"Two hours on the Tilt-A-Whirl, [View All]

[trof]

or, trof goes fishing"

My wealthy (and very generous) friend Carl invited me on a deep sea fishing trip he laid on for his daughter's birthday. He had chartered the 90 foot Shady Lady for the day. The Shady Lady is a class act. Large air conditioned saloon, lots of eats and drinks, a real pleasure/fishing craft. We'd be going out 30 or so miles in the Gulf of Mexico, fishing for Red Snapper.

I checked the marine forecast. No rain. Winds 15-20 mph, out of the southeast. Three to five foot seas. Sounds kinda bumpy.
I've been out in much, much smaller boats, in some pretty rough seas before. Never a qualm; not even a burp. No sweat.

As we approached Perdido Pass, heading out into the gulf from the calm inland water, the water in the pass was roiled, with crosscurrents running every whichaway. A little choppy on the way through, but the big 90-footer took it in stride.
Then we hit the open water.

HOLY SH*T! We immediately started pitching fore-and-aft, rolling right-to-left, about 30 degrees with each swell. We're making about 15 knots headway, so it'll be a two hour trip to the fishing grounds. Ugh.

I was thankful that all I'd had that morning was a couple of cups of coffee. The first half hour or so were OK. I stayed out on the aft fishing deck for a while, having a smoke, and holding on for dear life. Started getting drenched with spray, and decided to head inside.

Sausage biscuits were laid out in the saloon, and I thought about having one. Naw, I'll wait till we get out to calmer water. I stretched out on a couch (one foot on the floor to keep from getting tossed off) thinking maybe I'd catch a little snooze on the way out. After 15 minutes I found this wouldn't work. Sat up in time to see Carl's wife disappearing through the hatch to the outside, then hanging over the aft rail. Her daughter followed shortly. Poor gals.

Then two of the guys elected to join the ladies at the aft rail. Whew.

A few minutes after that, with no warning, a guy sitting in the corner did a classic projectile vomit, reaching half-way across the room. I started feeling a little queasy. A sign on the bulkhead says "Vomiting outside is free, vomiting inside will cost you $50." Maybe I'll step outside for a bit.

I turned my face into the cool spray. Better. For a couple of minutes. And then not. I made my way around the railing to the aft of the deck and said so long to my two cups of coffee. Are we having fun yet?

It was that way for two solid hours. Eventually my stomach calmed down. A cigarette and a beer helped. The ladies and two of the guys spent the whole trip in misery on the aft deck. To come inside induced instant dry heaves. If there is a Hell, it must be something like this.

The good news: We caught our limit of Snapper. I landed a couple of 20 pounders and released 5 or 6 that were under 2 feet long. Dennis, our able deckhand, estimated we bagged about 450 pounds, total. Dennis moved about the pitching deck (in a pair of flip-flops!) with ease. I think he has gyroscopes in his knees.

p.s. Carl has laid on another trip for Mother's Day. Would I like to come?
Thanks, I think we'll be out of town.
;-)