reel.” I dropped the rig into white turbulence behind the engines. The weight grabbed water, peeling line off the reel. “Put it in that corner rod holder and loosen its drag slowly.”
When the lure fell back fifty yards, I tightened the drag to full stop. We put out two more rods with lures at one hundred and two hundred yards behind the boat.
“Okay Doc, we’re ready. Let’s see how fast you can troll these bad boys.”
“Yeah, man.” He pushed dual throttles forward to ten knots, pitching us like a rollercoaster in the eight-foot waves. We staggered around the boat, holding onto rods and gunnels for balance. All eyes watched to see if the lures would bounce on top of the water.
The lures stayed submerged, so I said, “Faster.”
Doc inched the throttles forward to twelve knots. The rods bent further, but the lures stayed submerged.
“A little more.”
He pushed the throttles again to fourteen knots. Though our rods doubled over with lines tight enough to sing when plucked, those heavy weights kept our lures submerged.
“Let’s catch some fish,” I said.
We put on fighting belts, then sat in chairs for relief from a rocking deck. Thirty minutes later, one of the stout rods bobbed wildly.
“Fish on,” Sheldon yelled. When he grabbed the rod, a fish and locked drag jerked him to the stern. I grabbed his belt from behind, holding him steady as he braced his knees against the gunnel while he struggled to hang onto his rod. Doc had no fighting chair. This was stand-up fishing at its finest.
“Slow down, Doc,” I yelled.
He dropped his throttles back while Sheldon loosened his drag, letting line scream off the reel.
“Slower.”
Sheldon struggled just to hold onto his rod, not even trying to reel yet. He grimaced as the rod butt ground into his stomach. To his relief, I reached around him to put the butt into his fighting-belt cup.
“Thanks,” he grunted, then began a battle to reel in line.
“What do you think it is?” Doc asked.
"I can't tell; it hasn’t surfaced,” I replied. “Pump and reel, Sheldon. Let your arms go straight, or you won't last long."
“I’m trying. It’s a damn big fish.”
With rough waves and a jerking rod, Sheldon struggled to stay on his feet and turning the reel’s handle. I continued holding his belt to keep him in the boat.
Doc laughed, saying, “Reel, big brother. This is going to be a long fight. You gotta let your arms be straight.”
“I’m trying. But.. he’s.. so.. big.”
I coached him, “Loosen your drag a bit more. Slow down, Doc. You’re gonna wear him out, and I'm not fighting his fish for him.”
Sheldon grunted, “No, you’re not. It’s mine. I’m gaining on him now.”
Fifteen minutes later, the fish was still unseen, fifty yards back when Sheldon said, “Gordon, take this rod. I can’t do it anymore.”
“Yes, you can; it’s almost here.”
“No, I can’t hold on anymore.”
“You sure?”
“Take the damn rod.”
“Okay, this old man will catch your fish.”
He groaned as a big wave slammed him onto a seat, where he collapsed with exhaustion. I slipped into my well-practiced routine of pump, drop, and reel. Pump, drop, and reel. Keep my arms straight as possible to let my knees and back do the work. Soon a small flash of white showed below the boat. Sheldon grabbed my heavy leader, pulling the five-pound weight in first, followed by a five-pound barracuda. Doc and I looked at the baby barracuda and laughed hard. Into the fish box it went.
Doc said, “Miss Peggy’s going cook the Barry good for you, Sheldon, with her special Jamaican recipe. That way you don’t get Barry Belly.”
“You’re not getting me to eat the Barry,” I replied,
Sheldon laughed. “Don’t worry, I’ll eat it for you.”
“You can have it.”
I teased Sheldon, saying, “Was that little old five-pounder too much for you? What are you going to do if you get a fifty-pound wahoo?
"It's your turn. You can catch a big one. I’m gonna catch a beer; my arms stopped working.”
Doc laughed. “Big brother, you’re getting weak on me. Take a lesson from England. That old man knows how to reel.”
“Doc, get us trolling again,” I said.
He grabbed the wheel and straightened out a course.
I looked at Sheldon, saying, “You like pulling a five-pound weight?”
“No way, not again.”
“Go to the tackle box and bring me two-pound weights. They’ll make life easier.”
“I’m with you all the way.”
We switched to smaller weights, then dropped our lures again. As soon as we tightened the drags, one of the rods bent to the water with violence. The thrilling shriek of line peeling off a reel was music to my ears.
“Fish on!” I yelled,
Sheldon cringed, saying, “You take it.”
With difficulty, I pulled the rod out of its holder and jammed the butt into my belt as the line screamed off my reel at a blinding pace. One hundred yards back, a silver rocket with black stripes launched skyward, splashed enormously, jumped again with tail thrashing, then torpedoed in a big semicircle.
“We better chase that wahoo,” I told Doc.
He drove after the fish while Sheldon cleared our other lines. Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. I strained for every inch of line against the powerful beast. My line pulsated as the brute shook his head side to side with anger. I inched the wahoo up from dark water.
“You have to gaff it,” Doc told Sheldon.
“I never brought in anything that big.”
“I’m driving, you’re gaffing.”
Sheldon gulped, grabbing the gaff to move in front of me.
“Wait, it’s too green,” I told him.
A large wave threw me against the transom, smashing my knee and almost knocking the rod from my hands. My line angled toward the engines, peeling off the reel in jerks. The fish seemed to know he could cut that tortuous line on a prop.
I screamed, “Turn left. It's diving under the boat." The stern swung away as I jabbed my rod tip underwater to guide my line below the props. I struggled to pump line in, arms aching.
“I see color. It’s huge,” Sheldon cried.
Doc responded, “That’s a money fish.” He swung the wheel side to side in a duel as my huge wahoo attempted to reach the motors. Five minutes later, it surfaced, still strong and swimming at ten knots. Doc kept the boat moving fast to prevent the crafty fish from circling in front of us.
“Get ready,” I told Sheldon. “Swing down fast near his head and jerk up as hard as you can. Bring him into the boat with one sweep. Don’t stop in mid-stroke.”
The five-foot wahoo skulked, refusing to come closer.
“Slower, Doc.” I pumped with short strokes to gain a few feet. The fish turned on his side, tail thrashing, and stared at me with a large, raging eye and mouthful of slashing teeth. Sheldon cautiously reached down with the gaff and missed, catching my line. I jerked my rod sideways to free the line before it snapped. The fish retreated to deep water again. I lifted once more, gaining a few inches.
“Swing harder,” Doc told Sheldon.
Sheldon lunged, sinking his gaff into the thick fish, but he missed his target and gaffed the tail instead of the head. Sheldon’s shoulders strained as he lifted the fish toward the gunnel. Its body palpitated wildly while its angry head hung low, repeatedly smashing the side of the boat. Sheldon’s arms flailed back and forth with each swing of the powerful tail. In a deadly struggle, he strained to raise the fish over the side. With a powerful flip, its tail came off the gaff. At the same time, a wave threw me backward, causing my rod tip to swing up, ripping the lure from the fish’s mouth. The freed fish landed with a splash. With a swirl, it surged free into deep blue water.
Stunned silence. We looked at each other in awe of the massive wahoo’s power, our hearts crushed over a loss of a trophy fish.
After a moment, Doc ordered, “Get those lines out again.”
Though we fished hard, the action was over for the day. We went back empty-handed to Green Parrot for weigh-in. Deep Drop claimed trophies again, with four fifty-pounders caught on a tortuous forty-mile slog to the Berry Islands. Under a clear Caribbean sky, fish stories by winners and losers were recounted over many beers late into the night.
At the end of the party, I asked, “Doc, are we gonna fish that third leg next month?”
He laughed, "Yeah, man."
Days like this kept fishing blood in my veins, regardless of the number of fish caught. Fishing was a blast even without catching.