12/15/01 | Sailfish, sailfix

marlin madness

The propane never arrived, but we were otherwise ready to leave, so we retrieved our empty tank, said our goodbyes to our friends, and cast off for Curacao. Naturally, we set out our fishing lines immediately, but we weren't too hopeful since except for one itty-bitty baby tuna we caught on the way back from a dive site (too small to keep) we've gotten nothing recently but stupid barracuda. Well, our luck improved -- sort of.

We were sailing wing on wing, jib poled out to starboard and main to port, making six or seven knots in a good east wind, gliding and rolling down the waves. When the drag on the port side line went off, it was obvious we'd hooked something really big. Britt jumped to the rod, while I started working to slow the boat down, first starting the engine and putting it into reverse, then working the main to kill its effectiveness. (Normally we slow the boat for big fish by depowering the jib, but with the pole out it's too difficult to mess with.) I was hoping for a wahoo, which we had heard roamed the area; Britt saw a flash of color as the fish jumped, and thought we might have a mahi-mahi. He reeled in a few feet, lost ground as the fish ran out again, then reeled in some more. It darted this way and that, sometimes running toward the boat and sometimes away, and finally it got close enough for us to see.

We'd hooked a marlin!  A blue marlin, we think, although it's hard enough to tell the difference between the various species that we're not really sure. Certainly it was a lovely iridescent blue, with a big purple dorsal fin (its "sail", although some species of sailfish have even larger dorsal fins) and tail. At something close to five feet long, it was probably the largest fish we have landed, although for a marlin that's relatively small. People pay big money to go out on sportfishing charters and battle these babies. And we got it trolling from our dinky sailboat!

The next problem was how to get rid of it, as marlin are not good too eat. Unlike the sportfishing boats, we don't have a nice wide low transom for hauling fish in. So I took the rod, and Britt removed our helm seat, put on leather gloves, poked the gaff out under the dinghy strapped across our stern, and hooked the fishing line to bring the marlin closer. Once it was against our transom, he grabbed the long bill with one hand and unhooked it with the other. It took some work, and we watched with relief when the marlin was finally free and wriggling off in the water.

A few hours later, we got another huge strike. This time the fish immediately dove deep, indicative of a tuna, so we worked hard again to slow the boat and tire out the fish. But once Britt got it close, we could see -- it was another marlin!  This one was a little bigger than the first one, with a brownish rather than a blue back. When we brought it alongside it did the classic marlin tailwalking move, dancing along right next to the boat. It took both of us to release it, Britt holding onto the astonishingly long bill while I worked the hook out. So, two big fish, but no fish for dinner.

more things to fix

Sailing downwind is certainly a lot more pleasant than beating into it, but it's just as tough on us and on the boat. Even with the whisker pole keeping the jib stretched out, the sail still slaps and cracks a little whenever we roll particularly far as we corkscrew down the waves. In midafternoon we noticed that the stitching along the foot of the sail (the bottom edge) had unraveled for quite a distance, and a big section of the hem had unfolded and was flapping in the wind.

Spanish Water turned out to be the perfect place to do sail work. Sailing close along Curacao's west coast, we couldn't see the narrow entrance until we were nearly there. A cut through low cliffs, like a river, gave way to a large multilobed bay, well protected by the surrounding hills and perfectly smooth. We anchored near Kajsa, who we haven't seen for a month; fortunately (for us, not for them!) they were still waiting for parts, giving us a chance to catch up. As is typical for a bay surrounded by land in a fairly large island, land heating effects pretty much cancel out the wind at night, so the next morning, before the wind returned, we took the jib down for the first time in two and a half years. Good thing we did -- as we fed the sail out of the roller furling slot, we saw that the topmost foot or so of the luff (the edge of the sail that fits into the slot) had ripped apart. This was a more serious problem that definitely needed immediate attention.

Getting the sail down to the deck, even with the calm conditions, was a chore. Rolling it up so that the pieces we needed to work on were easy to reach was even harder. Then we trundled it awkwardly back into the cockpit, and with even more effort stuffed it below. We had to set up our big table leaf (which extends across our whole cabin so we can't go forward into our room without crawling underneath) in order to allow enough space on the correct side of the sewing machine for the bulk of the sail, which spread across the table, the settee, and the cabin sole (floor) clear up to the companionway steps. There was barely room enough for us!

We had cadged a hunk of old sail from Kajsa, and Britt cut a strip of the sailcloth to repair the luff. It took both of us to feed the heavy sail through. Even though we have a Sailrite sewing machine, intended for fairly heavy-duty use, the multiple layers of heavy sailcloth taxed the machine to its limit, and Britt spent more time adjusting the machine than sewing. But eventually the job was complete, and the next morning we hoisted the sail again. One of these days we'll have to take down the mainsail and check it for problems -- that one's never been down at all.