A day prior, I had labored to re-rig according to Marc's recommendations with single 5/0 offset circle hooks, the simplest setup I could devise. I always ensure that I have at least six rigs to get me through the day. I was using my reliable baby octopus as bait.
Shortly after launching and settling over our first stop, I got that wonderful tug on my line from a good sized Ling cod. I played her slowly, letting her chew the bait, then gently reeled in a couple of turns until she felt the hook and made a brief run. With the hook clearly set, I played her with loose drag initially, gradually tightening down, tiring her out, and raising her to the surface after she made two or three more runs taking line. Clearly, this was a decent sized ling.
I gaffed her just behind the head, placed the game clip through the gills and out the mouth, got her into the yak, and dispatched her quickly with three thumps to her head and a knife to her gills so that she bled out quickly. It sounds heartless, but it is the most humane way to end the pain and stress I inflict on fish, a consequence for which I feel remorse and for which I always apologize profusely before thanking the fish and all the fish gods (I'm told there are many) for the bounty.
She measured about 30 inches. A start like this portends well for a satisfying day on the water and instills confidence. With one in my tank well, we proceeded to our next spot.
Within two hours, I had the ling, two good-sized Brown Rock cod and a smaller China Rock cod in the burlap bag behind me. I pronounced the day a success at that point not expecting anything else.
And then, my pole bent nearly double, and the reel screamed as line went west. It wasn't a snag, the fish did not nibble, it took no patience on my part.
It. Was. On.
I assumed it was a larger Lingcod while I played it slowly, letting the fish take line as it wanted, eventually tightening the drag until I was more in control between several runs. During the fight, which lasted about twenty minutes, I started to wonder if this was really a Ling or something else. It felt different, more resistance in the water, but a Halibut would be beyond my expectations.
"Nick, it's a Halibut, and it is large," shouted Marc who had been focused on the fight and, with intent, positioned his yak close enough to help. At that point, I still could not see it, but Marc's verification of my greatest hope filled my system with adrenaline and concentrated my mind. Finally, I saw it. It was a barn door of a Halibut. My long leader, too long I now believe, prevented me from getting the fish close enough to the surface to set my short gaff, too short I now believe.
Fortunately, Marc has a long harpoon with a barb he likes to use instead of a gaff. He took careful aim, drove the tip home through the body behind the head and pulled my Halibut to the side of his kayak. We worked like a well trained, disciplined team through this process. With the fish impaled and wedged between our two kayaks, I got the game clip through the gills and out the mouth. I snapped the game clip shut.
At that point, confident that I had landed my best fish ever, I allowed myself some relaxation and a few moments of great satisfaction. I hoisted the seemingly subdued Halibut up into my kayak across my lap and began to work on extracting the hook. Do you perceive anything wrong with the sequence of my work here?
OBJECT LESSON from a heartbroke kayak fisherman:
- Dispatch large fish or any sized Halibut in the water; do not bring them aboard while there is still life in them, because if there is life in them, there is fight in them, and they are large, powerful animals that can hurt you when they yearn to be free.
- See One above.
The fight was not over. With a rush of considerable force, my Halibut went airborne in front of my face. Its powerful thrashing broke the line I had affixed to the game clip, taking game clip, hook, line, sinker and a piece of my heart to the bottom. No retrieval was possible. It was lost.
After, "Oh, Shit Nnnnnooo.", I said nothing for a few seconds, stunned, looking at the failed knot in the line that held the game clip. The line itself was still attached to the fitting on my kayak.
Here are the stages one experiences in situations like this:
- grief
- disbelieve
- recrimination
- guilt
- more grief and recrimination
- a surprising gratitude for the great adventure and for the fact that Marc had been practicing with his newly acquired GoPro camera and managed to capture some great images of the event
- finally, acceptance and a resolve to learn from this and better secure my next big catch