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Fishing in paradise
The Nature Call: Some fish and plenty of lessons learned on the Happy Ryder
The Gazette offers audio versions of articles using Instaread. Some words may be mispronounced.
Editor’s note: This is part II in a two-part series on the outdoors experiences from Kaua’i. Part I appeared in The Gazette in July.
The defining feature of an island is the water. One might feel trapped or liberated depending on tolerance for boating.
Owen and I aimed to test our sea legs with a charter fishing trip. Meghan booked the outing and we showed up before dawn at the Nawiliwili Harbor. The itinerary was about a three-hour tour to ply the deep for whatever would bite, maybe marlin but probably tuna.
Our boat hosted a crew of two, neither pirates nor the Skipper and Gilligan. But I found them to be distinct characters who had found their life’s calling.
We met our fellow anglers for the morning’s run, two young men from Louisiana. They noted their regular jaunts to fish the offshore oil rigs in the Gulf. Owen and I parried with experiencing ice fishing.
The briefing from the boat’s driver was very brief, then all 37 feet of the Happy Ryder gurgled out to sea under the power of a ferocious inboard diesel engine. The fumes immediately worried us but I figured that past the breakwater our speed and the tradewinds would nullify its intestinally upsetting effects.
The mate still was working to complete the five rod setup when rod No. 4 flexed with a catch. The youngest of the bayou boys took the turn and reeled in a fish the mate gaffed-killed-stored so quickly I wondered what had happened. The seafarer dialects between the driver and the mate lead me to believe it was a bycatch — an undesirable fish. Nevertheless the teen was happy as the craft passed into the open sea.
I presumed we’d make some astounding run to open water, but it wasn’t the case. Instead, the Happy Ryder cruised something like an elongated figure-eight within a couple of miles from shore and trolled surface lures.
At 6:45 a.m., rod No. 4 snapped to attention, as did the mate. Owen got on the rig and reeled and reeled. All the while the mate cleared nearby lines and then waited with the gaff. In this type of charter, the fishing rod stays in the transom’s holder and you just work on reeling in between bursts of line interrupting the effort.
The fish was not getting off, the terminal piece of equipment was a stout circle hook from which no shaking free was possible. Owen kept reeling. The flash of silver neared the stern and the mate wielded the gaff with efficiency. The boat counted its first desirable fish, an Aku, a skipjack tuna common to island meals and mainland poke bowls.
Owen was beaming. I marveled at the steely look of the two-foot and about eight pound specimen. It looked cast from metal. Large eyes and a prodigious mouth looked ambitious, suggesting something its potential size.
As congratulation circled among us, the mate cracked the fish over the head. The blow rang like he struck a steel pipe. I was caused again to pause and contemplate the fish as it gave its final movements of intense vibration. The tuna went into the hold, the mate washed off the deck, and then reset the lines. He never spoke a word. The Happy Ryder never paused the throttle.
In an unintended act of reciprocity, Owen fed the fish for the first time at 7:06 — only three hours to go son. Owen gifted the sea three more times in about 45-minute intervals until we left the swells for the calm waters back inside the harbor.
Trolling for walleyes or tuna was the same concept: use spreader devices to facilitate a number of lines in the water to improve your luck. If the fish were 16 fathoms deep, like salmon in Lake Michigan, then employ downriggers. The Happy Ryder dragged lures on the surface, they imitated squid or baitfish. The upward looking tuna, if inspired, raced to the surface from two to five fathoms for their last meal.
The lads all had turns on the reel. Between rainbow watching and the great undulating rhythm of the sea, time on board seemed to be no time at all. I was content.
Bzzzz went rod No. 4, my turn. I set to cranking, the battle was on par with that of my compatriots. A third aku went through the routine. Tonight tuna was on the menu.
Dockside, the mate arranged and re-rigged in preparation for the next group scheduled to leave at 11. The boat’s driver let us pose with the fish and then gave a lesson from the transom of proper disassembly. If ever he seemed most like a pirate it was when he wielded the large curved knife against the briny creatures.
The unwritten rule that I read in “The Ultimate Kauai Guidebook” was that all fish belong to the boat. We gladly accepted a choice fillet from his work. He said they used the fish to eat, barter or gift. One fish was promised to a memorial service. The boundaries of island life, that is scarcity, kept alive the timeless tradition of barter.
We celebrated our success — and survival — at the island's Costco before we drove back to the south shore. This store contradicted the island as it offered everything and at mainland prices. Owen and I enjoyed our preposterously low-priced lunch in the outdoor dining area.
Here, scarcity and reciprocity took a holiday but the Moa didn’t. Everpresent, they trolled the area to pounce on dropped morsels. There was a sign that said “Do Not Feed the Birds.” Owen and I watched as women nearby tossed pieces of her hotdog bun to the fowl. With a grin, he wondered aloud if she couldn’t read. I wondered if she was just practicing reciprocity.
Looking up, looking ahead, and keeping my pencil sharp.
John Lawrence Hanson, Ed.D. teaches at Linn-Mar High School. He sits on the Marion Tree Board, and is a member of the Outdoor Writers Association of America
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