Two new trolling lines are set. Almost instantly, there’s another strike. “Marlin!” Hartman yells. Suzanne graciously lets me take the rod. More than 200 yards out, I can see the marlin—a striped one—spectacularly tailwalking against the sky. It comes in closer and begins performing a series of acrobatic leaps, what’s known as greyhounding. It charges toward the boat so quickly that I’m sure I’ve lost it. Then it reappears on the other side, perhaps 100 feet away, its magnificent head, with its iridescent blues, greens, and golds, heart-stoppingly visible. Then the marlin is back on the starboard side, staring right at me, its head shaking violently. That’s when the hook slips free. Well, I comfort myself, I was going to release it anyway. And the likelihood of a photograph in this boisterous sea is all but impossible.
Suddenly, though, I’ve got other things on my mind. Water is swirling over my ankles and pouring out of the well where Terrence’s wahoo lies. I see Arturo busily bailing with a bucket. Not a good sign. As I understand it, some sort of short has caused the bilge pumps to malfunction. Once the well is free of water, the immediate problem will be corrected. But there’s more bad news. The initial surge of water has gotten into the starboard engine’s carburetor, and it’s conked out.
This ends all thought of continuing to fish—no matter how many more marlin, wahoo, yellowfin tuna, or dolphin may be lurking beneath the surface. The other engine is still working, and at 1 p.m. we start back at about ten miles an hour. The swells, meanwhile, have built to something like eight feet. An hour later, the second outboard starts to overheat because of the strain, and Hartman has to throttle down to about four miles an hour.
For the first time, Terrence begins to show some anxiety. “What about that second engine?” I assure him it will get us home eventually (and hope fervently I am right). As impervious as ever to the heaving swells, he then goes forward to the bow and falls asleep on the deck with Suzanne sitting next to him.
At 3:30, we spot another boat on the horizon. Hartman tries the radio, with no success. It shows power, but, as we’ll later discover, there’s a crimp in the antenna wire. He then tries sending up three flares. None work. We labor on.
With another hour still to go if everything stays the same, we begin to make out The Friars in the setting sun. Suddenly Terrence wakes up and is dazzled to find humpback whales breaching all around us. One is close enough to send a cascade of water over us. “Doused by a humpback whale!” he says. “What an honor!”
Finally, at 7:30, spared a long, helpless night at sea, we tie up at the marina. Terrence’s wahoo weighs in at 65 pounds. According to the International Game Fish Association, the world’s wahoo record for the “Small Fry” category (kids 10 years and under) is 77 pounds. So Terrence is right up there.
Hartman thanks us for reacting calmly in the face of a near catastrophe. Nothing like the day’s adventures has ever happened under his watch, and he’s still aghast at the turn of events. Suzanne speaks the truth when she says any ranting or raving on our part wouldn’t have done much good. Things happen.
Two nights later, Carl Marts, the chef at the Hotel Twin Dolphin, where we’re staying, prepares a dinner featuring Terrence’s wahoo. We start with a tartare of wahoo mixed with lime juice, Dijon mustard, olive oil, chives, Italian parsley, and cilantro. The wahoo steaks, an inch thick, have been marinated in lime juice, garlic, and olive oil, then grilled and served with a chile-spiked pineapple and mango salsa.
“So, Dad,” says Terrence with a mischievous grin, “what’s the verdict?”
“It’s delicious,” I tell him.
“Ah,” he says, “I thought you’d say that.”
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