RED SKY MORNING
Andrew J Rafkin
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2008 Andrew J. Rafkin
All Rights Reserved.
V3.0
Cover Photo By Andrew J Rafkin
License Notes: This book may not be reproduced, transmitted, or stored in whole or in part by any means, including graphic, electronic, or mechanical without the express written consent of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
The opinions expressed in this manuscript are solely the opinions of the author and do not represent the opinions or thoughts of the publisher. The author represents and warrants that s/he either owns or has the legal right to publish all material in this book.
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Preface
I’m sixty one years old, president and owner of Palos Verdes Security for over thirty years.
My wife and I live in a seventy-eight year old house on the bluff overlooking Angel’s Gate lighthouse, entry to the Port of Los Angeles.
I love the ocean, and go sport fishing as much as I can. In the near future, I plan to retire, and build a fifty-eight-foot catamaran sportfisher, which has been a life-long dream.
I have a great wine cellar and carry on the family tradition of making wine like the Croatian and Italian fisherman of the past.
I wrote most of this non-fiction true-life adventure at my office. I read excerpts of the story to my manager to see if she liked it. Carri said she did, and found the story to be similar to one told by her grandfather, who was a commercial fisherman and almost lost his life in a storm. Upon further discussion, it became apparent that her grandfather, Ike Ventimiglia, was on the Diana, and that we had pulled him out of the net, and I resuscitated him. It truly is a small world.
Ike just passed away. He was in his eighties and lived near Redding, California. Thinking about Ike inspired me to work harder to complete Red Sky Morning.
Strangely, I’ve somehow come full circle from my past to the present. In the early morning while having a cup of coffee, I watch boats like the Diana making sets for fish off of Cabrillo Point.
The San Pedro fishing fleet has dwindled down to a dozen boats or so. The fisherman of the past made a good living, but today they can barely make it. Most of the fish are gone, and in the recent years, squid - better known as calamari - have become popular. If it wasn’t for the local squid fishing, I don’t think the local fisherman could survive.
Forty-four years ago, when this “true-life-adventure” began I was fishing on the Western Ace. My dad, the captain, pointed to these huge Russian trawlers that were dragging the bottom indiscriminately, catching every living creature that would go into the net. Dad said that type of fishing method would wipe out the cod fishing industry on the East Coast. His prediction came true. Indiscriminate fishing methods like that, along with long lining and gill netting, are now being restricted or banned.
Today we face a lot of challenges. Our world has become a lot smaller. Countries throughout the world are forming alliances to address these problems and are also starting to be more aggressive about over-fishing and the polluting of our oceans.
The oceans are our life source! We have the technology to change the course we’re on. It will require a worldwide effort to protect and preserve our biggest asset, our oceans.
I’m going to fulfill my dream, and build that boat. I hope that my friends and I will continue to enjoy the sport of fishing. I also hope that our families, and especially my grandsons, will have the opportunity to enjoy the ocean and fishing as much as I do.
I developed a tremendous respect for the ocean, the weather, and the men who ventured into this life. It was rough and dangerous work, and being exposed to the weather and the sun made a man appear older than his age. They chose this way of life, though, and I saw it in their eyes - a fisherman’s eyes - always searching, with gleam of optimism, determination, and a few more wrinkles than normal
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Chapter 1
I felt the warmth of the morning sun on my face. A new day, Saturday, perfect for a round of golf. The sunrise was exceptional. Huge thunderheads rolled across the horizon creating a fantastic backdrop, the sun’s rays reflecting a panoply of color across the sky. The mid-September weather patterns typified the time of year.
Seasonal storms off the Southern Pacific coast of Mexico generated the unstable weather.
Across the border, they called the storms chubascos, that blew the thunderheads through the southern deserts of California and into Arizona. The locals there called it monsoon season, complaining about the humidity.
I was sitting on my patio, having a cup of coffee and enjoying the view, when my wife, Lynn, came out.
“Good morning honey. Want some breakfast?”
“Thanks, but I’m going to have breakfast at the club. So, what are you going to do today?”
“Oh, Diane and I are going shopping at the South Coast Plaza. Then we’ll find a nice place to have lunch, so you better plan to eat at the club when you finish your round. When’s your starting time?”
“Around nine.”
“Well, you better get going if you plan to have breakfast.”
“Yeah, you’re right. See you later, honey”.
I gave my better half a kiss went to the garage, jumped into my golf cart, and zipped over to the clubhouse.
As I pulled up to the practice area, a friend, Bob Clark, yelled out, “Hey, Andy, the albacore are biting. Let’s go fishing.”
“Sounds good to me. You want to charter the Patriot?”
“Sounds like a plan. I’ll make the arrangements after our round.”
Later that evening, the phone rang. Bob said, “It’s all set up. I talked to Greg (captain of the Patriot) and booked a two-day trip, a week from Monday. Okay with you?”
“It’s good with me. You talk to anybody else?”
“Yeah, looks like Ed Cuff, Terry Small, and Bill Hasvold can go. You have anybody else in mind”?
“Yeah, I’ll call my cousin, Joe Zitko, and my nephew, John Wright; they’re good fisherman and a lot of fun. I’ll also call a good friend of mine, John Chuka, who I’m sure would love to go. That would bring it to eight good fishermen”
Both John and Joey called back to confirm. The plan was for all four of us to meet at my house in San Pedro, Monday afternoon, and take my Land Rover to H&M Landing, in San Diego. The rest of our party was driving from our country club in Murrieta. We planned to rendezvous at a restaurant near the landing for cocktails and dinner, then get aboard the Patriot.
By two o’clock, we were all at my house. We decided to take two cars, because we had so much gear. We loaded up my SUV and John’s truck and took off, hoping to miss the rush-hour traffic. We got lucky. It took about three hours to get to the landing, which was full of action. Albacore fever was rampant.
Albacore are not only considered one of the best tasting fish, but a great fighter, challenging any angler. When the word got out that the albacore were biting, the landing reservation phones rang off the hook, and whatever boats had not been previously chartered, would soon be booked. When we arrived, all the parking lots were full. There were people all over the place. Some were arriving and anxious to board their boats and go fishing. Others were getting off the boats, finishing their single to multi-day trips, fishing both U.S. and Mexican waters.
First thing, get a parking spot! The place was like a circus with fisherman and looky-loos running around, and cars jockeying for a parking spot. If we were lucky, a boat or two might drop off there passengers, who would eventually find their cars. If not, it could take over an hour to park. We got lucky. Two cars pulled out, and we slid right in.
Joey asked me, “When are we meeting for dinner?”
“At six. We’ve got twenty minutes; let’s go check out the action.”
We left our gear locked up in my Land Rover and headed for the dock. The aroma of smoked tuna filled the air. The dock was like a beehive of people, with four boats pulling in and their fisherman milling around the dock. When their trip started, each angler received a number, and any fish he caught was immediately tagged for identification at the end of the trip.
The crews loaded carts full of fish and pushed them up to the dock. Each boat had its own staging area, where the passages circled and waited for the crew to call out their numbers.
There was total chaos. The crew members yelled out numbers, the fisherman claimed their fish and dragged them into piles. There were booths set up around the staging area with vendors selling handpacked, canned, or smoked albacore, and trying to convince the fishermen to trade their fresh tuna for the cans or smoked fish. I felt either way the fisherman got the worst part of the deal, but if they preferred smoked, or canned fish, instead of fresh, who was I to criticize.
We walked around and took in the action. Joey said, “Hey, Chuka, looks like the fishing couldn’t be better.”
“Man, I’m glad I could make it. I almost had to cancel because of a real estate deal. You know, I didn’t have time to change my line. It’s only a couple of years old, so it should be OK, don’t you think?”
“Are you kidding? I changed my line, just for this trip. Wouldn’t you get pissed if your line broke every time you hooked a big fish?”
“I guess I better get some new line.”
“John and I filled our reels on Wednesday at the Rusty Hook. I think you need to pay a visit to the tackle store.”
We wandered over to the H&M Landing store where John bought the line he needed, and the rest of us were able to find something new to add to our tackle boxes.
We got to the restaurant about 6:00 P.M. The rest of the group was waiting for us at the bar. We had just ordered a drink when the hostess informed us that our table was ready. Dinner was fantastic, we all drank too much and had a great time. We were all pumped up to go fishing, and then the stories started: How I lost the big one.
“Joey, remember when we were at the East Cape and caught seven marlin in two hours?”
“How about that time when the four of us caught 290 albacore in one day!” said Bob.
“Yeah, sure, take off the zero, and I might believe you,” said Bill.
“Hey, Bob, did you get a scar where Bill hooked you in the ass?”
Everybody was laughing, then they started the heckling. “Ah, come on and show us,” yelled Ed.
To our surprise, Bob stood up and browned us all.
That really started things going. Known for his quick wit, Joey jumped in with one of his classic jokes:
“One day, this parish priest, decided to go fishing at the local lake. He got to the marina early in the morning and rented a row boat, loaded up his gear, and rowed out onto the lake. It wasn’t long before he caught a fish. He thanked God, took out the hook, and put the fish in a bucket. When he bent over he saw that there was some water in the bottom of the boat. He didn’t remember seeing any water before he left the dock, but he wasn’t sure.
“He hooked another fish and was reeling it in when another boat with fisherman came by. They congratulated him and noticed a lot of water in the bottom of the priest’s boat. One of the fishermen said, ‘It looks like you might have a leak,’ and offered assistance. The priest responded, ‘it’s ok. God will keep me safe. Bless you, and good luck.’
“Fishing was red hot, and within the next hour the priest caught five more fish. Another boatload of anglers came by, and one of them asked the priest what kind of bait he was using, then noticed that the priest’s boat was around half full of water and again offered him assistance. The priest thanked him but again said, ‘God is with me and will take care of his disciples.’
“About fifteen minutes later, a helicopter flew over the lake and hovered over the priest. The pilot called down and offered assistance. The priest’s response was the same.
Later the priest decided to call it a day and started rowing back to the marina, but he didn’t get very far before his boat sank and he drowned.
“Now, the priest was in front of St. Peter demanding to speak to God. In front of God, he asked, ‘Why have you done this to me? I have been loyal to you, celibate, and have preached your message. Why have you forsaken me?’
“God shook his head, ‘What more do you want from me? I sent you two boats and a helicopter!’
Most of the people in the restaurant were cracking up and asking for more. Joey obliged them.
“Down in Louisiana, at Lake Onoke, Ruby and Pearly May, were out fishing for catfish. Pearly May screamed, ‘yee, I got another one!’
“Ruby looked at her in disgust, ‘Pearly May, we go fishing together all the time, and you seem to always catch more fish than me. What’s your secret?’
‘Well, Ruby, when I get up in the morning to go fishing, I lift up the covers and take look at Rufus’s tool When it’s laying on the right side, I fish there, and when it’s laying on the left, I fish on that side.’
‘Well, tell me, Pearly May, what do you do when it’s standin’ straight up?’
‘Hell, Ruby, I don’t go fishing that day.’
We were cracking up when Bob announced that it was 9:30 and time to get on the boat.
We got back to our vehicles, picked up our gear, and headed for the dock. We were going down the ramp, and we could see the Patriot at its mooring. Greg and his crew were busy getting ready. Greg spotted us and said, “You picked a great time to go. We slaughtered em today.”
I asked Greg, “How far out were they fishing?”
“About a six-to-seven hour run, and it’s a little rough out there”
The Patriot was sixty-five feet long, looked more like a yacht than a conventional sportfishing boat, and had a flat deck from bow to stern. It had a large cockpit in the stern, and was big enough to house a large bait tank and eight to ten fishermen. The cockpit connected to the galley area and forward towards the bow were the sleeping quarters. Below the galley’s deck was the engine room, housing two big V8 Cummings diesel engines and a generator. She cruised at twelve knots, with a top speed of around eighteen.
The crew of the Patriot consisted of the captain, Greg Tasaro and the two deck hands, Dave and Steve. Dave was also an outstanding chef and would be doing the cooking on this trip. Bob and I had been out with this group before, and we knew we were in good hands.
Greg started the engines, and the deck hands let the lines go. Greg backed the Patriot out of its mooring steered into the harbor. Next stop was the bait receivers, where we would load up enough live bait to last for two days. It took about ten minutes to get to the receivers.
Greg pulled the Patriot next to the bait receivers, and Dave and Steve secured the lines. Greg jumped over to the receiver, which is basically a barge with flotation tanks on the outside, leaving the majority of the center open to the water. The openings have fishing net attached to the sides and bottom. The pen hangs down about ten to fifteen feet, which provides a storage area for the live bait, which is delivered to the receiver by a commercial fishing boat.
The bait looked great with huge anchovies and small sardines in the receivers. Dave picked up a large scoop net attached to a long pole. He scooped from the receiver and passed it over to Steve, who dumped the bait into the Patriot’s bait tanks. The bait was lively and perfect in size.
Greg fired up the big diesel engines, and the crew untied the lines, then started scrubbing down the deck by the bait tanks.
The captain pushed the throttles forward, starting our run out to the fishing grounds. Albacore migrate up the coast, requiring one or two day trips out of San Diego to locate them. The prized fish shows up in Mexican waters around June, with the bulk of fish moving into the area in August and September. By October, albacore are being caught near Morro Bay and continue moving out into the Pacific.
The fishing areas will change due to ocean currents, water quality, temperature, and the quantity of bait for them to feed on. Albacore can move from an area over-night, so the skippers stay in constant radio contact.
The skipper wasn’t lying when he said the ocean was pretty rough. When we got outside the harbor, the boat was rockin’ and rollin’. We were all trying to get some sleep, but it was so rough that it was difficult to stay in the bunk. I thought the fishing better be damn good, because the weather sucked. By daybreak, I hoped the ocean would calm down at least enough to stand up and start fishing.
Each of us had brought four to six fishing rods and reels, and lots of fishing tackle. The following is a description of the gear we brought on board. One large trolling rig, consisting of a short, heavy-duty rod with roller guides and a large, quality reel like a Penn International two- speed loaded with fifty-to-eighty pound test monofilament line. On this rig, we tied on a feather jig with a hundred and twenty-pound test leader. The jigs varied in design and color, and we would know in a short time which ones worked the best. The other rods and reels varied in size, based on the weight of the monofilment line. The lightest rig would have fifteen-to-twenty pound test line on its reel. The next, thirty-pound, then forty then fifty. We tied a hook onto each line, so they would be ready to use when we got into some fish.
It was 5:30 in the morning, and I was the first to get on deck. The sun was beginning to peek over the horizon, its rays reflected against the clouds, turning the sky into a fiery red glow. Dave came out of the galley and handed me a cup of coffee.
“Thanks, what a beautiful sunrise.”
“That it is; but it could mean a storm is coming. You’ve heard the old saying, ‘Red sky at night, sailor’s delight; Red sky morning, sailor’s warning’.”
“Yeah, but that’s not always true.”
“Well, the weather’s pretty shitty, so don’t be surprised if it doesn’t get worse.”
The captain yelled down from the bridge, “Time to start trolling. Dave, would you bring me up a cup of coffee.”
Most of the guys were now on deck, getting their gear set up.
“It’s really shitty out there. I hope it calms down a little, or we’re going to be in for a long day,” said Terry.
I thought of what Dave had said earlier, and hoped that his prediction was wrong.
The Patriot had four rod holders, equally spaced across the stern. This meant that there was only room for four of us to troll at one time. We drew cards to pick the order of our turn. The Patriot’s cruising speed was around fourteen knots. Trolling speed is around seven to eight knots, and Greg started to slow down, then yelled, “Let ‘em go.”
The first group included Joey, Ed, Bob and my nephew John. They all started to let their line out behind the boat. The best way to troll is to have the outside rigs set their jigs farther out than the center ones. Each jig was set at a different length from thirty to a hundred feet behind the boat. By staggering the jigs, there was less chance of getting tangled, and it was the optimum method to catch fish.
I could feel the excitement on the boat. We were always on watch for a fish to strike, and we would also scan the ocean for circling birds, kelp patties, and porpoise, all of which could have a school of fish beneath them.
When a fish struck, the line would peel off the reel, and we would yell, “HOOKUP!” A lot of things happened at once. The skipper would bring the boat to a stop as fast as he could, and we would grab the rigs that had no fish on, and reel in the empty lines. This would leave the one lucky guy fighting one of the prized game fish in the ocean.
While all this was going on, the deck hand would scoop out some bait and through it over the side in hope of attracting the school of fish to the boat. We would stow the trolling gear, grab one of the bait rigs, hook up a sardine, and cast it into the chum line. Nothing is more exciting than to see a school of albacore charging the boat, gobbling up the entire chum line.
If we’re lucky, everyone gets hooked up, and then it’s mad chaos. The fish pull in different directions, and everyone has to be alert or get tangled up. You might hear, “Over you, or under you,” and with an experienced group like ours,, this was all second nature, and we rarely had any problems. The next thing you’d hear is one of us calling for a gaff, (a long pole with a big hook fixed to one end). The deck hand would grab one, reach over the side, snag the fish, and pull it on board.
About fifteen minutes went by, and Ed screamed, “Hookup!” We all went through the drill, had the live bait in the water as fast as we could, but no takers. Ed fought his fish and reeled it up to the stern where Steve gaffed it, and it was flopping all over the deck. First blood, a nice albacore over thirty pounds. This really got us excited, and Greg got the boat to trolling speed. We were on our way.
In the first two hours, we only had jig strikes, which are better then nothing, but we were still hoping to attract a school to the boat, so we could catch more fish. We were all on the stern talking it up.
Bob was saying that you never know what type of fish or size you might catch when you’re trolling.
“You could hook up a big-eye tuna, that could weigh 150 pounds or more, or we might get into some bluefin. Greg said they’d caught a few a couple of days ago, and they averaged thirty to fifty pounds.”
A second later, I saw the portside rod double over. “Hook up!”
It was Bob’s turn. He grabbed his rod, and we started reeling in the empty lines. I took two turns on the reel, and I hooked up. It caught me by surprise, and the fish damn near pulled the rod out of my hands. About two seconds later, John also hooked up. There were fish everywhere. By the time we reeled in the jig fish, everyone else had hooked up.
Steve was keeping a steady chum line going, throwing anchovies off the rear starboard corner. All we had to do is cast our bait into the chum line, and a fish would grab it.
Dave and Greg were gaffing the fish as soon as we got them to the surface and next to the boat. Sometimes, the hook was too hard to get out, so we cut the line (this was the time that having extra bait rigs came in handy), stow that rod, and grab another. The fishing was great, but it could stop just as fast as it started. There was fish and blood all over the deck. Everybody was yelling and whooping. This is what fishing’s all about. Then it happened; the bite came to a screeching halt.
“Well, it’s time to start trolling again,” said Greg, moving up to the bridge. He put the Patriot in gear, and we were on our way. Steve was stowing the fish in a netted area on the stern’s swim step, and Dave was washing down the deck. Steve yelled out, “We got twenty-seven fish on that stop, and six jig fish earlier, for a total of thirty-three albacore, and it’s only eight o’clock in the morning.”
“It doesn’t get much better that this,” said Bill. All of us agreed.
The trolling rigs were out, and we were back watching and searching for more fish. Dave called out, “Anybody for breakfast”?
I said, “I’m ready. What you cooking?”
“Ham and eggs, or a breakfast burrito”
“I’ll take a burrito.”
Within two minutes, everybody had placed their order, and in ten minutes the food started coming. I took one bite of my burrito, when John yelled out, “Hookup!”
The food got tossed aside, and we went into our drill. It was Terry’s turn, and he brought in a nice albe, but there was no further action.
Back to trolling and eating our now cold breakfast. We settled in for the hunt. Dave spotted a kelp patty, and Greg steered toward it. When we got close, Greg slowed down and got within casting distance to the kelp. We all cast bait toward the kelp, Joey immediately hooked up, and so did Bob. Joey said, “It’s a small yellowtail.”
He had it on the deck in two minutes. Bob’s was a little bigger, and Steve had to gaff it. That was it, so the jigs were put out.
Trolling can get a little boring, especially when you don’t get a strike for over two hours. No strikes, no kelp, no signs of any fish. We decided it might be a good time to make some changes. We pulled in the lines, I replaced mine with a cedar plug, and John did the same. The rest of the guys tied on new jigs of different styles and colors. We were now ready to get into some action!
Another hour went by, and there wasn’t any action, but something smelled good and it was coming from the galley. It had to be lunch, and I was starving. Even if I wasn’t hungry, it was something else to do besides sit and wait.
Dave had prepared a delicious Mexican buffet, consisting of fresh yellowtail tacos, carne asada or chicken for burritos or tostadas, and lots of beans and rice. He also whipped up his own hot sauce, and if that wasn’t hot enough, there was a dish of jalapeños and serrano chilies that would make you sweat. We finished off the meal with some ice-cold Coronas.
Steve went up to the bridge to relieve Greg so he could have lunch. We were all talking about the action we had that morning, and how exceptionally slow the fishing got as the day went on. Bob asked Greg if he had any ideas to improve the fishing for the afternoon. He said he had decided to leave the area we were fishing that morning and run about twenty-five miles south. He changed course around 10:00 A.M., and we would be in the area in fifteen minutes.
Bob said, “That’s why we like to go out with you; you’re always on top of it.”
Ed offered up some Cohibas, and he had a few takers. We went out on the deck with a fresh Corona, and lit up the cigars. Taking a puff, Joey said, “What more could you ask for?”
“I agreed, “This is great. Now we only need a little more action.”
“It wouldn’t hurt if it also calmed down a little bit,” said Bill.
Bill was right. The wind was picking up, it was getting a little choppy, and the swells were getting bigger.
We heard Greg yell out, “Bring in the lines. I see a lot of birds and fish boiling under them.”
We started reeling in the jigs, and I could feel the Patriot picking up speed. I had the jig in, stowed the rod, and I went up to the bridge to see what was going on. Bob was already there and saw me coming up the ladder.
“Hey, Andy, take a look at this.” Bob handed me some binoculars, and I could see a lot of birds working an area off the bow, and the fish jumping.
“Hey Greg, what kind of tuna?”
“I think they’re bluefin. Tell the guys to get ready, and to use forty-pound test or heavier. I think we’re going to run into some big fish.”
We were closing in on the school, and Greg slowed down. Steve got up on the bait tank, grabbed the scoop net, and got ready to chum. We drifted into the middle of the tuna and Greg yelled, “Start chumming”
The tuna immediately started boiling on the bait, I hooked a sardine, and cast it out toward the boils. A tuna rolled over my bait but didn’t take it. My nephew yelled, “Hookup!” and I could see he had a big fish on. Another tuna boiled on my bait, but this time he took it. I let him take out some line, I put the reel in gear and set the hook. I had decided to use my fifty-pound- test rig, and after setting the hook, I was glad I did. This was a big fish. It was pulling out my line, and I had the drag set as tight as possible.
John and I were the first to hook up, and within two minutes, all our rods were doubled over. Greg couldn’t resist, and cast a bait over the side. It was instantly struck. Greg yelled, “Hey, Dave, we’re going to have sashimi tonight”.
“Sushi, sashimi, spicy tuna roll, we’ll have it all”.
While talking about dinner, Dave bent over the side and gaffed John’s fish. With a big grunt, Dave pulled one big bluefin tuna over the rail.
“Damn, that’s got to be over fifty pounds”.
“Way to go, John,” yelled Joey.”
“Hey, Andy, what’s taking so long?”
“He’s not budging. Every time I reel in ten feet, he takes twenty. Shit, I’ve got over a hundred and fifty yards out, and I can’t stop him.”
While I hung on, a few more tuna came over the side. Most of the fish averaged thirty-five to forty pounds. Dave gaffed Greg’s fish, who put his pole aside and started to help Dave. A half-hour went by, and almost everybody had a fish on.
Joey was on his third. He yelled, “Under you.” I backed off the rail, and let Joey go under my poll. As he went by, he asked, “Are you gaining on him”?
“Yeah, a little”
Everybody was yelling and whooping. Bill yelled, “I’ve never experienced anything like this. This fish is kicking my ass!” He was right; bluefin tuna, pound for pound, is one of the toughest fish in the ocean.
The bite was slowing down, and I was gaining some line. I had been fighting this fish for close to an hour, when I finally could see some color. I had maybe fifty feet of line out, and I could see that it was one big sucker. The next thirty feet seemed to take forever to reel in, and I now realized just how tired I was. Greg looked over the side and announced, “You got a Bigeye.” The tuna was getting close to the surface; both Greg and Dave had gaffs over the side. I’m a big guy, and in pretty good shape, but my arms were shaking, and my shoulders and back were killing me.
Greg got the first gaff in and hung on until Dave’s gaff was securely hooked, then they pulled that Bigeye over the side. I was ecstatic, and everyone was congratulating me. I asked Greg, “So what do you think?”
“I think it’s a hundred and fifty, maybe more.”
All I could say was, “WOW!”
“Well, you guys have enough for today, or should we keep fishing?” barked the captain.
John said, “You never know what tomorrows going to be like, so lets keep going.”
Of course we all agreed, so throttle forward, jig lines out, and off we went.
We had a couple of good jig stops, and caught a few more albacore. Then we picked up some nice size yellowtails by a kelp patty. There was some dolphin (Mahi Mahi) mixed in with the yellows, and we got a few of them.
By four in the afternoon, we had over a hundred fish on board. We were totally exhausted and decided to call it a day. When you’re on a two-day trip, and over a hundred miles out to sea, you spend the second night drifting with a sea anchor out. A sea anchor really isn’t an anchor like you see hanging off the bow of a boat, but a weighted parachute, that when let out, opens under water.
When the sea anchor is set up properly, it helps stabilize the boat and slows down the drift, so the boat’s position doesn’t change drastically. As it began to get dark we hoped the weather would improve, but the wind and the swells appeared to be picking up again, which meant another uncomfortable night of bouncing around in your bunk.
We all took turns taking showers and got dressed for dinner, which meant putting on clean shorts and a T-shirt. One by one, we filed into the galley, where Dave was working on dinner. He had already prepared a platter of sushi and sashimi from a fillet of bluefin that Dave cut up earlier. The drinks were flowing, and the appetizers were delicious. Joey brought a half-gallon of VO onboard, and when everybody else put their favorite booze on the table, it looked like a commercial bar. Joey offered me a VO and soda, which I gladly accepted.
We were all talking about the great day of fishing we had when Greg entered the galley. He was greeted with a cheer and a toast to a successful day. We all had a drink to the day’s success. Then, Greg got roasted by Bob, and I. We started telling jokes, and Joey got on a roll. Everybody was laughing and just having a hell of a time.
“Dinner’s ready,” yelled Dave.
“I don’t know how in the hell you can cook anything in this weather,” said Terry.
“It’s not easy, but tonight we have Caesar salad, rack of lamb, stir-fried vegetables, and a few bottles of Cabernet, compliments of Bob.”
Dinner was excellent, and after dessert we settled down with a cappuccino, cognac, or some aged port from my wine cellar. Cigars were passed around. There wasn’t any reception on the TV, and we had watched all the current videos the night before.
John asked,” Anybody want to play gin”?
“How much a point?” asked Terry.
“How about ten cents.”
“Count me in.”
“Me too,” said Bill, and Joey.
It was really windy, and the waves were knocking us around. It became hard to keep your balance, so everybody sat down and hung on. We played cards for a while, but it didn’t seem that anybody was too interested. Ed started telling a story about a long range fishing trip he was on, and the bad weather they ran into.
“The waves were breaking over the bow, and most of the people were sick. There’s no way you could get comfortable in your bunk, so a lot of us hung out in the galley. They were a long way from shore, heading home from the Clarion Islands, so they had to just weather the storm. By the next morning, the weather calmed down some, and the skipper went out to access the damage. We had lost one life raft off the top of the bridge. That meant some of the waves must have been fifteen to twenty feet. I asked the skipper about it and he said, he didn’t want to alarm any of us, but there was a point when he didn’t think we were going to make it.”
Ed wrapped up his story, then Bob shared an experience he had on a trip that was equally as exciting, in fact it topped Ed’s story, because they lost a passenger overboard.
“I mean someone saw him fall overboard and notified the skipper, who slowed down and turned around to look for him. We searched for over an hour. The skipper came down to talk to us, and had tears in his eyes.”
He said, “I guess we lost him. Shit, I’ve never had anything like this happen.”
“The skipper poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down, then he began to cry, and so did many of us. God, you never know when your times up.”
Joey jumped in, “Back in the ‘40s and ‘50s, my father was a commercial fisherman. He worked on the Liberator, out of San Pedro. The Liberator was an 85-foot purse seiner, and most of the crew were Croatian and related. They were fishing for tuna off the coast of Mexico.
“Fishing was really good, and there were five other boats working the same area. In those days, they used celestial navigation and communicated by short-wave and ship-to-shore radios with limited range. If the weather got bad, they would head for shelter in a bay or the lee side of an island. This day they were caught off guard, and a chubasco slammed right into them. My dad said the waves were over forty feet, and the wind blew so hard that the sea whipped up a layer of foam over a foot thick. They were a long way from shore, so they had no choice but to ride out the storm. By the next morning, they had lost their skiff, their net, and most of the gear secured on deck. Another boat, the Pacific Dawn, started having problems shortly after nightfall.
“The other captains heard the skipper call for assistance, because they were taking in water and starting to sink. All the boats were having their own problems, but they still tried to locate her. “Twenty minutes later, the skipper was yelling, “Mayday, Mayday!” There was a pause, then he cried out, “Oh God help us!” That night the Pacific Dawn sunk and there were no survivors.
“Another boat, the Rosa Marie, lost her mast, and while they were trying to secure the rigging, two of the crew were washed overboard, never to be seen again. Many of these fishermen were related, and a lot of brothers and cousins lost their lives. In fact, my dad lost his cousin, who worked on the Pacific Dawn. I’ll tell you, those guys led a tough life.”
John was pouring another glass of port and said, “I read that commercial fishing was rated the most dangerous profession in the world. My ‘Dida’, grandfather to you non-Croatians, told me a few stories that convince me. Hey, Andy, why don’t you tell them what happened to you when you went fishing with “Dida” while you were a senior in high school.”
Bob interrupted, “Yeah, you told me part of that story last time we went fishing. It’s quite a story. I’d like to hear the rest.”
“It’s a long story, but I’ve been told it would make a great movie and that I should write a book about it. As a matter of fact, I started writing the book about a month ago.”
“Well, you might as well start from the beginning,” said Terry, “because you’ve got a captive audience. I’m ready for a good story, and I know damn well, none of us are going to get any sleep in this shitty weather.
“Well, here it goes.”
“Does the book have a name”? asked Ed.
“Well it didn’t until last week, when my wife named it Red Sky Morning.
~ ~ ~
Chapter 2
Summer vacation was going to start tomorrow. I was a senior in high school and would be graduating in the winter class of 1964. I was sitting in my history class, daydreaming about surfing and partying all summer. I was on a big wave, hanging ten, at my favorite surfing spot, when I heard a familiar voice calling my name. “Andy.”
I realized I was daydreaming, and I was still in class. My girlfriend, Jan, was standing in front of me, smiling. “Didn’t you hear the bell? School’s out. Let’s get out of here.”
Walking down the hall, Jan asked, “When are you going to pick me up?”
We were going to a big party that night, and Jan knew that my hot rod?a 1934 Ford three-window coupe?wasn’t running because the transmission had blown while drag racing last Saturday night.
“Well, you know”
“Yeah, I know, but why don’t you get a normal car, so we don’t have to bum a ride from one of your friends?”
I was getting the hint. I could screw off all summer, and Jan would probably break up with me, or I could get a job, make some money, and buy a new car. I really liked Jan, but to miss out on all the fun? This was a big decision for me, but I guess it was time to grow up a little. Shit, there goes the summer.
I’ve always had a summer job. When I was a kid, I delivered papers, mowed lawns, whatever it took to make a few bucks. When I turned thirteen, I got job as second deck hand, on my neighbor’s charter fishing boat, the Bolo. Roy Creal was my neighbor, and his son, Roy Jr, was the first deckhand and one of my friends. The Bolo was thirty-eight feet long, and was moored at Twenty-second St. Landing in San Pedro. The boat was chartered almost every day during the summer. It was hard work, but we got to fish once in a while, in fact I learned a lot about sport fishing and running a boat that summer.
For the next four summers, I worked on various boats at the landing. Some were charter boats, and the others were open party boats, operated by the landing. I loved it. In fact, when I had a day off I went fishing. I just couldn’t get enough of it. But this summer, I was a senior, and all I wanted to do was go surfing, party, and be with my girlfriend. I still planned to go fishing a lot, and I knew I could go for free anytime. Well, it really wasn’t totally free. I would go out as a “deadhead,” a boating term that meant you could go fishing free, but you had to help clean up the boat on the way in. It was a good trade-off, and my family always had fresh fish for dinner.
Speaking about my family, I have a great family. My father is a commercial fisherman, and my mother takes care of the house, my sister, and me. Our extended family is huge, and they almost all live in San Pedro.
My grandparents, my mother, and many of my aunts and uncles emigrated from the Dalmatian Coast, now known as Croatia. Most of them were fisherman, merchant seaman, or worked in the shipyards. My mother, her sister, and my grandmother, immigrated to the U.S. in 1933. My grandfather came to the United States in 1922 and stayed with family in Hokum, Washington.
His desire was to save enough money to eventually bring his family to the U.S. He first worked in a lumberyard, and than became a commercial fisherman. Reunited with his wife and children, he moved to San Pedro, where his wife, Tonia, had their third daughter.
He invested in a new fishing boat with his relatives. His family emigrated from an Island called Dugi Otok, which meant Long Island, and the partners felt their new boat deserved the same name, the Long Island.My father was born in Bainbridge, Washington, where his father was a commercial fisherman.
Shortly after my dad was born, the family moved to San Pedro, where my grandfather became partner on another boat, where he worked until he retired. My father also became a commercial fisherman, met my mother, and eventually married her. He saved his money and bought out the cook’s ownership of the Long Island, and eventually became the captain.
Commercial fishing was a tough life. It was hard work, long hours, and could be dangerous. In those days, they fished primarily for sardines and the seasonal local run of tuna. The fleet fished for sardines from the coast off San Diego to San Francisco. My father became President of the Fisherman’s Association, which meant more work and time away from the family.
My sister, Karen, was born in 1943, and I came into the world in 1946. Shortly after, my father became partners in another boat the Sea Scout, a ninety-foot purse seiner, which was built with family money, and the crew was all related. My dad became the captain, whereupon he and his crew ventured out to take advantage of the growing sardine industry.
The birth of the sardine industry started in Monterey, California, in the early 1900s. There was an abundant supply of sardines in Monterey Bay, but the crude method of fishing limited the quantity of fish caught.
An Italian fisherman named Pete Ferrante immigrated to Monterey and introduced a new method of fishing using a lampara net, which was being used back in Italy. The lampara is a net that will encircle an entire school of fish, enabling the fish to be pulled to the lampara boat, where the fishermen would scoop them out of the water and into the hold of their boat.
With the use of the lampara net, the supply of sardines was no longer a problem. By 1918, there were many canneries lined up on the shore, processing the hundreds of tons being delivered by the local fleet. It was during this time that the Monterey waterfront became known as “Cannery Row.”
In the late ‘20s, the half-ring net and half-ring boat were introduced. Many more fish could be caught per haul as the net rings created a purse, thus trapping the fish, making it impossible for them to escape.
By the mid-’30s, the half-ring boats were being replaced by a new vessel called the purse seiner, which got its name from the type of net it carried. Varying in size, the largest were eighty to ninety feet long, and carried nets three to five hundred feet long and sixty to eighty feet in depth. This new type of boat had a range of hundreds of miles, and carried over a hundred tons of fish in its hold.
The sardine industry was flourishing, with 1945 being its best year. This was also when the book, Cannery Row by John Steinbeck, was published, immortalizing the Monterey waterfront.
Sardine fishing not only flourished in Monterey, but became one of the largest industries on the West Coast. Not only was there money and employment in fishing and canning, but there were many by-products as well. Fish meal was used for poultry and livestock feed, as well as fertilizer. The oil extracted from the sardine was sought after for use in manufacturing soap, paint, vitamins, glycerin (for ammunition), salad oil, and more.
San Pedro had its own canneries, processing plants, and fleet of purse seiners. The Long Island and the Sea Scout were part of that fleet. The fleet not only fished in Southern California’s waters, but would go where the fishing was most productive. They fished off the coast of San Francisco, unloading their catch at a local cannery, or to offshore floating processing plants.
During WWII, the fishermen were exempt from the draft because of the demand for fish and its by-products. Fishermen were respected and welcomed at any establishment, because they had money and were looking for a good time during their short visits ashore.
In the early ‘50s, when the volume of sardines started to diminish no one could explain why. Some said the fish were disappearing, and in fact, the whole industry started to die. Shortly thereafter, the Local Fisherman’s Association closed down.
Monterey’s sardine industry became little more than a memory. This once-robust industry had a life span of less than fifty years why the sardines disappeared remains a mystery. Some say it was because of an increase in pollution, climate change, currents and water temperatures, or maybe they were over-fished into extinction.
With the disappearance of the sardine, the San Pedro fishermen were faced with a major problem. Local tuna fishing was seasonal and not big enough to sustain a boat and its crew. So, it was time to make some changes. There was a lot of tuna to catch in Mexican waters. So, the San Pedro fleet and their crews began to make the necessary changes to adapt to a new way of life.
During the sardine era, the fisherman stayed close to home. When the fish were close to San Pedro, they were in and out of port and had a lot of time to spend with family and friends. Now they would be fishing for tuna in Mexico, which meant they would be spending a lot more time away from home. A trip took from twenty to thirty days, or more.
The fishing industry was changing. Boats were getting larger and had longer range. San Diego became the port for the larger fishing vessels. There were two types of tuna fishing boats at the dock. One was called a bait boat, the other a purse seiner. Bait boats were the first type of long- range fishing boats. Their method of fishing was the toughest of all. First, the boat had to get to the fishing grounds, than they had to catch live bait, and lots of it. Next, they had to find schools of tuna and attract them to the boat by chumming. Then, the fisherman climbed over the rail and onto steel racks and used a long cane poll with a short line attached to the tip and a feather jig on the end. The fisherman would slap the water with the jig, hoping that a tuna would grab it. The fisherman had to be alert, because when a tuna bit, he needed the momentum of the fish to help lift the fish over the rail and onto the deck. It was backbreaking work, and the men never stopped to rest until the fish stopped biting.
Tuna came in all sizes, ranging from five pounds to three hundred pounds. When the big fish were biting, the men would combine two to three lift poles, with one line and one jig. It was amazing to watch three men in perfect sync, pull a 250-pound tuna over the rail.
The San Pedro fleet was all purse seiners and needed to make a few changes before they ventured into Mexican waters. The small mesh netting used to catch sardines was replaced by a much stronger and larger mesh net, around a hundred to one hundred fifty yards long. They also carried a freezer or two on board to hold more food for the longer trips. All of these boats carried ice, and some had refrigeration systems in the hold, that could carry eighty to a hundred and fifty tons of fish.
The fishing industry was rapidly changing. The bait boats were being replaced or converted to purse seiners. The newly built purse seiners were 150 to 200 feet long, and could hold over 1000 tons of tuna. The tuna was preserved in circulating freezing brine water, which could hold the fish for a much longer period of time. In order to catch that much fish the boats were equipped with better electronics and machinery, and their nets were over a mile long. Some of the new vessels had a helicopter aboard, which was used to spot schools of fish.
The smaller purse seiners were limited by range and preservation of the tuna and had to compete with the larger boats. The growing worldwide demand for tuna motivated other countries to establish their own fishing fleets. Mexico became very aggressive and developed their own fleet of purse seiners.
The competition was growing, and the smaller boats were being pushed out. To make matters worse for the San Pedro fleet, the local StarKist Tuna cannery announced that it planed to close down, and was building a new facility in Puerto Rico, and possibly one in Gaum.
That left three smaller canneries in San Pedro, but it was just a matter of time before the tuna industry was finished locally. StarKist was making this change because the largest fishing grounds proved to be south of Mexico, from Ecuador to Peru.
These changes decimated the local fleet, and many of the fishermen. The Italians and Croatians operated and owned most of the boats, and their crews were all family members. Many chose to leave the fishing industry and work ashore. Some of the owners sold their boats, retired, or bought real estate. Others decided to hang on and fish locally for mackerel, squid, and the seasonal tuna run.
The rest moved on to the large purse seiners. It was no longer a family-type business, but corporate-owned vessels with crews made up of various nationalities. The crews were mostly Hispanic and were not U.S. citizens. They were good seamen, and their pay scale was much lower. Captains, navigators and engineers came from the U.S. They were of Croatian, Italian, and Portuguese, descent. My father was one of these fishermen and became captain of the Jenny Lynn, out of San Diego. He ran that boat for a couple of years, then became captain of the Espirito Santos, which was 130 feet long. A year later, he moved on to a much larger vessel the Western Ace.
~ ~ ~
Chapter 3
School had been out for a couple of days, and the weather and surfing couldn’t get much better. My friends and I were surfing at one of our favorite spots, Royal Palms. The waves were head-high and had perfect form. We started around seven in the morning and had been in and out of the water all day. Some of the girls, including Jan, drove down to catch some rays and a few waves.
“I see you got your hot rod running. Does that mean you’re taking me to the party tonight?” said Jan.
“Yeah, Roy had some extra transmission gears, and we worked on my car till midnight, and absolutely yes to the party.”
She sounded a little pissed off, but I didn’t think this was a good time to ask her why. Anyway, the girls decided to leave. I no longer had to pay attention to Jan, so I went out to catch a few more waves.
It was around three in the afternoon, and I decided to go home. I was just about to turn into our driveway when I saw my dad coming up the street from the other direction. Well, this is his house and his right of way, so I waited for him to pull into the garage then parked behind him.
“So, how’s the jalopy running”?
“It’s running great. The gears are a little tight, but they’ll break in.”
“I hope they have a chance to break in before you break them”.
We both laughed and walked into the house together.
“You start looking for a job yet”
“No, but I think it’s about time to get serious about it. Hey, dad, how long you gonna be home?”
“I have a few things to go over with the owners of the boat, then I’ll be leaving. Probably in a week or so”.
My father had just got home last week. As the captain of the Western Ace, he’s gone a lot more. His trips usually last between thirty-forty days, fishing for tuna off the coasts of Ecuador and Peru. When they finally loaded up with tuna, the boat sailed to Puerto Rico to unload the fish at the new StarKist cannery.
To reach Puerto Rico, the boat had to go through the Panama Canal and in Panama, my father turned over the helm to the second mate and flew home. This gave him more time at home, usually around two or three weeks.
During dinner that night, my dad explained what he and the owners had to meet about. The captains, and owners of six big purse seiners had decided to make a run up the East Coast of the U.S., to fish the summer season run of tuna. This was going to be the first time this size and type of vessel had made an attempt to fish in that area.
Some of the boats were on their way to Puerto Rico to unload their catch, one of which was the Western Ace. Two of the boats were already at the StarKist cannery, waiting to unload. It appeared that they could travel up the East Coast together.
We finished dinner and moved to the den to watch some TV. Dad turned on the news. BORING!
I decided to call Jan and plan out the evening. The party was at some girl’s house, and her parents were on vacation, so we needed to buy some beer. None of us had fake IDs, but at six foot three and two hundred and fifty pounds, I can usually pass for twenty-one.
I picked up Jan at eight, and we met our friends in a liquor store parking lot, where I collected the money, went in, and bought two cases of beer. Now we were ready to rock’ n’ roll. By the time we got to the party, Jan and I had already downed a six-pack. The party was jumping, and we knew almost everyone there. Things were going great until a bunch of guys came in that weren’t familiar. They looked like a bunch of dopers, not that most of us haven’t smoked some pot, but these guys appeared to be on some heavy shit.
These assholes started wrecking the house and started a fight with one of my friends. It was getting ugly, and I felt sorry for the girl throwing the party. One of the dopers almost knocked Jan down, so I grabbed the SOB by the neck and threw him on the floor. He came up swinging, but I blocked his punch and decked him. One of his friends saw me hit him, and came at me. I dodged his attempt nailed him squarely on the jaw, and he went down on top of his buddy.