Popular Mechanics (South Africa)
FISHING FROM THE SKY
The future of fishing hinges on technology that’s been around since before electricity: kites.
IT REQUIRES some trust to climb into a boat with a guy you’ve just met and make small talk about the weather and last night’s soft-shell po’boy while he fires the engines of his 11-metre Seavee centre console and makes dry land get tinier and tinier in the distance. But a couple hours into our offshore excursion just north of Pompano Beach, Florida, Captain Mike Genoun gives me little reason to fear. Maybe it’s the perma-tan from 30 years on the water, the stud in his ear, or the skull-adorned neck gaiter he pulls up high to keep the midday sun off his cheeks. If he weren’t an honestto-god captain, his friends would probably still nickname him Captain. He’s that cool. So cool, in fact, that I don’t immediately realise when he begins a heart-to-heart chat with a children’s toy.
“C’mon, baby,” he whispers lovingly to his kite, a Newport dangling from his lips. “Fly for daddy.”
We’re here to kite-fish, which involves baited lines held aloft by colourful nylon flyers; a specialised technique well known to south Florida anglers, and gaining popularity among tourists seeking the saltwater fight of a lifetime. Kite fishermen can fish multiple lines at once, each fed into a release clip on the main kite line. The kite goes up until the rigs, marked by neon Styrofoam floats, are spaced roughly eight metres apart and the live bait swims freely just below the surface. This presentation lets the cluster of baitfish mimic normal schooling habits and eliminates the unnatural pull of lures back towards the boat. When a strike comes, the neon float starts to run and the clip opens up as the fisherman eliminates the slack, releasing the line and allowing him to reel in his catch or, you know, have his hook thrown and hopes dashed.
Captain Mike promises kite fishing can be one of the most exciting methodsth d of fl landingdi anythingthi f from sailfishilfi h and dd doll phin (think mahi, not Flipper) to cobia and black-fin tuna. But a few hours into our trip, it’s looking like I might just have to take his word for it. Our problem is a familiar one for any kite enthusiast: wind. There isn’t any. The early-morning fog has burned off beautifully, giving way to temperatures in the high 20s and warm, inky waters, but without a sustained, stiff gust, we’re watching the metre-square kites dip perilously close to a sea as smooth as glass. The Dramamine I popped as a precaution sits in my stomach with nothing to do. A puny breeze rolls in from the wrong direction. “You know what they say,” Captain Mike offers, making another adjustment to his tackle. “When the wind’s from the west, stay home and rest.”
Iffy conditions aside, the crew – fellow captain Carlos Rodriguez and Meir Genoun, Mike’s brother – make the best of our day on the water. They show me how to jig for mutton snapper, tugging and reeling a metal lure with a breakneck rhythm that I nearly rip my arm off attempting to replicate. They tell sea stories, like what proteinrich part of the fish to eat first if you’re stranded on a desert island (the eyes) and why bananas mean bad luck to sailors (something about fruit bacteria and an ill-fated crew). Captain Mike chimes in with a story of his own about the origin of today’s pursuit, a practice he says dates back hundreds of years to Polynesian seafarers who flew banana leaves attached to thin vines while using tangles of spiderwebs to ensnare the long, thin jaws of needlefish. It sounds just plausible enough to Google, but cell service is spotty out here.
One thing’s for sure: the technology has come a long way since the Polynesians. Captain Mike’s set-up is intricate – highly co-ordinated chaos that he’s perfected overer the past decade. We fish three lines per kite, one rig at the bow and the other middle-port-side, angling sternward. The kites, held taut by carbonfibre spars and designed to perform in winds of 10 to 40 km/h, are connected to an electric reel. Having anticipated the calm conditions, Captain Mike bolsters each kite with a one-metre latex balloon, which C Captain Carlos and Meir fill with helium. For an ancient Polynesian tradition, kite fishing shares a few similarities with a child’s birthday party. I make a joke about twisting up balloon animals, but no one laughs.
Our bait are goggle-eyes, a shiny, hyper species. We’re using 10-kgclass reels, two-metre glass fibreand-graphite composite rods, hi-vis monofilament line, and 30-centimetre wire leaders; a worthy safeguard against line shredding, especially when your bait has the street value of a Schedule 1 narcotic. Occasionally the kite will catch a gust and lift a goggle-eye out of the ocean, where it “swims” suspended in air like a sign of the apocalypse until Captain Mike adjusts the line and the goggleeye re-enters with a plop.
By 12:30 pm, after a few quick relocations, the stars begin to align. Nearby, a flock of gulls sits calmly on the surface, a surefire sign that
small fish – and thus, we hope, bigger fish – are in the area.
After a quarter of an hour of breath holding, the bow kite twitches and the middle rod flexes. Captain Carlos breaks the silence, shouting, “Fish on! Fish on! Fish on!” and takes the slack from the line. Five hours of calm explode into a frenzy of activity as Captain Carlos bounds up and down the bow to keep the fish in front of him. Without warning, a 1,8-metre sailfish with a marbled brown dorsal launches itself violently into the air. Captain Carlos adjusts his drag and lets the fish make a run. The rod doubles over, then straightens, and the sail surges upwards again before hydroplaning across the water like one of those gravity-defying Jesus lizards.
The fight is short-lived, however. The sailfish’s tail is wrapped in the line, and it quickly becomes exhausted. Captain Mike fires the motors and carves a path to get the fish untangled and off the hook. Like the conservationist mantra goes: catch and release and try not to drop your iphone into the Atlantic while snapping a hundred photos. Then it’s back to work, resetting the kites. “Fly for daddy,” he whispers as the stern rig drifts upward.
Our final catch of the day comes around 3:30 – right about the time my pulse returns to normal – when a halfmetre needle-fish hooks itself on the shortest bow line. All bite, no fight. We land him in seconds. “See? This is what the Polynesians would have caught,” says Captain Mike, poking a finger at its rows of jagged pin-point teeth. As we head back to the marina in the dimming afternoon light, I wonder if the Polynesians had rhymes for optimal wind conditions, or if they admonished their hollow-log canoe mates for sneaking fruit on board, or if, like Captain Mike, they occasionally flashed a softer side, whispering sweetly to a banana leaf before it drifted skyward. It’s possible. After all, kite fishing does strange things to people.