“The Legend of Big Nasty” by Untouchable
It started out as another night on the 50 line… and ended as anything but. The sun had just set and we began to put out the lines, taking in the usual sights of boats dotting the water like a Sunday afternoon at Lake Boca. But it was a different game out here. The crew consisted of me and a crony whom I called the “Captain.” Born of sal****er and southeast breezes, the Captain was the quintessential South Florida fisherman. Though his travels took him fishing all over the globe, his heart and soul lay off the South Florida coast. The banalities of work and pursuing a career were simply a means to bide time between cold fronts and tropical waves, the likes of which kept him shore bound. This was the Captain- nothing more, nothing less. When the Captain went fishing, he did so armed to the hilt. Our rod holders were not holding barbeque grills and water guns tonight, they were each wielding 130-lb class reels ready to battle with anything that came their way. We were in a different area on this eve, quite north of the familiar swording grounds…
“I’m not fishing in the nursery anymore. We are here for Big Nasty,” muttered the Captain in a steadfast tone.
“Who is Big Nasty?” I innocently asked, noting that none of his past “flames” were on the boat.
“Dude, I can’t explain, you’ll just have to see for yourself.”
And so we settled in for the drift, amid banterings of secret baits and new sword lights. I took in the life in the ocean, noticing the myriad sea creatures swarming around the floating light. The ocean was alive. Sailfish, dolphin, squid, shrimp- all smaller than my pinky finger. Since it was the only game in town I continued to watch, pondering the future of these little creatures.
“Dude, check the 150, make sure my squiddie’s money.”
I reeled up the bait. “Your squid is fine.”
“Of course it is. I am the man.”
I rolled my eyes, put the bait back down, and settled back into watching the sea life.
Swordfishing is like nothing else. Hours and many trips may go by without even a bite. The rocking of the boat and the endless staring into a literal abyss does things to one’s mind. It starts to wander. It starts to think strange thoughts and see things that might not actually be there. Then again, it all might just be a dream. Out there, in the “zone”, time stands still and it is difficult to discern truth from illusion.
I could only watch a passing flying fish for so long, and soon I was fading to black. I forgot where I was. Was I asleep? If I wasn’t, it was imminent. As my eyelids made that fateful motion, I saw it.
A piscine apparition, one that dwarfed anything I had ever even imagined before. White as snow, it entered and faded in the periphery as quickly as it came. I kept it to myself to prevent ridicule and more stories. Once more I nodded off and once more it caught my eye. This time was different.
“Was that…”
“What?”
“I might be crazy, but I think I saw something. It looked like an underwater ghost and it was about 9 feet long.”
“ Probably just a dolphin”
“It had one of our lights following it.”
“Sh!t, the 150 is slack. Reel!”
I proceeded to reel the low-geared 130 till the line came tight. It was heading away from all our other lines and right along the surface. Something was definitely going on.
“Yoke him!”
I wound the line furiously and awoke the spirit. She responded by clearing the water with our light dangling behind. She was every bit of 9 feet long and made sure we knew it. As soon as the fish hit the water, she stripped the reel, in one run, to within sight of the gold at the bottom of the spool. I had never imagined something so heinous, but here it was staring me in the face. One of mankind’s greatest achievements in angling was quickly approaching futility- and this was just the first run.
The drag was pushed up to near 30 pounds. She made it seem like 30 ounces as line continued to peel off the spool even as we pursued at near 10 knots. It was the perfect time for a timeless quote.
“We’re gonna need a bigger boat.”
Almost as if she heard us, the fish stopped. The line again went slack and I again wound till I had severe lactic acidosis in my arms and back. When I came tight the fish was now straight below, and we were now in over 1200 feet of water. Just then I felt an unfamiliar jolting of the line.
“See that. The fish is digging its bill into the sea bed to shake the hook,” Captain said as if he had a camera down there. Now I was dealing with a monstrosity of a fish that also had an IQ. It was not looking good. The fish was unsuccessful in dislodging the hook and continued to swim just off the bottom in a northeast direction. We had no choice but to continue following along like groupies. After two hours of being walked, we had managed to put 200 yards of line back on the reel. Some would call this progress, but with a swordfish it just means the fish wanted to come up a little bit and could easily go back down at any time.
“I think it’s gonna run again. She’s just following a thermocline. Get a second rod ready to clip.”
I knew what he was talking about, but had to ask him if he really wanted to drop a $1500.00 rod and reel overboard for a fish.
“Dude, it’s happening, don’t ask me again.”
As if on cue, the fish peeled line off with just 50 yards remaining on that huge gold spool. We put the drag on full, clipped the second rod to it, and over she went. Just in time, for we continued to lose line off reel number two. At this point I was just going with these motions. Clipping, tying, tossing, I could not appreciate the magnitude of what was going on. I also realized that I was just a pawn in this game. I was a mere foot soldier while the Captain read every move his adversary made, intent on claiming victory at all costs. Literally, in this case.
The next few hours were a blur. It was a steady pull and give while the fish continued to head farther offshore. We were now near 25 miles offshore and daylight was hours away. All our mental and physical efforts began to make some headway on the fish. We were able to retrieve our first outfit and resumed the fight from the soaked reel. I drew from every ounce of energy in every ounce of my body and kept reeling. Inch by inch, foot by foot, this denizen was starting to come to the surface. Somewhere in my delirium I mentioned that we hooked a submarine which was now making a routine surfacing. It was not well received.
It was now 7AM, the horizon was now abuzz with weekend warriors armed with ballyhoo, who dreamed of that dolphin dinner. We were now nearing the 9 hour mark on this fish and it was showing no signs of waving the white flag any time soon. But we continued to fight the good fight and continued to put line on the reel. If we kept up this pace, my apparition would soon come to view. It gave me new strength and I kept reeling.
One hour later we only had 200 yards left to put on the reel. 45 minutes later it was 50 yards and the fish came into view.
To say we were at a loss of words was an understatement. The fish was every bit of 110 inches, if not more, and was hooked solidly in the corner of the mouth. The Captain was trying to hold himself together, but I might have seen a small puddle at his feet.
“Just ‘cause she’s up doesn’t mean she’s done. This fish is not going to gas out and float to the surface like the groupers and mutton you are used to.”
I wish it did, for my life would have been much easier. At this point we were all screaming in a fish-and- sleep-deprivation induced delirium. The massive beast was only 20 feet down and easily the largest fish I had ever seen.
The Captain took to the bow; harpoon in hand, all the while his legs trembling. The fish was now on the surface. The Captain took aim and heaved the harpoon. Like a movie, the seconds that followed seemed like hours. The fish, as if it had called the Captain’s move, charged and the harpoon struck the skull of the fish and bounced off like a toothpick. Before he could recoil, the fish, now enraged, managed to wrap the leader around its bill. Like nearly 10 hours before, she took off for the horizon and this time parted the leader cleanly. She was gone. As the line broke we collapsed, as if our life force was gone. For 30 minutes no one said a word. The Captain put a shirt over his head and lay limp on the floor. We were 35 miles from home, and it was almost 9 AM. 10 hours and 20 miles later, all we had to show for ourselves were a salty 130 and two broken hearts.
This fish’s will to survive was unprecedented and, like a true gladiator, in the end won its freedom. I truly respect that fish and can say with a straight face that not all fish can be caught. And so the story went. Nothing even close to that leviathan has been caught since. Once in a while a report comes in over the crackly VHF of “ghosts” in the water “too large to be a fish” and reels with 900 yards of line being decimated in seconds. I even recall a mako shark that on being brought boatside was noted to have a machete-like gash on its flank. Big Nasty lurks down below; watching, waiting, ready for her next victim.
“You asked about Big Nasty. Now you’ve met her up close and personal,” was all the Captain could utter on the way in. Far from an ex-girlfriend, this fish was the love of his life.
