Backcast Racing the Clock
TOURNAMENT FEVER KEEPS THIS CREW ONE STEP AHEAD OF DISASTER — BARELY One thing doesn’t always lead to another. Sometimes, it leads to a bunch of things.
Erik Rue is a longtime, big-time charter and tournament fisherman who calls Louisiana’s Calcasieu Lake home. For a major winter redfish event out of Orange Beach, Alabama, Rue partnered with a (nameless, to protect his industry reputation) friend who was a factory rep for the boat Rue drove at the time.
Their plan was to ignore the smaller reds in Alabama and Mississippi. Instead, they’d race the clock to plug a couple of Louisiana ponds they knew were loaded with slobs.
Long-term forecasts predicted mild weather for their 125-mile ride each way across Mobile Bay, some other bays, a stretch of the Intracoastal Waterway, and the Gulf of Mexico. A strong norther arrived early and changed everything.
“Temperature dropped hard; it was raining and blowing north at 30,” Rue recalled. “To win, though, we knew we had to go.”
That pond full of pigs kept them focused, even if it didn’t keep them dry or warm.
“Around Pascagoula,” Rue said, “the oil alarm goes off.”
The rig’s oil reservoir was upside down, uncapped and empty.
They limped into a marina for oil and fuel. Rue would shop while his partner pumped gas.
Oil was available, the shopkeeper offered, but not oil-reservoir caps.
Rue hustled back outside and was met by a strong smell of gasoline.
His boat-rep partner, battered and dazed by the ride and weather, had shoved the fuel nozzle into a rod holder and had its handle in a death grip.
“Shut it off!” Rue yelled, then added under his breath, “Please don’t start, bilge pump. Please, please don’t start.”
Rue raced back into the marina store for dish soap to render that gasoline not quite so combustible. He grabbed a bottle, promised to pay before leaving, and raced to the boat. He soaped up the livewell and then splashed sudsy water across the gas-soaked hull.
When the bilge pump finally kicked on — without explosion — water in the marina “looked like an oil tanker had run aground.”
If they couldn’t buy a cap, they’d have to take one. The actual plan was to “borrow” one and replace it with $20 and a note. Eventually, although Rue wouldn’t say exactly how, a cap was secured, and the race continued.
Finally on the super pond, where the north wind had sucked out 2 feet of tide overnight, they calculated barely 45 minutes to fish. On the end where many fish had been, a quarter-hour of work produced one — and it was undersize.
They raced to the other end and, in less time than it took to “find” an oil cap, loaded the not-soaped livewell with tournament winners.
Conditions on the return were as bad as on the outgoing leg, except that the misery came from the other side. That oil reservoir couldn’t handle the ride going or coming. Alarm. Again. Repairs and refills were made quickly at the Beau Rivage Marina. Still, with a chance, they raced toward tournament headquarters. Then an intake stuck open and filled half the hull with water. Then something behind them exploded, and smoke poured from a rear hatch.
And then they’d had enough. Rue didn’t mention whether he’s partnered with that friend again, but …