Fishing experience memorable

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A quick admission before we get started this morning: I am not, typically, a thrill-seeker. I like adventure. I love experiencing new things. But I’m also pretty big on self-preservation, and I tend to avoid things that have even a moderate likelihood of killing me … maiming me … or, truth be told, making me more than a little bit nervous.

Deep-sea fishing, I figured (back in June, when the NEWS promotions department asked me to start brainstorming a new contest) didn’t seem to fit into the killing, nor maiming, categories. And even though I frequently have nightmares that revolve around me ending up swimming in tidal waves, or getting sucked into monstrous whirlpools, I figured that I could deal with a day of deep-sea adventure … and my nerves wouldn’t get the best of me.

That’s what I thought.

Did I mention that the opening scene of Gilligan’s Island – especially “The weather started getting rough” part – also makes me a bit antsy? Well, it does.

Despite all that (none of which I had even admitted to myself until returning to shore late Saturday afternoon), we here at the NEWS decided to give away a deep-sea fishing trip … with me.

John Dittmar, the captain of the Vagabond, a comfortable 40-foot boat that sails out of Southwest Harbor, joined us in the promotion. For the record, I think the S.S. Minnow was smaller than the Vagabond … so I felt pretty safe from the outset.

And on Saturday, our contest winners – Rosalie Chase of Clinton and Jeff Whitten of Enfield – along with their guests, met my brother-in-law and me in Southwest Harbor, and we clambered aboard the Vagabond for what we hoped would be a wonderful day of fishing.

If you read this space regularly, you’ll understand that my idea of a ‘wonderful day of fishing’ has very little to do with how many fish I catch. It has to do with conversations I have … scenery I see … new friends I meet … things I learn. (This, for your information, is also known in the fishing trade as “rationalization.” It’s what anglers fishing tell themselves – and others – after an unproductive day on the water).

Now, before you get the wrong idea and leap to the conclusion that our journey was a total disaster, and that I’m being a poor host, a poor guest, and an ungrateful boor, let me assure you that’s not true. Not really.

I had fun. Honest. I have Dramamine to thank for that. That, and the fact that I refused to eat breakfast … and lunch … and didn’t nibble a morsel all day until I became quite sure that my stomach wasn’t going to betray me.

Dittmar, for the record, is a great boat captain. He and his crew made us laugh all day long – which, considering the conditions, was quite a feat.

We left port under a thick blanket of fog, bound for the high seas.

Within 20 minutes, our group became aware that this pleasure cruise might prove to be a bit of a … how do I say this delicately … gastronomical test.

“What’s the over-under on this trip?” I asked Whitten … trying to break the ice. “How many people you think are gonna get sick?”

Whitten, I had quickly ascertained, has quite a sense of humor. He took a quick glance at the huddled masses … some of whom were obviously already feeling a bit queasy … and made a prediction.

“Eight,” he said.

“Good guess,” I agreed.

(In the interest of total honesty, I’ll also tell you that we nearly placed imaginary bets on which of our fellow anglers would be the first to feed the fish … but since I wasn’t at all sure the culprit might not be me … we decided not to play that game).

The further we went, the more the seas heaved. The closer to our fishing destination we got, the more the anglers heaved.

Eventually, we anchored. We grabbed rods. We fished. And we fought to remain upright … and on the boat … as the waves battered the Vagabond.

“Sorry, boys. It’s gonna be a rough one,” said one of the boat’s mates, a fellow named either Daryl, or Darrell, or Darroll (I can’t be sure, because I found out that it’s virtually impossible to write down names in a notebook while fishing with one hand and clutching the boat’s rail with the other.

Daryl/Darrell/Daroll was right … at least on that count.

But he also told us that the waves we were braving were mere five-footers, even though a quick and informal (but, I’m sure, extremely accurate) measurement by me and other intrepid anglers placed the seas at closer to 10 feet … maybe 20).

Another mate, a friendly, permanently smiling fellow named Charlie (I’m pretty sure on this name) adopted the group of us who chose to head to the bow and fish together. The boat lurched more up there … but most of the anglers up front seemed to have taken their Dramamine, so it seemed like a good place to be.

“Hey Charlie,” I said at one point, after a particularly angry wave smacked the boat, and threatened to knock my brother-in-law into the drink. “You ever lose anybody overboard?”

Charlie looked closely at me … then glanced out at the raging (to me, at least) sea. Then back at me.

“Not yet,” he said, smile still pasted to his face.

I’m happy to report, days later, that Charlie’s perfect record is still intact. Though the seas thrashed us quite severely, we survived. I didn’t get tossed into a whirlpool, nor into a tidal wave. I didn’t relive Gilligan’s misfortune.

And after we reached dry land and wobbled up the dock, our guests assured me that they’d had a fine time … all things considered.

One thing’s certain: All of us ended up with a story we’ll tell for years to come.

Sometimes, that’s all you can hope for.

John Holyoke can be reached at jholyoke@bangordailynews.net or by calling 990-8214 or 1-800-310-8600.