Fouled on the Mahi

Jale looks to see if my dorado is still on. Photo by Marguarite Clark.

“Here’s the deal,” I tell Marguarite and Katie, neither of whom has done any game fishing, “if one of us hooks up, the other two need to reel their lines in so they don’t foul the line of whoever has a fish.”

We are out on the Mahi with Jale (pronounced CHAR-lay). Obviously Grahame does not think that I and the two girls are serious fishermen (women). Jack, who has been out almost every day fishing on the Mahi, always has two crew members: the captain and a crew member to handle the bait and fishing tackle. And there’s just Andrew. Fishing alone.

Here we have three very serious fishermen (women) and they’ve just given us only Jale. Who must get us out to the fishing grounds (a coral reef not far from the sand quay we visited earlier), rig our three poles, bait them, steer the boat, adjust the tension on our lines, change jigs, and gaff the massive tuna and dorado we’re about to catch.

Obviously Grahame, the tuna god of Suva, thinks we’re just amateurs out for a bit of sun so an extra crew member isn’t needed. We’ll show him.

“Why does my line keep going out?” Katie says to me.

“Adjust your drag,” I tell her.

“What’s that?”

Jale let’s go the wheel, looking nervously around as the Mahi guides itself over the shallow corral reef, grabs Katie’s rod out of her hands and quickly adjusts the drag.

Marguarite sticks her pole under her arm and roots around in a cooler for something to drink. Jale tells her to watch her line. She looks up, looks at her line, looks at Jale. “Do what?”

Jale runs back down to the stern and takes Marguarite’s pole and moves her over to the side so her line isn’t right on top of mine. Then, looking like he’s about to have a heart attack, he dashes back to the wheel. With no one steering, the Mahi circles in on itself and closer to the reef on our right.

“Hook up!” I yell. My pole is bent in half.

“Wow, you’ve got something!” says Katie.

“Dorado,” says Ben. “Big one. Put on the belt.”

“What belt?”

Jale lets go of the wheel again and rummages around the wheelhouse until he finds a wide belt with a hole in the middle where I’m supposed to stick the end of my pole. He tells me to put it on. But the dorado is pulling so hard that it’s impossible for me to hold the pole with one hand and wrap the belt around me at the same time. Marguarite tries to help. She slips the belt around me and tightens it around my chest.

“It’s got to go around my waist,” I tell her. Katie tries to help her. Both are still holding on to their poles. Katie uses one hand to try and cinch the belt. Marguarite uses one hand to try and hold the buckle in position. I’m trying to reel in but the drag is too loose and the dorado spools the line at will.

Jale abandons the wheel again and tries to help. He is shouting directions at all of us. “Reel in! Adjust the drag! Don’t foul his line! Put on the belt! Reel in, reel in, reel in!”

Two things are readily apparent to all of us: This is a very large fish. And it is fouled on Katie’s line.

The dorado, with Katie’s line wrapped around it, is four or five feet away from the side of the boat. Jale is looking around for the gaff. The boat, pilotless, is moving in a slow circle. Marguarite is scrambling around looking for my camera. Katie is belatedly trying to reel her line in.

The dorado, a rainbow of colors, turns his head sideways, looks me right in the eye, and then throws the hook. He is gone in a flash.

“That was a big fish,” says Jale. Silence, silence, silence. “Next time.”

Katie looks at me and grimaces, mouthing the word “Sorry.” Marguarite stands there holding the camera. I put down my pole and grab a Fiji beer out of the cooler.

Maybe Grahame was right.