The Wanton Hussy and the Sea: Part III

I am lacking serious motivation to write this blog, probably due to the length of the last one, but will press on, for my fans that is...

0600 Hours. Sunday, September 24th. I am awaken to my dad shaking me. "All the die hard fishermen are already up and ready. So you can either keep sleeping or you can come up." Umm, I'm up. I search for my fresh clothes, tooth brush and contacts in the dark and climb the narrow steps to the deck. It is dusky outside as I beat the sun to the day. I hesitate to get ready knowing that the sun is about to rise. I then realize that I have never seen the sun rise. Sure I have been the pool hundreds of times when the sun broke over the Saddleback mountains between 5:30 and 6:30 a.m. But I have never seen the sun rise over the horizon. I am in awe at the sight. There is something so different from a sun rise than a sun set. I have seen the sun set hundreds of time, signifying the end of a day and winding down of conversation. Seeing the sun rise was quite a sight for a die hard West Coast beach bum.

0700 Hours. I actually make it to breakfast and enjoy the carb loaded breakfast burritos. The other members of the ship are not as eager to awake and begin their day as they were the day prior. Fishing is virtually non-existent all morning. A Skip Jack is caught on troll.

1200 Hours. After lunch, there is still only one fish that has been snagged. Each day we had a jack pot going in which the person who caught the heaviest fish would receive $170. We attempt to fish a school of Dorado. One of my bosses, running joke is that everyone at work is my boss, oversees me getting my bait hooked by an over zealous deckhand. "That doesn't count for the jackpot!" He jokingly barks. "You have to bait your own hook for it to count!" "Alright." I defensively respond while jerking the sardine off my hook. "I'll play by your rules." I tend to be extremely competitive, in almost everything. I hate to lose. But am surprisingly very good at admitting when I am wrong.

I was the next person to catch a fish after the Skip Jack. I caught a Dorado. My Dorado. The one that got away the day before. I caught it exactly how I wanted to catch it. Off bait I put on myself, from a rod I cast myself, and on a line I reeled myself. My life is complete. I can now die a Happy Hussy.

1400 Hours. The seas grow restless. The wind picks up and the waves begin a series of ebbs and flows. This was the trip I had envisioned. Fighting the ocean, realizing the trivial size of our boat in comparison to the overwhelming greatness of the Pacific. Not bobbing along in what appeared to be the "Pacific Lake." In order to maintain upright you had to lean completely over the rail pratically touching the water and lean completely back almost at a 45 degree angle to the deck. This was accomplished at the same time we were systematically baiting hooks, casting, "under," "over." The boat is a living, breathing entity. We are in sync with each other and our fish. The boat is like an instrument humming along, never missing a note or a beat. If we mess up, we trudge forward, determined to perform better. Our hands work separate from our feet and legs, but our syncopated nonetheless. The boat resembles ants on a floating piece of bark in a stream. We are all working towards the same cause, never stopping to think that danger is constantly imminent.

1700 Hours. We are done fishing and must hurry back to San Diego. People scatter to the salon and the cabins below to catch a few winks before we arrive.

2000 Hours. Land is in sight. We collect our belongings, tip the deck hands, express our gratitude to those who made the weekend possible and create small talk, while secretly really wanting to get home and step into that coveted shower.

2100 Hours. We get off the boat, collect our nicely filleted fish and load into our cars. Next stop, shower and bed.

2300 Hours. My dad and I finally arrive back at his house. I find my mom on the couch and recap the most exciting events of the weekend. She is unenthusiastic. Women... can't live with 'em... can't live with 'em. I head upstairs to my old bedroom and begin my very long, very hot, very clean shower. I finish and have never smelled so clean in my life. I lay down to sleep and can feel the boat rocking, wishing that I was still there and that tomorrow I could wake up and do it all over again. I count my blessings and drift off, left to my dreams of future adventure, romance and happiness.