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Getting a Snoot Full

Granders University — Wed, 15 Nov 2023 02:50:48 +0000

THE SNOOTER
January 1998

Most of the fishing techniques we share are intended to increase your catch. However, this one should help facilitate your releases. While fishing with Roddy Hays in Madeira we developed a device to release billfish we dubbed the SNOOTER.

This simple tool allows a single crew member to hold a marlin’s bill and control the fish at a safe distance, allowing both the crew and fish to come away from the experience in good shape. Using the SNOOTER, one crew member can control the fish, keeping its head below the surface while another balances the fish by holding its’ dorsal.

Resuscitation of wornout fish is a snap with the SNOOTER, and most regain their strength much faster when towed upright as opposed to being towed on their side.

To release a fish, get a good grip on the PVC pipe and let go of the cinch rope. Pull up on the pipe, and the fish’s weight will pull the cinch rope and cable out the bottom of the pipe, freeing the fish.

First, back-splice the stainless-steel ring onto the 3/8 inch line. Thread the stainless-steel cable through the ring and two of the crimps. Double the wire over and twist a 2-foot section of the cable, securing the twist with the crimps. (Note: I found that double twisting the cable stiffens the loop and makes it easier to slip over the marlin’s bill.)

Using a 1/8-inch drill bit, drill three holes in one end of the PVC pipe about a half-inch apart. Starting from the bottom hole, carefully thread the end of the cable inside-out through the three holes. Pull the cable through until the twisted section rests near the first (bottom) hole, then cut off excess cable, double over and crimp the end. Feed the entire rope section up through the PVC, and the SNOOTER is ready for action.

Capt. Dana Boardman
Kailua-Kona, Hawaii

PARTS LIST

1-inch schedule-80 PVC pipe (3 feet)
600-pound stainless-steel cable (6 feet)
Three non-aluminum crimps
1/8-gauge stainless-steel welded ring
3/8-inch nylon line (6 feet)
Heavy cord

*The SNOOTER feature was republished in Marlin Magazine – September 2006.

P.S. The Marlin Magazine features mis-stated using schedule-40 PVC pipe, however, we originally developed this tool using schedule-80 PVC pipe, which is heavier gauge and much better for guiding and resuscitating big fish.

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Tu Tu

Granders University — Sat, 09 Sep 2023 19:41:23 +0000

By Capt. Bart Miller

Two mysterious hours passed in our slow motion tug of war game with Tu Tu. There were brief moments when I could make out the marlin clearly; blood still trailing ominously from its gills, but the color had changed to a light watermelon red that faded quickly in our wake. The great fish seemed to be getting weaker, bleeding out, probably the reason we were able to stay attached to her. The 80 pound tackle was nothing more than ultra-light tackle to this fish. The crew and my anglers could occasionally make out the great shadow at the other end of the line, but they could not get as clear a picture as I could from my vantage point on the bridge.

Once again, the questions were raised from the deck: How big? Is it a grander? They demanded. I knew that soon enough they’d be able to make up their own minds, however their persistence spurred me to finally blurt out, “If you chopped off its fucking head and weighed it, that part would weigh a thousand pounds!”

There was stunned silence from the cockpit. No one said a word. The realization of what was at the other end of the line left crew and angler alike in a near trance. We worked the fish closer, and the angle on the line decreased. We all sensed the same thing; we were going to see her; she might even jump. The fish was a mere forty feet away.

When the mass of her enormous body raised from the sea in a display that brought her out of the water to her anal fin, pink blood washed from her mouth, and the muscles in her flanks rippled and flexed as she fell back, splashing a geyser of water in all directions. Her monstrous head thrashed from side to side, and she blew out her huge stomach, disgorging its contents. Reef fish, large and small, were strewn over the surface and floating every direction. The amazing volume of partially digested fish created a large oil slick, and gross stench permeated our surroundings. This experience was so incredible I never mentioned it before because I felt no one would ever believe me.

After seeing the great fish, no one on board doubted what we had to deal with. This fish was twenty-five feet long, and we had it on an eighty-pound rig, deployed for 200 pound tuna. A strange new fear came over me unlike any I’d ever known before. I was afraid of making a critical mistake and losing this incredible opportunity. I’d been hunting for a ‘tonner’ and I now had one far larger hooked up near the boat. This was the realization of my quest for a truly great marlin. Over the years, I’d worked hard to learn all I could about these fish, their movements and migrations, the ways to appeal to the very biggest that lived in this infinite water. I’d experienced thousands of battles, some lost, some won, and understood the best attitude to carry into the fight was one neither positive nor negative. Never wish things to happen, accept your limitations and try to simply stay in step with whatever occurs. Stay mentally focused and learn to react to each move the fish makes and avoid mistakes by being sure your gear and your crew are up to any challenge that presents itself. Put yourself in the right places at the right times of day and use all your skills and experience to tip the scales in your favor…but enough business philosophy!

It was now four hours since we first hooked Tu Tu, the honored grandmother. The fight had changed; she was no longer headed out to sea. We were forced to follow her back to where she first took the bait meant for tuna only one fifteenth her remarkable size. We were going back to the sacred fishing grounds off Milolii. Her shadow was still visible like an apparition some 40 feet under the surface of the clear, blue water. We lost some line as she kicked her massive tail, but she always came back and settled in at the same distance, just beyond our ability to reach her. We could watch, but we couldn’t touch! The frustration was overwhelming as we knew she would also destroy any preconceived notion of big blue marlin grow.

We were back at the B Buoy, and the fish headed directly for one of the commercial skiffs. Trying to let the commercial fishermen know I was hooked to a big marlin, I waved frantically at the fisherman in the stern. He took a moment to acknowledge our presence, but the look on his face told the story…. “You’re on your own!” I realized that we’d get no leeway from this busy village fisherman. Fortunately, at the last minute the fish turned and avoided his boat. If my taught line had crossed that of the commercial tuna hand liner, then mine would have been cut off, no doubt about it.

I was tired of the game of ‘dog walking man’. The singularly unspectacular fight was bordering on monotony. I began to think that if I had only put out my “stump puller” outfit, an unlimited class rod with a 12/0 Zane Gray reel loaded with 130 pound Dacron and a 700 pound leader tied to a 12/0 double strength forged hook, I could apply enough drag to finish the fish. It certainly wouldn’t diminish the magnitude of the accomplishment, and the heavier gear might let us turn her head and lift her to the boat. Damned if we weren’t stuck trying to do the job with the wrong tools. It forced me to walk a tight rope, staying with the fish, applying only as much pressure as the eighty allowed, hoping we could hold her until she bled out, hoping the sharks didn’t home in on her blood trail before it was over. I counted my blessings. At least she stayed in easy range, and was visible. If she slugged it out deep and died there, we’d never be able to lift her lifeless body to the surface with this outfit.

We were now six and a half hours into the fight. Suddenly, the angle on the line changed, and she came to the surface. I reversed hard, the gaff was lifted from the deck, the wireman readied himself and angler pumped harder. This was it, the moment of truth we’d been waiting and working to achieve. She was about to slide up the starboard side, her massive black eye looking tired to the point of appearing drugged. I slid in and out of gear ever so carefully, trying to let her finally be transferred from the rod to the wire man’s gloved hands.

At that exact moment, a flood of positive energy coursed through my consciousness. “We’re going to catch her! She’ll easily weigh some 3,000 pounds! She’s 25 feet long!” My brain almost screamed in my ears…. “My God, she’s twice the size of the 1656!” How can any man be so lucky? The photos that will be taken, the stories that will be told! Too bad it wasn’t a more impressive fight, just a huge fish that finally bled to death.

Suddenly, there she was, lying on her side, her colors still vivid. Broad bands of copper hues, the jet-black back, blues and purples and a pearl white belly all shown like she was lit from within. The wireman stretched out over the gunwales, reaching for the leader when inexplicably his posture changed. He turned his head away from the fish and looked up at me with abject disappointment in his eyes. He was trying to tell me something, but all he could do was mouth the words; no sound passed his lips. I looked at the great marlin and watched in horror as Tu Tu weakly paddled her massive tail ever so slightly, slowly propelling her huge mass down and out of view. She was gone, forever!

I bounded from the flybridge, reaching the fighting chair in several steps. I grabbed the line, which had broken near the rod tip, I inspected the line at the break, no chafe or wear was visible. Bryan, who had so valiantly fought the great fish for all these hours, sat heart broken, literally hurt with the grief borne of defeat. The crew was disgusted to the point of being sick, both mentally and physically. There was nothing to say, nothing that would have changed the moment or relieved the private sense of hell we all felt.

The crew recovered rapidly, having fought and lost before. For Bryan, it was another story. He’d made a mistake, one we’d learn about later when we reviewed the battle. He had put his strong thumbs on the spool at that last moment in an effort to put just a little more pressure on the fish to get it to the wireman. He could never have known the little extra would cost us all, not only a fish of a lifetime, but a fish of a million life times, a fish only a privileged few would even glimpse, never mind hook and fight.

I returned to the helm and pushed the throttles of the Black Bart up to cruise, pointing the boat toward home. It was late, and it would be dark before we made the harbor at Kailua Kona. The breeze freshened, like it had early in the morning when the day was fresh with promise. Then I laughed out loud, not so loud that it could be heard in the cockpit over the drumming of the big diesels, and smiled. I was remembering the thought that danced through my head, as we had the great fish alongside the boat. One in particular I could literally see in my mind’s eye just before we lost her the image of our pictures being taken alongside the triple grander. The flash bulbs were brightly dancing. The cool Hawaiian night and fresh trade winds calmed me for what was not to be.

EPILOGUE

While you might doubt the size of the marlin recounted in this very true story, I can assure you there are specimens swimming the oceans of the world that far exceed any that have been brought to boat by hook and line. The 1,656 pound Pacific Blue Marlin I caught in 1984 was aged by biologists at 32 years. This was determined by analyzing the annular rings of the otoliths, small bones found in the skull that provide the accurate method of determining age. It is believed that blue marlin can live to be 50 years of age.

As a result of many discussions with biologists who study the great ocean predators, I firmly believe not just age, but genetics plays an important part in determining the potential size of each large female blue marlin. Some are genetically predisposed to grow larger and faster than their sisters. In conclusion, the largest marlin that I have seen caught over the years, mine as well as others, had their stomachs full of deep water sea life. This to me indicates that they probably spend the majority of their senior years feeding deep where clouds of easy prey are abundant. We encountered Tu Tu using a live aku fished down twenty fathoms, probably the upper limits of her deep water foraging habits.

Maybe someday Tu Tu will be caught and smash the all tackle record. She is certainly there for the taking.

Great Fishing, aloha, Capt. Bart Miller.

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The Story of The 1,656

Granders University — Thu, 07 Sep 2023 15:59:13 +0000

By Capt. Bart Miller

I would like to invite you aboard my sleek fishing machine for the catch of a lifetime. Notice the large cockpit and superb tackle. There is none finer. If you need to use of the head, it’s forward on the port side. You’re welcome on the bridge and, if you care to brave the climb, in the tower as well. Come on up.

The charter today is Mr. Rankin Smith, Jr. and his buddy Gary Merriman, both of Atlanta, Ga. Junior’s father, Rankin Smith, Sr., used to fish with me. He was quite the man. He would talk investments, insurance and other forms of high finance with me and I would talk thermoclines, ocean currents and big fish with him. What a pair we were! Rankin owned the Life of Georgia Insurance Company and the Atlanta Falcons football team, and he loved big game fishing. I miss him, as he was one of the characters I’ve met in my life of whom I was most fond. But this day my guest is his offspring, Rankin Jr.

Its 8:00 o’clock in the morning of March 16, 1984 and we’re headed toward Otech Buoy, north of the harbor. We’re cruising at 25 knots and the run takes about one hour. The plan is to catch live aku (skipjack) and put them out for bait, hoping to trade one for a nice ahi or blue marlin. I chat with junior along the way as I did his dad before him. He tells me he just bought a new boat, a 60-foot Hatteras. When I asked him the name of his new lady he smiled and said, “Pocket Change.” It seems the apple does not fall far from the tree. Junior’s friend, Gary, looked a lot like the movie character Indiana Jones. A little later in the day Gary would prove just how much he was like the amazing Mr. Jones.

We approached the buoy and I circled it to check the current and look for aku on the surface. Several local skiff fishermen signaled to let me know it was dead there, so we changed plans. Junior and Gary said, “Do whatever you feel is best, only make sure the end result is a big Marlin.” So I put out a team of lures tuned specifically for big ones and started trolling south. Over the years, lure trolling had become my favorite game. I had designed each lure in the pattern for a specific position. I climbed into the tower to help Dominic, my mate, set them properly on each wake. After tweaking the lures I returned to the flybridge to check the depth recorder. Eleven hundred fathoms was a breeze for this machine and, under the best of conditions, it would pump out 1,500 fathoms. I found some nice current slicks in eight hundred fathoms and I favored this depth for the zone I was working. In recent days, fishing had been deathly slow and the radio was quiet. I scanned the horizon with my Zeiss binoculars looking for birds, dolphin splashes, floating objects, anything that might indicate fish; but there was nothing to see. When conditions are like this, it is wise to buckle down to basics, make yourself comfortable, but always be ready for anything. Make every effort to stay positive, even if the effort seems futile.

The eight hundred fathom curve kept me away from the other boats, but they weren’t catching anything either. Once I got even with the grounds, I chose to work the deep drops in that area; trolling from 500 fathoms to 1,500 fathoms. It was a gray day with a mild chop under light winds. The lures were a pleasure to watch. I was relaxed and time was standing still a survival trick captains learn or their nerves would leap out and bite them.

AN APPARITION APPEARS

It was getting on 2:00 PM and the autopilot was set on a 160 degree course. The depth was 750 fathoms and the gray backdrop magnified the white trail jetting off the back end of each lure. It was a showy, aggressive pattern tailing down sea at eight knots. It was then I saw something the likes of which I had never seen before and have not seen since. She was just there, as if she had magically appeared, moving perpendicular to my pattern and taking aim at the lure in the short rigger position. The great marlin was offering me an incredible view as she literally surfed on her belly toward the lure that displayed no fear at her approach. She looked almost mechanical, more like a fine sculpture in bronze than an actual living creature. She showed so much of herself that I was left in awe. Great fish usually sneak in, attack and disappear and experienced captains know you never get a full side view like this.

My eyes were taking mental photographs as they traced her sideways, up and down. This was the fish I had waited for all my life; the one anglers and captains worldwide would die for. My first guess at her weight was computed in a second at over 1300 pounds. In a flash, I was out of the helm chair, facing aft with both hands on the throttles behind me. I was calm and steady, like a marksman taking aim, ready to squeeze the trigger. I had done all the knee-knocking, heart-pounding crap years before and those days were long behind me. Loud and clear I yelled out, “Right rigger-BIG FISH!” No sooner did the words leave my lips and she was gone. She never touched the lure.

My first thought was, “She’ll be back.” The lures kept pumping in the wake doing exactly what they must to peek the prey drive of a monster like this. I stayed put, hands on the throttles, waiting, believing that she would return. I pondered whether I should turn back or hold course. I held course and the seconds turned into minutes as my eyes strained along with my belief that she would be back for a second shot.

Dominic appeared below me in the cockpit and asked what I was sounding off about. I could not believe that I was the only one who had witnessed this magnificent sight. Junior and Gary popped to attention and asked, “How big?”

“Well over 1000 pounds!” I remarked. “The largest marlin I have ever seen.” Every one settled back as if to say, “Yeah, sure.” They showed little concern over my excitement.

I was pissed and could not understand why the great fish did not attack. I left the grounds and headed further north and out to sea. This set was called the ‘Lighthouse-Cinder Cone’ run, one of the favorites of local captains. I completed the run when the depth recorder indicated we crossed into 1000 fathoms and turned the bow toward Kaiwi Point and the Hilton Hotel. While on this run back in 700 fathoms she appeared again, a full forty minutes after the first showing.

This time I got an even better view of her and I wasn’t alone. Everyone on board saw her clearly and was mesmerized! Was this the same fish? It couldn’t be another one that big! But it really didn’t matter. She was back and on the same lure, posing in the same mechanical manner, only this time coming more from the quarter with greater speed and authority. This time she meant business.

HOOK UP

Gary was ready, as Junior had told him to take the first fish. Once again the marlin faded away, but as before, I believed in my bones she would return. Damn her though, why is she doing this to me? Come back and show yourself. Bite and hookup! That is what you are supposed to do. I held the course for another fifteen minutes and she came back again, this time like a submarine, water pouring off her back, her mighty sword moving from side to side with each undulation of her flanks. She was settled deep in the water, approaching fast and furious from directly behind the very lure she had declined twice before.

My hands were resting on the throttles as I enjoyed a calm I had never known before. Her head rolled to the right, her mouth was open, I saw jaws shut down tight on the lure, I watched as she dove and turned with explosive authority. I pulled the throttles all the way back, shifted into reverse, and with not a second wasted began to back down hard sending the rest of the lures toward the bow and beyond.

I heard Dominic yell, “Hold on, the lures need to be reeled in!” But I wasn’t going to fall for that one. I could have cared less about the other lures with this fish on. Gary was buckled in the fighting chair looking like a light heavyweight prizefighter. The 130 pound line was being dumped off the powerful Zane Grey reel like I had never before seen and the Stump puller rod was arched and doing its damage. All the support systems were ready and I was pushing the Merritt in reverse, water splashing high over the transom, flooding the teak cockpit sole. Two hundred yards of line was gone in a flash and the fish was coming to the surface to show off; exactly what I wanted her to do. I spun the boat on a dime, slamming one transmission into reverse and the other forward, swinging the rudder hard over and then pushing the throttles to sunset. The wheel was turned back to center, both gears were pushed ahead and we were parallel to the fish getting line back on the reel as we paced her. The high capacity bilge pumps were blowing their load, but we were more than holding our own against the brute force of this mighty creature.

KEEP THE PRESSURE ON

Being only men we don’t know the true capabilities of these black and silver acrobats. But I knew this fish was angry and she liked neither the pull of the line on the side of her head nor the proximity of her tormentors. I pressed her even harder because I wanted her up and out of the water in a great jump, filling her air sacks and tiring her great muscles. This was how we would defeat her. We were very close when she decided it was show time. God what a sight as she powered her way through the choppy sea leaving the water for the sky! Her initial slow motion posing changed to a gyration, a blur of vibrating muscles and swatting tail. She reached heights that I had only seen in much smaller billfish. Her fury, grace and speed are indescribable yet as vivid as if the encounter happened yesterday! Her temper flared and she wanted to crush everything in her path. Jump after jump, she kept at it as if there would be no end, while I back down on her even harder, closing the distance. The pressure was getting to Gary, sweating in the chair, but it was obvious he was not going to give an inch.

Six high capacity bilge pumps were set on manual trying to evacuate the seawater from the boat. We had been backing down in hot pursuit and taking on water, when she decided to sound. This is when the fight gets down and dirty. It would become a power game and we had to let her run against the drag, which was set at about 45 pounds, as she dove. I wanted her to slow down, to give in just a little, so that we could get the drag up to 60 pounds. The increased pressure would encourage her to surface again.

If you are ever in such a battle, then you must work hard to redirect a diving blue marlin. You want to keep a big one as close to the surface as possible. Black marlin that dive usually return to the surface quickly, but that is not case with blues. They will dive to incredible depths, dog it, and eventually die there. When this happens you have two very difficult problems: first, how to lift that much dead weight from the depths, and second, the worry of getting shark bit. Your single-minded goal must be to stay as close as possible to a big blue. For every inch she takes, try to get back two. Be decisive and remain resolute. It took me years to learn how to fight big blue marlin and there is just no question about it: if you lose control, your chances of winning go with it.

This great blue lady was now taking us on a journey further out to sea. As she slowed, we were finally able to increase drag to 70 pounds and, for brief moments, even higher. She would respond with extra force as if to say, “You will not tame me, you will never see me die!” This course of action was working, but I realized we needed another man in the cockpit, someone special, a really good wireman. Dominic would be the gaffman, but he just was not up to wiring a fish of this size. I got on the radio and asked for back up and several boats responded.

The No Problem, a 43 foot Merritt, was nearby and volunteered their wireman, Fran. I knew him to be one of the best, so we made the transfer, the two Merritts going bow to bow. We now had a wireman, gaffman, helmsman, and angler the team was complete.

Wasting no time, I pushed the boat closer and closer to the fish. There was no need to turn and chase anymore as the fight had changed from moving offshore to the fish pulling in all directions, including concentric circles, none of which were difficult for the boat to follow. The fight was now like a dance and it was up to me to follow and still keep plenty of pressure on the head of this great fish. Fran was doing an excellent job coaching the angler, telling him just how much drag to use, when to work, when to pause. We kept the heat on the fish and Gary was showing no signs of collapse. I asked him regularly how he was faring and he always smiled and said, “I’m fine, thank you.”

THE END GAME

After two hours of intense give and take the fish was beginning to show signs of tiring. Fran put on his hefty gloves, wet them and began performing shoulder and deep breathing exercises, preparing for the final test. My job required I keep the boat at just the right distance from the fish, doing everything in my power to give an advantage to the wireman. We could see the marlin quite clearly now, her head going away from the stern, her massive body undulating as we backed down and closed the gap. Every time we applied more pressure she would swing from port to starboard and back, repeating this motion over and over, making it difficult for me to place her in a set position for the gaff. She was easily sixteen feet long and snaking from side to side with incredible grace.

The bottoms of my feet were burning from being planted in one spot for so long. My elbows were stiff for the same reason, but this was endured as I maintained total concentration on the fish and the boat. The radio was ablaze with conversation about the battle. The other captains in the fleet were well aware it was drawing to a close by the way the boat was being handled.

Fran was still stretching and breathing hard, looking for all the world like a fighter about to enter the ring for the first round. The time came, and as the fish swam within reach, Fran took a quick aggressive and powerful wrap. Just as quickly the fish shook its mighty head shaking the wireman to his bones, causing him to release. The power of this marlin was enough to rip body parts off if not treated with great care and respect.

Things settle down once again and Fran reached for the leader a second time, but he could not get enough slack to lay a wrap, and I could not get any closer to the fish to assist him. This was the point in the fight that the tension was highest, because this is when the unexpected is most likely to occur, and I was not about to lose this fish.

Fran signaled that she was coming up to jump so I pushed the throttles down and gave her everything we had. Fran grabbed handfuls of wraps and, in a flash, the fish was in reach of the gaffs. It was at that moment I knew everything was going to come together. Dominic reached over the enormous shoulders and placed the first gaff deep in the big fish. Junior placed the second gaff and Fran reached out and placed the third, pinning the huge marlin to the port side of the boat. I came down off the bridge and placed a fourth gaff in the head, tying a half hitch to secure the bill that was as big as a man’s leg.

I quickly thanked everyone on board. Gary, Junior, Fran, Dominic, each did an incredible job as this was the most difficult fish I had ever fought. It took two hours and twenty minutes of intense pressure to subdue her, and getting her into the boat took another twenty minutes. Her tail was seven feet from tip to tip and had to be left outside of the tuna door for the ride home. The radio was crackling with congratulations. I was still in shock as I looked at the massive fish that filled my cockpit. I went to the tower so that I could be alone and get a better look. I could not believe my eyes, knowing this was the largest blue to ever be weighed in Kona. My feelings at the time were uncomfortable. I wasn’t proud of what I had accomplished; yet I wasn’t ashamed, either. I was simply and soulfully sorry that this beautiful creature was no longer alive.

Word spread via the coconut express that my boat would be coming to Kailua Pier to weigh a very big marlin. Never had I seen so many people gathered on the pier or running down the streets. There was a carnival atmosphere in the air. A long rope was placed around the tail of fish, the other end went to the pier attendants who tied it off to a cleat. I then engaged the gears and powered ahead in order to get her massive body out of the boat for weigh in. The weighmaster announced that this great Pacific blue marlin weighed an astonishing 1,656 pounds. At that moment, another captain and personal friend asked me why I wasn’t jumping for joy. I assured him that I was very happy and deeply satisfied, but if he wanted to see me do a jig on the dock then the fish would have to weigh a ton.

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Tuna Samurai

Granders University — Wed, 06 Sep 2023 19:38:21 +0000

By Capt. Bart Miller

The year was 1974 and my new Merritt, Black Bart, had just arrived in Honolulu. We had made it just in time to be dry docked and readied for the first Hawaiian International Allison Yellowfin Tuna Tournament to be held at Pokai Bay. Fifty teams from around the islands had signed up for this tournament. This was a real plus for me as it would allow me to secure a good shakedown cruise, still keeping me in the proximity of excellent marine service in Honolulu if we needed it.

My team, the Japanese team of Miake Island, Japan, qualified for the title ‘International Team’. Team captain, Shigeyuki Tachibana, and his friends would be my anglers and sponsors for this event. Capt. Tachibana, whose name means Wild Orange in Japanese, is the most intense angler and personality I had ever met. Known as Shige by his friends, Tachibana literally considered himself some kind of modern-day Samurai. For him, losing was simply out of the question. He would boldly say, “Losing is not an option.” I liked this kind of attitude, especially in a sponsor and angler like him. He was a fierce warrior of big game fishing. I had always considered myself an intense person, but when placed along side of Shige, I was overshadowed by his defiance and optimism. (Shige said the same of me.)

I had never fished the fertile waters off the Waianae coast of Oahu and was really looking forward to this new challenge. I checked with the top local captains to find where the local tuna hotspots were. Most of the free information came back telling me to fish the 1,000 fathom curve inside the lee of the island, straight out front of Pokai Bay. I was told to just stay in that zone and eventually the ahi would come right to me. I intended to follow this strategy for the five day tournament.

What I did not like about the plan was that most likely all the captains who said that this zone was the hot spot would be fishing that very same area. When fishing tuna and trying to win a tournament, I prefer to find a hot spot just for myself, a place where I am not sharing tuna. This, of course, is easier said than done.

Mr. Tachibana and his interpreter quizzed me the night before the tournament. They checked all tackle, mostly hooks and tuna lures. We had plastic boxes each filled with six lures, hooks and leaders, all ready to fish. Our spare lure program numbered at least sixty lures. We would not be doing any re-rigging along the way, so we made certain that we had more lures, hooks and leaders ready to fish than we would require for the entire week.

The Japanese style was to fish hard, fish well and waste no time; leader and lure would stay with tuna after it was boated. The word ‘serious’ does not adequately describe the method a Japanese angler applies to himself; ‘perfect’, ‘extreme’ or ‘intense’ would be a better descriptive.

A SAMURAI’S PREPARATION

When the morning of the tournament arrived, everyone was doing his and her special thing, whatever that might be. The diesel engines were all humming and ticking; the smell was that of tournament time. This is when a calm washed over me that told me that I was ready. I became a very private person at these times and I did not like to socialize when the start was near. Tachibana liked this in me. This morning he bought deluxe Japanese breakfast for all, and had also purchased Japanese lunches for our team. My crew consisted of brothers Dirk and Bart, and Uki, a Japanese crewmember supplied by Mr. Tachibana.

The competitors and boats were all lined up for the start. I loved the feel of wood and the power of the great diesels. As the words came across the radio to start fishing I eased the throttles ahead bringing the RPM up to thirty knots cruising speed, fully two to three times as fast as most of the other boats in the 1973 Hawaiian fleet. My new Merritt reached the 1,000 fathom curve shortly after the start, ahead of all the other boats. This was my first use of a tuna tower. Small pitches and rolls that were barely felt by men with sea legs when standing on the bridge or in the cockpit were magnified many times at the thirty foot extension of the tuna tower. It’s a mathematical geometric progression that causes the top of those towers to swing pronouncedly to and fro even in fairly calm seas. And I knew that the tower is where I would perch throughout the better part of the tournament.

My skilled crew worked feverishly to set all the lines in tournament fashion. We fished four eighty pound rigs. The lures were all mother of pearl and abalone shell, lead weighted to swim just beneath the surface. The lure size choices were assorted six, seven and nine inch. Our leaders were 300 pound test. We also had leaders of 200 pound test standing by in case the tuna were shy. The hooks were double hook rigs set at 180 degrees. Our hook sizes were assorted 7/0 and 8/0.

The lines were positioned and tournament ready. There was high anticipation aboard by all. Those feelings waned as the fresh morning air turned into the bright light of noon, then later in the day turned into afternoon.

“Stop fishing, stop fishing,” echoed across the radio, transmitting the end of the first day’s tuna fishing. Two ahi were caught this day by the fleet of fifty boats and they were small ones which weighed in at 130 and 137 pounds. Not a good day for most. The weather had been balmy and the seas were flat. These were not good conditions for tuna fishing. Brisk winds and steady currents make for more optimal tuna fishing.

My crew, Dirk and Bart, paced themselves and were waiting for the opportunity that would strip line from our reels and empower our spirits. Disappointing as it was, we did not have a strike or any other opportunity for the next four long days. The seas continued to stay calm; the normal trade winds had vanished, as had the ahi. Tournament competition had given way to parties that lasted late into each night.

Friday was the last day of the tournament. We had endured four long and arduous days, with no birds, no bait, and no fishing clues. I was blistered from the heat and long hours of nothingness. My Japanese team had not given up nor had the crew; all we needed was a good bite and we could still win this tournament. That was all anyone needed. The tournament glory was open to all as the few ahi that had been caught were small, each under 200 pounds. Stop fishing and the end of the tournament was 4 p.m. I looked at my watch as I had so many times that week. The time was 3:15 p.m.

My view from the tower was almost birdlike. It was a place where tuna fishermen live while fishing tuna. I could see each of the four lures swimming just inches below the surface, their pearl shell heads glowing. The entire package fishlike; each lure carving its own path, a temptation that no fish could possibly resist. We were ready, willing and able . . . then it happened. I saw what I had so patiently been waiting for: ahi on the flat lines. I could see they were both going to bite. They were big, fat Allison yellowfin tuna, each one over 200 pounds. Allison tuna are bomb like in shape, with colors of emerald green, black, blue, gold, pearl pink and creamy white, and are painted with the brightest yellow fins in the world. I will never tire viewing these deliciously perfect denizens of the deep. I could taste victory with this hungry vision, and I whistled loudly and yelled out, “Ahi on the flat lines!”

The strikes came almost simultaneously, first one, then the other. There is no mistaking a tuna strike from any other species; the positive downward pull is uncommonly perfect. Yes! Both of our anglers were dealing with screaming reels. The rigger lines were cleared quickly and I was moving my new Merritt in reverse, trying to help the anglers not waste any energy on line that did not need to be dumped. I called in a double ahi hookup to the tournament committee boat. I could almost feel the frustration of the fifty teams in the tournament trying to deal with my good fortune. Our lazy blue days had now turned bright red. We were filled with the thrill of action, and ultimately satisfaction.

Victory was ours to hold high as we raced back to port. Our two ahi flags whipped proudly in the Hawaiian breezes. I looked down from the bridge at the two tuna being washed down and covered with crushed ice. I will never forget the beaming face of Tachibana, the Tuna Warrior. This was what he had come for, a Samurai victory. We shook each other’s hand, we bowed and vowed to meet each other next year to defend our title at Pokai Bay.

THE AHI TOURNAMENT OF 1975

We met often and worked late into the evening to be ready for the 1975 ahi tournament. Our plastic tackle boxes and trays had the finest collection of handmade tuna lures, leaders and hook rigs one could ever imagine. They were all Japanese perfect in every aspect. Such a mother lode of fishing gear I had never seen, not even in my wildest dreams. We were ready to meet the challenge.

Black Bart and I had bonded well and, best of all, I had the same crew with me for this event as the previous year. Several days before the tournament we took the Merritt to Honolulu, then to Pokai Bay via Kona. The trade winds were howling, creating conditions that showed promising signs of a hot tuna tournament.

Tachibana met us at the docks while we were washing the boat down and getting ready for his Japanese team. Although he was a hardnose task commander, he also was a charming sort of Samurai. He knew when to smile, when to furrow his brow, and how to get action from his team members. He invited me to the captains’ meeting, knowing that I would turn him down. He smiled and left.

“See you in the morning, Bart,” followed with a, “don’t worry, you are ready, Captain.”

Most everyone had gone to the hotel for the captains’ meeting and buffet. The harbor was quiet, just the way I liked it. This was a time to meditate and prepare for the next five hard days of competition. There was no turning back now.

I decided to hunt down a meal within walking distance, and soon located a bar and cafe by the name of Mother’s Place. Little did I know that when I went through those doors my whole week of fishing, and my life as I knew it would be altered beyond any imagination I possessed. The place was empty except for three men drinking beer and talking at the bar. They were talking about ahi and their location. But these were not tournament fishermen, these were commercial longline fishermen. I knew this because they looked different and they were talking of tuna caught by the tons.

I seldom drink, but something told me to nestle up to the bar and order a beer. I made conversation with these men. They knew something that I did not, the exact position of the tuna I was about to hunt for the next week. I could not believe it, just three commercial fishermen and me. All of this information was available just a short walking distance from the harbor. My antisocial tournament behavior was about to pay off big time. Of the three men talking, one looked quite a bit different than the other two. He was dressed in finer clothes and had a leadership quality, tone and style that was immediately evident.

I introduced myself to the man doing most of the talking. I told him who I was, where I lived, and told him of the tuna tournament about to start the next morning. He told me that his name was Mr. De Silva, and he said he owned some longline boats. He said that he flies his private plane and spots tuna for his commercial fleet and spoke of large schools of ahi forming on the windward side not too very far offshore. He also said that he had not seen tuna fishing this good in years. I promptly bought my new friends several rounds of beers. We talked of fishing, his style and mine, and he offered to lead me to the tuna if I ventured into his area while he was spotting. “You will see us, my boats are colored blue and I will be flying near to them,” he said.

The zone he was talking about was at least 40 miles from the Pokai Bay start line, and was most assuredly not in the lee of the island. Quite the contrary, it was directly facing and into the trade winds. I asked De Silva what the weather had been like.

“Good tuna weather,” he proclaimed, “but not good if you are a man in a boat.” He shrugged his shoulders and added, “When you get into the tuna, you will see many frigate birds gathering. I will be like one of them, flying, excited, and hungry. When I see you and your Merritt, I’ll buzz you and then circle over the good areas, the places where the ahi are feeding. You’ll have lots of fun and win the tournament.”

We had a good time talking but I was nervous with anticipation. What I had just learned, if it were true, and there was no reason to believe it wasn’t, would set me apart from the rest of the fleet, and at worse give me a great head start. I went back to my boat with every fiber in me turned on and ready to go ahi fishing. Sleep came by with much difficulty that anxious night before the tournament; my crew slept better, not knowing what I had discovered in the bar that evening.

Tachibana showed up early as expected with Japanese breakfast and lunch. I could read in his face that he knew I knew something. Since his English was less than desirable and my plan was based around drinking in a bar with three guys I had never met before, I figured I best keep my mouth shut and just go for it.

Start fishing began at 8 a.m. I was curious how many boats would head for the north shore, as I had planned to. There was a definite lee side, and then there was the north shore. I made the turn at Kaiena Point and headed straight into the massive and unforgiving seas. The winds were 30 knots and gusting, small craft warnings were posted and the seas were ranging from 6 to 15 feet. I looked back and saw that no boats were following. Lucky me, I had these killer seas all to myself.

I had to get into the tower because I could not see anything for the wind and spray which was exploding just beneath the foot stand in the tower. My crew knew to batten down all hatches, and secure all items that otherwise would be tossed around. They also knew that this day would be no picnic.

I turned Black Bart around down seas just long enough to climb into the tower. The lesson I had learned the previous year about the violent gyrations, the thrust and torque the tower would make, became clear to me immediately upon my arrival to its uppermost point. What I experienced in the tower was a rude awakening, at first I was being tossed and slammed around like a raggedy Anne doll. My aluminum stilts that perched me high above the sea now seemed less alluring and more life threatening until I jury rigged a harness that worked like a safety belt of sorts, aiding me in staying on board all the while the wild sea was trying to throw me off like a bucking bull sheds his rider at a rodeo. There was no mystery. I knew I was coming apart at the seams, the physical destruction and constant abuse was just part of the big game I must endure, regardless of the consequences, discomfort, pain, or other orthopedic failures being tested to the fullest. The sea has many faces not all of them peaceful, playful, or fun. To know the sea is to respect her all the while you love her and your reward is a good ride from time to time.

“Mind-over-matter, Mind-over-matter,” is the thought that permeated my brain. And then it all became so clear. We had a tournament to win, a title to defend. Now the pain had become secondary, there were bigger matters to deal with. My mind had gone to an ‘other worldly’ place, but it had not abandoned me completely. I risked boat, life, and limb, for this obsessive-compulsive act of competition. I have never experienced anything since or before quite like it. The crew later revealed that they had serious concerns as to my sanity. They also said that Mr. Tachibana and his guests feared for their lives, and were quite ill.

As for me, I just prayed to reach through and past one wave at a time. Often I thought of quitting. It was just too much to endure, trying to get to the zone where De Silva said he would be. We were 40 miles plus when I saw my first glimpse of the long winged high flying frigate birds. With this sight all of my pain and anguish just seemed to vanish. I could now see what appeared to be two boats. I was getting closer to them, when out of nowhere I heard the roar of an airplane. De Silva was buzzing me as he said he would. He came so low and close that I could see him giving me thumbs up; he was waving and pointing for me to follow. My crew looked up and smiled. I heard Dirk say, “Nice one, Captain!”

Immediately Dirk and Bart went to work preparing tackle to begin our day of ahi fishing. De Silva was circling a spot near to where we were. Once there we put out the first lures. Before we could get them in the rigger both lines were solidly bit. We had been trolling less than a minute and already had a double hook up of large 200 pound plus ahi. The ahi were soon boated and placed in my brine box tuna coffin. Tachibana quit complaining and pointed the way to the airplane circling a spot off our portside. This was it; we were thick into the schooling ahi. The real challenge was my daily battle dealing with Mother Nature who was showing us no mercy; catching the ahi was merely a byproduct of the extreme difficulty we had to endure.

The fishing was great, the boating aspect pure hell. At the end of the first day my crew was beaten and exhausted. We were ahead in the point standing, but at what cost to the boat and crew? They said I looked different when I climbed down from the tower. I was not the man who had climbed up there only ten hours earlier. And to this day I admit that the man standing on the deck of Black Bart never was the same. I had no strength left to help haul our tunas ashore or to help clean the boat and prepare it for the next day of competition. It took all the strength I had left just to climb up onto the dock and feel solid ground. It was only when I stood on that dock looking back into Black Bart that sanity returned to me. The pain in my ribs returned, as did my sanity. Whoever that man was who stood in the tower that day, it was not the same man who was now standing on the pier. While I remained business like and professional in my approach to preparations for the following day’s tournament quest, I was more like myself, and not the driven maniac who had inhabited the tower this day. I received some strange looks from Tachibana and the crew. They looked at me like they no longer knew me. But Tachibana would admit that he liked that character who was up there being tossed around in the tower. That lunatic was going to win him the tournament and, to him, that was all that really mattered.

An inspection of my side revealed a horrific purple bruise to my rib cage. The pain remained with me; breathing was very difficult. (Later x-rays would reveal that one rib was fractured, several others were badly bruised).

There was dread on board Black Bart as the plan to return to the previous day’s spot was made known. Tachibana knew and agreed, if we were to win this tournament, and there was never a doubt that we had the passion for this quest, then we had to go where the tuna were. And the tuna were not in the lee of the island, they were in the teeth of the maelstrom. Get ready men, we’re going back!

I cinched my ribs up using duct tape. It was still very painful to touch that area and, aside from the fact that we might capsize and lose the boat and our lives, our next most serious concern was that I might be too incapacitated to perform in the tower. I prepared myself mentally for the challenge. There was no way I was going to give up.

Immediately upon stepping onto the deck of the Merritt, my mind took me to that place where it had gone the previous day. I was possessed, nearly insane, with the obsession to complete this job and to win this tournament. We would make it back out to the tuna grounds and we would fish all day, or we would die trying. Either result was perfectly all right with me.

The second day of fishing was a mirror of the first. Tachibana sent his Japanese crew but chose not to accompany us. However, the longline boats and spotter plane were there each day with us as we struggled out to the same spot. The crew got sick, and my ribs were killing me from being tossed about. I kept telling myself, “It’s mind over matter. I can do this.” The boating conditions were awful again, but as bad as that was, the fishing was that much better. We caught tuna, nice, big, fat 200 pounders, morning, noon and afternoon. By the time we got the word to stop fishing, we were loaded up. This day I allowed the crew to drive us home in the following sea. I stayed below and rested my weary body and aching side, but I maintained my mental rigidity throughout it all. And then, when we were safely parked in our slip, I stepped ashore and again, as it had the day before, my sanity returned. My crew was looking at me in a most peculiar way. I think I scared them.

Days three and four were no different than days one and two. We fought heavy winds and seas each of these days and I continued to be slammed around in my rudimentary harness at the top of the tower. My crew was exhausted from four days of punishing conditions. I was beyond that, but I would never give in. I just wasn’t built that way. I would pay the price, then finish the job. Making decisions like these is easy when you are doing what you believe in and love. And we continued to catch those furious, fiery bombs, and we continued to pull ahead in the point standings.

These conditions continued to exist for the entire tournament. On the fifth day Tachibana took his place in the cockpit and all boats lined up and followed me to the north shore. Only six of the fleet of one hundred managed the feat successfully. I had a one hour head start on the other boats and that was just enough time to catch three good size ahi. We caught three more after the other boats arrived. There was no need to continue fishing. My crew took over allowing me to rest on the downhill ride home. Sleep and peace of mind came easily. Our swords were back in their sheaths. Our Samurai victory was complete.

This was then, and still is now, the greatest victory of my career. One hundred boats competed in this 1975 Hawaiian International Allison Yellow Fin Tuna competition. I won this tournament by a separation of over 2000 points between first and second place. But the victory was much more than prize money and a trophy. This was not merely the competition of Black Bart and its crew against the 100 to one odds competition of the fleet. This was a defining moment in the building of my character. This was a point from which I could never return. A new man, a bigger, tougher and wiser man climbed down from that tower on the last day of the Pokai Bay Tournament of 1975.

Each of the six man team received traditional fresh Plumeria flower leis. Each team member was smiling for the cameras while catching and kissing their trophies. A winning celebration is always blessed as a memorable occasion. This victory win meant the most to me simply because of the tests and challenges I had to meet along the way from day one to day end. It is now thirty years later and my winning record score of 2975 points for that tuna tournament has never been equaled.

My fresh Plumeria lei has long since faded into dust. My beautiful tuna trophy has been misplaced or lost. All that is left for me is this story that I am now relating lest I forget, I should include that special place, eyes shut, time standing still, wind-swept blue water, vivid memory of youth passionately in love with life at its very best.

Aloha, Captain Bart Miller

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