"The Gulf Loveboat"

It was to be a Gulf fishing break for conferees at a week-long corporate conference. Unfortunately, most who signed up for the excursion were put off by the chilly morning temperatures. Yet, a small, more adventuresome contingent did show up for the offshore outing. After a quick head count, each vessel was assigned just 2 passengers. Our duo, a man from Cincinnati, and a woman from Minneapolis had apparently just met at the conference and became fast friends. For that matter, it can safely be assumed that this couple, exchanging very affectionate gestures, had become something beyond fast friends.

Once aboard, we made our way out the picturesque Anclote River. Cruising past Duke's Fish Camp, my mate Lee, climbed up on the bridge to report that our two passengers had retired to the warmth and comfort of the forward cabin. Turning into St. Joseph sound at River marker #3, we ran northward inside Anclote Key, heading toward sea buoy #4. The Gulf was calm, the sun was shining, and the temperatures had already climbed into the mid 50s. It indeed was a glorious late December day. The reluctant passengers who decided to spend the day ashore were to miss a marvelous Florida fishing opportunity.

The loran coordinates to our fishing destination were calculated to be some 24 miles out on a 335^o heading. Cranking up the twin Detroits to "2-grand", all aboard settled down for the approximately 1½ hour cruise. Our honey hole was to be a small strip of rocks off Bayport in 45-feet of water. Lee and I, taking in the view from the bridge, just sat back and enjoyed the sparkling crisp day, and the sunny Gulf the ride. Throughout the journey, there was no sign of our passengers, apparently content in the cozy comfort of the forward cabin.

Finally, as the loran counted down the last microseconds, I flipped on the recorder. "We're still over soft, sandy bottom. But just you keep an eye on that recorder. In a few second you'll see a strip of rocks and lots of fish marks." Sure enough, approaching the margin of sand and rocks, the scratcher's echo tales extended and the white line opened up, indicating very hard bottom. The stylus began etching a massive fish show right at the edge of the rocks. I threw out the "jug", and its 50-feet of line rapidly unwound marking the spot. Taking an anchor heading into the northeast wind, Lee made his way to the bow, easing the "hook" over the side.

With gentile one foot seas, there was no need to put our much scope. Lee keep deploying anchor line until we got within a short distance of our marker. "Snug it up there," I shouted. Lee made the line fast to the bow cleat. As the anchor rode tightened, we ended up just a few feet from our jug. Perfect! Now the recorder screen was filled with an impressive show of fish just below our vessel. "We should tear 'em up today," said my enthusiastic mate as he viewed the dramatic graphic presentation scratched out on the depth recorder paper.

Clambering down to the cockpit, I made my way into the main salon and toward the open forward cabin. Approaching, I got a glimpse of what they were doing, and hesitated. How shall I phrase it? Let us say they were getting to know each other in a "biblical way." Deciding discretion was indeed the better part of valor, I gingerly eased
back out toward the cockpit and closed the salon door behind me. "What's going on?', Lee asked. "Are they gonna fish or what?" "Lee, I think they chosen "or what. I don't think our passengers would be interested in fishing right at this moment."

So here we were, out in the Gulf of Mexico on a beautiful, comfortable sunny day. Fish were showing on the recorder, and everything we needed to catch some of these lunkers was at our disposal. So what the heck! Lee and I decided to fish. There was no telling how soon our guests would be in a mood to grouper dig.

The instant our frozen sardines reached bottom, Lee and I experienced those massive tugs that only hungry outsized grouper can provide. In these shallower 45-foot depths, grouper have a tendency to run when hooked, Lee's line and mine were crossing each other's as the big gags frantically made a run for the rocks. With rods bent over, both of us had our hands full, struggling to wear out and bring to submission these powerful bottom dwellers. Finally, we both reeled in "stereo groupers." Lee gaffed mine and flipped it in the box. I returned the favor and dropped his big gag into the cooler. We each had similar 15-pound beauties. This first burst of activity just got "our motor's running." In unison, we each grabbed for a frozen sardine, and were ready to do it again... and again and again! It was one of those fishing days that all us fishing nuts live for. It took no more than 10 seconds before one of these big bruisers struck our frozen sardinre popsicles. It didn't take long before the fish box was at capacity. Lee estimated we already had some 400 pounds. "And to think we're getting paid for this," Lee shouted, with a flavor of joyful irony in his voice.

Lee was right. This was a fishing charter, with two paying passengers. Yet here we were enjoying ourselves like a couple of giddy recreational anglers on a private fishing trip. As the skipper, I must confess to feeling slightly awkward having so much fun catching big fat grouper while our two customers remained in seclusion. There were still lots of hungry fish down below. Perhaps they would now like take a break and savor the thrill of a big grouper tug. Opening the salon door, I called in to announce "We're at our fishing spot and the grouper are biting!" Still no response from the folks in the forward cabin. Tiptoeing toward the bunks, I could see that our passionate passengers wouldn't be at all interested messing with some grungy grouper. "Are they coming out?," Lee asked. "No, I think they're gonna be "tied up" for a while longer. Fishing doesn't seem to be high on their agenda."

It was still early and, since the fish box was now filled to capacity, we decided to put out rods and troll a plug and a spoon while easing on back toward port. Unwrapping a couple of the several gourmet sandwiches provided by our passengers employers, Lee and I made ourselves comfortable on the bridge. Just a couple of bites into our feast, and the darn drag on the rod on the starboard side of the boat began screaming. Lee, clambered down to the cockpit and began reeling in a monster of a fish. As he eased the #3 planer aboard, he could see a late season king mackerel thrashing about at the other end of the 30-foot leader. Donning his work gloves, Lee began hand lining the fish and the long leader in toward the boat. Hoisting the frisky critter over the side, Lee realized that there was no space left in the fish box. So this turned out to be the king's lucky day. After a photo, Lee carefully released the sleek silver creature back into the Gulf, working him gently back and forth to get the water flowing across its gills. The king came back to life, jettisoning itself across the open waters and away from his traumatic experience. "What a day of fishing!" shouted Lee.

The temperature had now crept up into the low 70s. The wind velocity had dropped to zero, and the seas could rightfully be called glassy. The humidity was low, and it was one of those magnificent days when it felt great to be alive. Surrounded by this idyllic setting, it was hard to imagine that our two customers would want to be secluded in the confines of the forward cabin.

It was getting to be "that time." Lee reeled in both trolled baits, and I cranked up the diesels to about 2300 RPM, punching in the numbers for Marker #4. I steered our vessel down that imaginary loran line toward home. Climbing up the ladder to the bridge Lee and I settled down for the smooth ride home. With no thoughts of our amorous passengers, we mellowed out, drinking in the placid, crystalline atmosphere.

Coming down off plane at the mouth of the Anclote River, Lee and I finally heard slight stirrings emanating from the confines of the cabin. On deck, and stretching as though from a long night's sleep, the woman emerged proclaiming "What a wonderful trip!" At least 8 hours had elapsed since they first set foot on our vessel. To be honest, my mate and I had completely forgotten what she and her forward cabin lochinvar even looked like. Both seemed to have a rosy glow, and a look of complete satisfaction.

As the couple debarked at Port Tarpon Marina, the man slipped each of us a $100.00 tip. And since this was in the early 1980s, when it was legal to sell reef fish, we took our catch over to the fish house and received a huge cash bonus for the 400-plus pounds of grouper. In reflection, this had to be one of the more bizarre charters I'd ever experienced. Our passengers chose to eschew the rigors of grouper fishing for their sensual 8-hour escapade down in the seclusion of the forward cabin. While, out on deck, we, the crew, were left to our own devices, enjoying a splendid and highly profitable fishing day in the Gulf of Mexico. Is that what they mean by a "win-win situation"?