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Sea Hunt November 12, 2016 –Almost to Honolulu Day 17

If truth be told, I am not a killer. Maybe my parents taught me to respect living things, she a microbiologist and nurse, he a pediatrician. A little fishing with Dad as a boy was done but there was no hunting or guns. Compared to me, Brownie is a trained killer, a crack shot and a harvester of the wild and the deep and there is probably no better descriptor of Don than “equipped.” He’s got everything. Tools, large and small, in every size and configuration. Wrenches and meters and drivers and cutters are perfectly arranged and maintained. Starr has tools fore and after, from bilge to fly bridge. And Don’s fishing gear is similarly expansive from poles and lures to alarms and gaffs, standing ready for the hunt. So here I am, at sea with these two, trying to seem perfectly at ease but I know when I am outclassed, a veritable pacifist in a heavily armed squad of special forces operatives. Watching them land the first mahi mahi gave me a few pointers. Brownie reeled it in steadily and kept it tethered at just the right angle. Don wetted down the swimstep in preparation for the imminent carnage. I handled the vodka for anesthesia. They knew I would be good at that. That lineup landed our first Dorado. Emboldened by the experience, I offered as how it would really be something for me if I could land and lay claim to some worthy fish and my generous shipmates turned to, to make me a real fisherman. It was “fish on” again the next day but as I reeled it in, I brought it too close, increasing the angle of the line before the gaff was set and the flashing green fighter tossed the lure. One lesson learned. Again the following morning we trailed a line. I was in my bunk for my after-watch nap when Brownie burst in. “Your fish is on!” A little groggy but with time enough to grab my lucky “Aquavit” tam, I rushed to the rod and began to reel in the prize; a nice-sized mahi tugging in vain for its life. But I didn’t care. I had become a killer! Closer it came but not too near. Don set the gaff and hauled it aboard. Brownie expertly wrapped a towel around its eyes and held it as I expertly handed him the vodka for the coup de gras. To the filleting table (custom, of course, and beautifully designed and built…well equipped! ), the catch was dispatched and prepared but not before “the picture!” Now I had proof, now I could brag to my fishing genius pal Jim and my cruising buddy Capt. E. Now I was a fisherman too. At dinner we thanked our parchment wrapped catch for sustaining us with a little prayer and then devoured it with savagely and without remorse. It tasted great. The hunter was home with the spoils of war. D2A