the crew was tired, they rallied to show sincere enthusiasm for new and improved bait. Machado dialed his friend.
A little while later, a truck backed down the wharf and came to an abrupt stop with a hiss and puff from the air brakes. The men quickly moved the boxes of bait from the back of the truck to the Seahawk âs deck. I tore the top of a cardboard box open to inspect the frozen contents. Machado had not exaggerated. Horse mackerel is what we call this size fish at homeâand these were horsier than most. Certainly full-figured, they carried their girth from head to tail and must have averaged two pounds each in weight. Rather than the dull haze that older bait of lesser quality shows in its skin, the fish shimmered in black, deep blue, and crisp white. Four grown men stood behind me and admired the frozen mackerel with oohs and aahs more appropriate to a bunch of guys looking at a copy of Playboy magazine. When we finished ogling what we imagined would result in some whopper swordfish, I signed the receipt and went up to the bridge to start the engine in preparation for leaving the wharf. The prospect of having better bait than Scotty was exciting.
The engine warmed as the crew stacked the new bait in the fish hold on a bed of saltwater ice. I booted up a computer and examined the electronic chart of Sambro Harbor that appeared. I hadnât paid strict attention to the way weâd entered the port, as I wasnât driving at the time. But the channel from the wharf looked to be well buoyed, and the conditions were pristine. Iâm always a bit apprehensive when navigating in an area with which Iâm unfamiliarâeven with the best electronic aids and paper charts, nothing beats local knowledge. I switched on the radar and the depth sounder.
Then I stepped out the back door and did a quick head count. All present and accounted for; even Machado sat on the rail and smoked a cigarette, waiting patiently for me to shove off. I asked the men to let all the lines go except for the one running aft from the forward bit. I put the boat in gear with the rudder hard to port. The boat strained against the remaining line, springing the stern to starboard and away from the dock. I put the engine in neutral to relieve the tension of the line, nodded to Hiltz to release the spring line, and we were off.
Idling the length of the channel, I kept an eye on the chart plotter and the depth sounder. The area appeared to be idiotproof in its abundance of deep water interrupted by the occasional rocky outcropping or island. The landscape was very much like home, causing slight warmth in this otherwise cool day. Outside the harbor I steered east of a tiny island named Isle of Man and split the difference between Inner Sambro Island and Sambro Island proper. The last peak of ledge protruding through the glassy surface was Gull Rock, which I passed to the north before turning east and getting back on course for the Grand Banks. The only obstacles to stay clear of were the dangerous shoals around two spots marked on the chartâBlack Rock and the Sistersâeach of which I would give a wide berth.
Land faded as open ocean seemed to embrace the Seahawk in her easterly progress. I snapped on the autopilot and sat in the captainâs chair, worries dimming with distance gained from shore. Things could have been so much worse. Scotty had taken us in a northeasterly direction to Sambro, so the time under tow had been somewhat productive, as we were closer to our destination now than we had been when the engine broke down. And with the price of diesel fuel at an all-time high, any savings was huge. Repairs to the engine had gone more smoothly than I could have imagined. I had spent too many days in foreign ports waiting for engine parts that always got lost along the way to be anything other than surprised now to be at sea. We had spent only twelve hours at the dock. The crew was intact and already at work making gear.
A little while later, a truck backed down the wharf and came to an abrupt stop with a hiss and puff from the air brakes. The men quickly moved the boxes of bait from the back of the truck to the Seahawk âs deck. I tore the top of a cardboard box open to inspect the frozen contents. Machado had not exaggerated. Horse mackerel is what we call this size fish at homeâand these were horsier than most. Certainly full-figured, they carried their girth from head to tail and must have averaged two pounds each in weight. Rather than the dull haze that older bait of lesser quality shows in its skin, the fish shimmered in black, deep blue, and crisp white. Four grown men stood behind me and admired the frozen mackerel with oohs and aahs more appropriate to a bunch of guys looking at a copy of Playboy magazine. When we finished ogling what we imagined would result in some whopper swordfish, I signed the receipt and went up to the bridge to start the engine in preparation for leaving the wharf. The prospect of having better bait than Scotty was exciting.
The engine warmed as the crew stacked the new bait in the fish hold on a bed of saltwater ice. I booted up a computer and examined the electronic chart of Sambro Harbor that appeared. I hadnât paid strict attention to the way weâd entered the port, as I wasnât driving at the time. But the channel from the wharf looked to be well buoyed, and the conditions were pristine. Iâm always a bit apprehensive when navigating in an area with which Iâm unfamiliarâeven with the best electronic aids and paper charts, nothing beats local knowledge. I switched on the radar and the depth sounder.
Then I stepped out the back door and did a quick head count. All present and accounted for; even Machado sat on the rail and smoked a cigarette, waiting patiently for me to shove off. I asked the men to let all the lines go except for the one running aft from the forward bit. I put the boat in gear with the rudder hard to port. The boat strained against the remaining line, springing the stern to starboard and away from the dock. I put the engine in neutral to relieve the tension of the line, nodded to Hiltz to release the spring line, and we were off.
Idling the length of the channel, I kept an eye on the chart plotter and the depth sounder. The area appeared to be idiotproof in its abundance of deep water interrupted by the occasional rocky outcropping or island. The landscape was very much like home, causing slight warmth in this otherwise cool day. Outside the harbor I steered east of a tiny island named Isle of Man and split the difference between Inner Sambro Island and Sambro Island proper. The last peak of ledge protruding through the glassy surface was Gull Rock, which I passed to the north before turning east and getting back on course for the Grand Banks. The only obstacles to stay clear of were the dangerous shoals around two spots marked on the chartâBlack Rock and the Sistersâeach of which I would give a wide berth.
Land faded as open ocean seemed to embrace the Seahawk in her easterly progress. I snapped on the autopilot and sat in the captainâs chair, worries dimming with distance gained from shore. Things could have been so much worse. Scotty had taken us in a northeasterly direction to Sambro, so the time under tow had been somewhat productive, as we were closer to our destination now than we had been when the engine broke down. And with the price of diesel fuel at an all-time high, any savings was huge. Repairs to the engine had gone more smoothly than I could have imagined. I had spent too many days in foreign ports waiting for engine parts that always got lost along the way to be anything other than surprised now to be at sea. We had spent only twelve hours at the dock. The crew was intact and already at work making gear.
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