Grander by Far
by Adrian Graham

For a big game fisherman, there can be no better place to be. The Condor Bank, in the Azores, in the middle of August, when there are very big marlin around. Only the day before we started fishing, a grander was caught and released. Other large fish had been seen and not caught for the usual array of reasons. Now here we were on Xacara on the last day of a charter that had already seen a potential world record lost (the fish having sadly died on us), several huge marlin played - between 600 and 900 lbs - and two fish caught, a small 300 lb and a decent 600 lb fish. There was nothing to prove on the last day, but it would be nice to end on a high. The weather was perfect; the sun beamed down on a flat calm sea with a mild mid-Atlantic swell and a light breeze. The lures were working well, billowing into the blue and rising periodically to grab more air in a decent sequence. That unique blend of fresh salt air with the merest hint of burnt diesel that triggers the brain into knowing that you are once more on a fishing boat trolling for marlin. The sound of the engine, constant but modulated by the movements of the sea. The brain tries to resolve it into known sounds; a kind of music just beyond awareness. The settled state that is marlin fishing; beyond the first hour when everyone is alert and waiting for the sight of a fish, and before the yearning want of the last hour. The studied waiting, barely concealed by flicking through Marlin Magazine, reading a book or watching the endless sea. It all amounts to the same. Almost a kind of wartime state; action can happen at any time, but there's no point in getting excited about it.

Two-thirty. More than half way through the fishing day and later than we have had a strike on the previous five days. Time to relax, enjoy the day before it is over and before the stresses of travelling home. Chatting to mate Jeff about other days, other fish and other circumstances. Drinking another beer - early, but I was on holiday after all, and it was the last day. Conversation withers amicably in the heat and the drone of the engine. Time passes as it always does.

Two forty-five. A call from above; "Big fish in the spread, on the long right!" Transition from relaxation to total alertness appears instantaneous; I could never explain the sequence of actions that occurs in that moment, what goes on in the mind or the behaviour of the body. In this case, for me it was only a case of focussing on the lure; Jim, my brother, went from sleeping to total awareness in a second, just as I had many times before.

There's a large bill behind the lure, slowly weaving from side to side. Behind it is a large light blue glow. The fish hangs back, just playing with the lure, not interested in eating it. Captain Ian slows the boat, the lure drops back and the marlin lazily slurps it. The great fish turns, bringing the line tight and causing the eighty wide Shimano to utter a low croak; not a fast run. I lift the rod and get into the chair. As I get in, the fish stops, turning to look at another lure. Half in and out of the chair I crank line to get us tight again. I place the butt into the gimbal and put one link of the harness into the reel lug; the fish stops again and I have to wind. Shortly after I am finally in the chair and all is fine. I look back and the fish, although not yet realising it's hooked, has tired of the lures and has turned back. It rises, bringing part of its bulk out of the water; maybe a foot and a half of its back. The first foot is black, the rest silver. It looks wide. It slowly shakes its bill, aware of the lure but clearly not that bothered. Now the line is tight and the fight is on, whether the fish knows or not. We back down fast and I reel quickly. We can get a very fast catch on this fish and then enjoy the rest of the fight. Fifty yards. Thirty. Twenty. Ten. A few yards and we're there. The pull gets steadier. It comes really tight and the fish sounds. So near and yet so far. It keeps running, emptying the mono almost down to the Dacron backing. I'm in the chair relaxing; when the fish runs, I relax. I'm fine. My hands and legs are shaking but only due to adrenaline. No pressure; a mere eighteen pounds of drag and easy to handle. Feet placed widely on the footrest, one hand draped on the reel to prevent problems if the line breaks. No problem. Run, run fish. The further you run the more tired you become and then I'll get you. It stops, perhaps too quickly. If the fish stops, I start. Can't give the fish a second to recover. Leaning over and winding, Aussie style. Lift, wind, lift, wind. One crank at a time. Not fast but economical - it's all about energy. The line comes too tight again and the fish sounds a little once more. All the line gained lost, plus a little. No problem; let's make the fish do the work. It moves to the side. Good. Better. Gives us a chance to bring the boat into play and Captain Ian is an expert. We start backing down on the fish, the propellers dragging the boat backwards over the water.

Flashback to being a kid; watching "Jaws" when the boat is dragged backwards by the shark. The water threatens to swamp the Orca and sink it, and there is the fear of having bitten off more than you can chew. In this case, we're not being dragged, it is us that are in charge, but the fear is the same. The waves are nearly hitting the gunwale and there is a foot of water under the footrest; in fact, my feet are getting wet on the footrest. How much water above the waterline can this boat take? We are wallowing even more in the relatively calm sea. I hope we can get rid of the water. The sound of the engine and the hull through the water backwards is unique. A definite sound of mechanical torture, just like in Jaws. We back down and still the fish outruns us, but it's not taking a lot of line. So far so good. We're backing down. Get used to the feeling kid, it's not going to change for a while.

We're in "no-time". How long passes I have no idea. It could be a few minutes or a few hours. We have a pact, the fish and I. I pull and she pulls. Nothing too extreme either side. On my side I am limited by the twenty pounds of drag I can apply with the drag lever set on the stop. In her case, it's limited by how much energy she wants to put in. She had us almost all the way to the Dacron. We're now on the mono and I don't want to see the Dacron again. I come up with a cunning plan, one which Baldrick would be proud of, I'm thinking. I wind the line exclusively on the left hand side of the spool so that I will know if that part goes off again. I switch to the right and fill that part up. I start filling up the edges of the reel so that when the fight gets to the crucial part, I don't need to worry where the line is going. I now know where are. We get to within about fifty yards of each other and everything comes to a halt. I take a few yards, she takes it back. It lasts a long time. After some discussion and prompting, I draw a blue mark on the line with a waterproof marker. I have to add the mark myself to keep everything IGFA legal. The blue mark travels through the rings and disappears into the depths. Eventually I get it back. Eventually it disappears again. We reposition the boat, staying off the top of the fish. We go left. We go right. We drive off the fish. Losing lots of line. Nothing works. My early enthusiasm has died, but we are still in the fight. Time to push the drag up further, past the stop. Twenty pounds makes no difference. All the way up; thirty five. It seems to slow the fish, but not stop it. Thirty five pounds of drag starts to hurt a little. The bucket seat pinches my sides and my feet start to feel the strain as though I had been standing for hours. It's hurting me but it must be hurting the fish more. Not really. We're still in the same position. We had hoped that putting more heat on the fish might cause it to run and exhaust itself, but no go. Still the same game, line in, line out. Some longer runs and more line recovered but nothing more. Outside, I must look relaxed and focussed on the job at hand. Inside, the brain is going a hundred miles a minute. One second I'm telling myself to focus on the "now", not make any mistakes. Then I'm wondering how big the fish is and how it looks. Then I'm wondering if I will be able to keep going. How long will the fight last. My back is hurting a little; move the bucket seat down a little further. Still lost in no-time. A minute could be an hour or the other way round. I'm getting fed up of the blue marker, especially when it disappears once more. A splash of water in the face - we're still backing down as we have been forever. The line is still at an angle of maybe eighty degrees, the fish is still deep. It's getting desperate.

Decision time. The fish is moving very slow with no real fast runs. On the other hand, pushing the drag up would risk pulling the hooks. But we have to change something. It's also getting to the point - not that I would admit it to anyone - that I'd like the fish to either come up or get off. It's been too long and it's not fun anymore. Decision made. Hold the line tight on the fingers, back the drag off, wind the preset all the way up. Back up with the drag, all the way to strike 2. Maximum pressure on a Shimano eighty wide. This really does hurt. How much drag is that? Sixty pounds? Eighty? However much, it hurts. Not agony, just very uncomfortable. But the question is, is it working? A little. The fish still takes line when it wants to, but we're getting more line than before. The original blue mark is getting thin, so I add another one and in a flash of ingenuity I break it up to two dashes so we can tell the difference from the first one. It goes out. The original mark follows it. They're only ten feet apart. More than sixty pounds of drag and the fish is running with no problem at all. It stops, and for maybe the first time the pressure slackens for a second. The beginning of the end? Time to put in lot's of effort. Pump and wind, pump and wind. The whole world reduces down to that alone. Someone, somewhere shouts that they can see the lure, A murmur follows that they can see the fish. I see the reel, and my hand working the handle. The double line comes up. It's into the rollers. The leader is four feet under the surface. Three. Jeff can nearly touch it; another foot will do it. The fish lunges back down. Not close enough. Not this time. The blue mark goes down again. More of the same. All concept of time has now stopped. There is only the now, this instant. Aching legs and feet. Sore back, even though I've been careful. Really sore hand where it slipped off the handle and injured the fleshy part beneath the thumb. That has a name. What is it? Why do I wonder about such irrelevant stuff at times like this? I should be concentrating on the fight, but all sorts of irrelevant things surface in the mind. Am I trying to distract myself? It's not that bad. I came all the way here, just to do this. This fish could maybe be a grander. This is what I wanted all along, what I have put thousands of pounds and thousands of miles into. Trips to Mauritius, Ascension, Madeira, the West Indies - all over. Now here we are, doing exactly what I wanted all that time. In retrospect, I must be a secret masochist, because this is not fun.

We're getting close again. This time I want to make sure the fish can't get down before Jeff grabs the leader. Hand pressure as well as the maximum drag of the Shimano. The double line is up. I am concentrating on winding. They can see the fish. I look up and see a large light blue blur. The double line is in the rollers. The swivel is up, right to the tip; job done. Jeff has the leader; caught fish! I can't believe I've done it. Now it's up to Jeff. He starts to take a wrap but the fish lunges off. It takes line. The both blue markers go down again. Jeff congratulates me. "You've caught a grander!". I ask him whether he's sure it would go that much. "Easy - more." We're back where we started, but surely the fish is on its last legs.

Nope. We are back in no-time. The fish seems stronger. Sometimes now it runs fast, even with the maximum drag. I don't back the drag off even when it runs. My new motto is "beast it or bust it". Maximum pressure at all times. I ask Ian how long it was until we got the leader and caught the fish. The answer is four and a half hours. That was half an hour ago. From about four hours, I have been using more than sixty pounds of drag, plus the maximum pressure my fingers can apply. An hour. Not fun. In frustration I am swearing out loud, just to burn off tension. It goes on. The fish takes off in another direction. We follow, backing down as we have done since the start. Apparently time passes, but I am lost in the moment. The leader eventually comes up once more. Jeff grabs it; this time it's over! The fish pulls, nearly dragging Jeff over but his excellent skills save him. The fish goes again. There is nothing I can do to stop it. Jeff says the fish was stronger that time. We're not getting her down, she's pacing herself and expending no energy. Shortly she may start feeding again.

Time for big decisions. I have now been playing the fish for over six hours, two of them on more than sixty pounds of drag. I'm beat. I consider the unthinkable; it's time to give up. There's no suggestion that another six hours would tame this brute. I have never given up on a fish, never thought of it. Far less a potential record. But this is not a winnable game. I have to accept that. I ponder for a while, as line streaks out faster than for a long time. It's dark; Ian can't see where the line is going and so can't control the boat as well. I'm sorry. It's too much. I tell Jeff I can't go on. Ashamed to lose, but with no real choice.

Ingrid, the second mate gets into the chair to see how a big marlin feels. She lasts a minute and has to hold herself in the chair, can't even get her hand on the handle. Jeff takes over. With his freshness and mate's gloves, he gets the fish up to the swivel quickly, and then get's Ingrid and my brother Jim to hold the rod while he gets out to wire the fish. He grabs the leader, takes wraps and once more nearly gets dragged over the side again. The fish is running and then bang! The line snaps and it is all over. Six hours and fifteen minutes since we hooked up. By this time, I'm in the cabin, shaking all over, drinking lots of water. It takes a long time to calm down.

Later, on the flying bridge with Captain Ian. We are heading slowly in through the dark, the lights on the island twinkling in the distance; appealing, but no point in rushing and hitting some unseen obstruction. I'm apologising for having to give up; I feel ashamed even though I knew I had no choice. I ask him how big he thought the fish was. The answer is staggering. Well over 1200 lbs, possibly up to 1600. A monster that would have been the 80lb world record and possible the all-tackle record. Ian must have been even more upset than me; imagine losing a fish that big and imagine the publicity for catching such a fish. I think he understands that I tried as hard as I could. We all have, because everyone on board was at their limit. There's no way not be involved up the hilt. I look back into the darkness, to where the great fish swims on, none the worse for wear. She may wonder what happened that day, but probably not. The lure still hangs in her mouth, but not for long. It will be out in a day or two. Then she will carry on her majestic migration to who knows where, probably never to come across another human. With luck she will spawn marlin who may in time come to rival her inside. It is comforting to know that despite the damage humans do to the planet, there still exists such wonderful creatures. I'm glad she escaped, she deserved her freedom; a grander by far. Nowadays, almost all marlin taken by recreational anglers are released, and the commercial importance of recreational angling is a big factor in their preservation. So another successful release is a good thing.

Stuff that; I wish we'd caught her properly and got the record. Next time.