"Fishing... Some of Life's Best Moments Are Spent This Way" -- In Robert McAlmon’s book, “Being Geniuses Together 1920-1930” he shares many of the adventures he and his pal Ernest Hemingway had in Europe between the two world wars. He writes, “Before leaving Paris, Hemingway had been much of a shadow-boxer. As he approached a café he would prance about, sparring at shadows, his lips moving, calling his imaginary opponent’s bluff. Upon returning from Spain, he substituted shadow-bull-fighting for shadow-boxing. The amount of imaginary cape work and sword thrusts he made in those days was formidable. Later he went to Key West and went in for barracuda fishing, and I wonder if he took then to shadow-barracuda-fishing, or coming back from Africa he would shadow-lion-hunt. He has a boy’s need to be a tough guy, a swell boxer, a strong man.”

I had the opportunity a few years ago to do some big game fishing off the coast of Grenada, in the British West Indies. It was fall, and the season hadn’t started for marlin or tuna, but we would try.

Captain Gary Clifford and his mate Leslie of the Yes Aye, a 31’ sports fishing boat, led us out of St. George’s harbor into the Caribbean Sea. From the bridge I could see that even in the distance, the waters were perfectly calm. Behind us, village roofs of dark red and hillsides saturated with green blurred into one.

I’d never fished for anything as big as six hundred pounds. Could I really land a blue marlin or catch and release a sailfish? My father had taken a 76-pound sailfish years before in these same waters. I was nervous, not wanting to be just another shadow-barracuda-fisherman, or in my case, a shadow-barracuda-fisherwoman.

While we trolled the deeper waters with ballyhoo baits, I waited. Leslie was waiting too, in that way only a first-rate fisherman does—watching for any sign that would tell him there were fish. Sometimes it ’s as subtle as a dark patch of water. I watched too, but my eyes kept coming back to the fighting chair. After a lifetime of reading about them, seeing them on television, here was one just a few feet away. I wanted to sit in it badly.

Leslie caught me looking. In his baritone voice, sweetened with the lilt and cadence of a West Indian accent, he asked, “Would you like to try sitting in it?”

I hadn’t earned it yet, and we both knew this. “Not until I’ve got a fish on,” I told him.

He laughed. “That’s what everyone says.”

I smiled and leaned back against the cabin, closing my eyes for a moment. The sun was warm and I didn’t want to be anywhere else right now but on this boat.

Later, when land was only a faint outline on the horizon, I sensed something was about to happen. I sat up and stared expectedly at the water. The minutes passed with nothing tugging on the lines. Leslie adjusted one of the starboard outriggers. It was then I saw something dark flash behind him.

“Something’s out there!” I yelled, but he couldn’t hear me above the turbo engines. I rushed to the railing. There, just a few feet beyond the water spray were three dolphins. They rose in perfect unison, breaking the water in a tight arc before disappearing again beneath the surface. As they rose and dove parallel to the boat I felt blessed to see them, and their visit was much too brief. Having settled back into my seat, I was taken by surprise when the portside rod bent suddenly and line was instantly paying out.
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“Fish on!” I yelled, jumping up. Leslie wheeled around but I got there first. I hesitated, not knowing protocol. Do I take the rod myself, or am I supposed to go to the fighting chair? I did the latter and Leslie quickly handed me the rod.

“Did you set it?” I asked and he nodded, though I’m not sure he heard my question. I just reeled. Captain Gary came down from the bridge. With the boat in neutral, the fish was now running the show.

After years of dreaming of this moment, I was finally in the fighting chair, a fish at the other end of my line. The world narrowed and it was just the two of us. Keeping the rod tip high, I reeled in feet at a time, guiding the thick line back onto the spool with my thumb; left to right, right to left. He was fighting, but the line was coming back too easily. I knew this wasn’t a Blue Marlin or Yellowfin. Closer to the boat, the fish leapt into the air. Barracuda. I was shadow-fishing no more.

The day went on like that, one Barracuda after another. When I landed them, their jaws snapped and leapt for Leslie’s fingers. He was careful with them, very careful, and their rows of jagged teeth fascinated me. These fish make for good eating, and none would be wasted.

A Rainbow Runner broke the pace. I wasn’t familiar with the species, and in contrast to the deadly Barracuda, it seemed almost gentle. It skidded across the water as I reeled him in, resigned to its fate. (Later that night, the chef at the Coyaba Hotel where I was staying presented it to me sliced and steaming hot on a platter surrounded with fresh vegetables. It made for a wonderful dinner.)

I’d chartered the boat for only a half-day and the time passed all too quickly. In the end, I hadn’t fought with a marlin or any other monster. But with fishing, I know I’ll always be back for more. It’s just that this time, I’ve got an excuse.

My father with a 76 pound sailfish he caught on New Year's Day in 1979. Grenada, West Indies.

You can also visit Capt. Gary Clifford's website at True Blue Sportfishing Grenada