COMEOCTOBER

Ilooked up from the boat as a tuna swam by intheswellabovemyhead. The fish shimmered as the spreader lights from our 65-footer projected onto the wave in the middle of a pitch-black October night 100 miles from nowhere. “Well, that’s interesting,” I thought. “Never seen that before.” ¶ The swells were measurable— and increasing. Another favorable weather forecast blown to smithereens. As our vessel rose to the top of the swell, the tuna disappeared into the trough. ¶ These were the days before a multifunction display could show real-time weather, before a smartphone could show that it’s about to rain on the other side of the street. We got an offshore forecast a day or two ahead of a trip and went with it. That said, we did know that October weather in the north Atlantic can flip from heads to tails in a heartbeat. And on this day, it flipped. We should have left. ¶ But we fished all night because the tuna bite was on fire. I guess the fish knew a storm was coming. The wind picked up, and the swells got white and made a swooshing sound as they rolled at the boat. Every time we’d hook up a fish, it was reel up to the fish and then reel down to the darkness.

sea of white, cresting awfulness with a ‘take that’ attitude.

Up to the fish. Down to the darkness. We even gaffed a few in the swell at about eye level, seemingly plucking them off the shelf like a grocery-store clerk grabbing canned vegetables. ¶ By the time the sun came up, we could see what we were dealing with: an infinite sea of white, cresting awfulness with a “take that” attitude. The ride home was not going to be fun. ¶ It took about 40 minutes to get the anchors hauled in from 300 feet down and secured. We tried to make way. At about 12 knots, the props pulled out of the water and the boat fell onto its spine; everyone could feel the impact shoot from their toes to their teeth. At 10 knots, the props pulled. Finally, at around 7 knots, we could go up and over the seas—most of the time. Some of the bigger water crashed over the bridge, shaking the boat to its core. ¶ What seemed like an eternity was actually around a 12-hour steam to our home inlet. Even though the weather abated slightly along the way, seeing the inlet made everyone smile. We had made it home. We were safe. ¶ Next month is another October. The tuna will be here. An army of anglers will head out to chase them. I’ll probably go too. But I’m older now, so if the wind even whispers at me, I’m going home.