BATTLED A MONSTER FISH
A 15-year-old boy clashes with a mysterious
giant of the deep; here is the youth's
account of the year's great fishing story
FOR 33 HOURS
I
I shoulder harness and a swivel-type socket set
in plywood made Michael's long tussle easier.
SGML
By MICHAEL DOUGLAS
as told to John W. Wasik
I HAD BEEN battling the monster
fish for 24 hours. My arms ached
and my legs felt as if they had doubled
in weight. Maybe I was half-asleep, too.
At any rate, the huge fish suddenly veered out
toward the Atlantic Ocean. The terrific tug near
ly toppled me into the churning surf which dashed
against the pilings of the pier.
I set the drag on my reel and pulled until my
homemade cane pole was bent like a horseshoe,
and my back was ready to break. But it was no
use. With the force of a bulldozer, the sea brute
stole precious yards of line. I knew it was almost
over and summoned every ounce of strength left
to turn back the fish.
My battle with a sea monster, which was to
make headlines across the country, happened last
June. I'm 15 years old, the son of an Air Force
doctor who had just been transferred from Vir
ginia to Cape Canaveral, Fla. At the Cape, I had
taken up fishing from the pier at Patrick Air
E yip FI
Force Base and soon was having long give-and-take
fights with sharks and tarpons. I was lucky
once, landing a 160-pound shark.
, This particular day, three sharks had scooped
my bait and dashed off. I was discouraged. I cast
out about 60 yards, set my pole in an old rail, and
went to the bait shop for a drink of water. When
I returned, my heart went into orbit. The pole
was bent until the tip was pointing straight into
the surf.
I'm not going to lose this one, I thought, and
gave the pole a powerful tug. The hook set: he
was on to stay. But I had no idea how long he
and I would test each other or how overwhelm
ing his strength would be.
I had never encountered anything with such
power. It wasn't fighting furiously like a tarpon.
It wasn't racing around in the ocean like a
shark. This monster wasn't fighting at all but
he was winning by sheer weight. My line was
going out, and I could do nothing about it.
The fish would swim to the north in a long arc,
turn around and swim south past the pier, and
back north again. Each time he turned, however,
he would unleash a burst of energy and take out
a few yards of line. He would keep the line tight
Seat belts used
in every car
could save at least
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the National
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at
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-V H" Mini
Published to save lives in cooperation with The
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OK'
as he swam, making sure I didn't reel in an inch.
I had tied into this beast around 3 p.m., and as
the sun went down that awful heaviness set into
my arms and legs. When my mom came to pick
me up, she had to fight her way through a crowd
of people which was gathering at the pier's end to
watch the struggle. When she saw the crowd,
she knew what was going on: once she had to
wait two hours and 17 minutes while I fought
and landed a 160-pound great white shark.
Mom decided to go after Dad and come back
for me later. I just kept up the struggle and
tried not to pay attention to the group of "ex
perts" shouting advice.
"Are you sure you got a fish there, sonny?"
. . . "Give it up no boy can fight something that
big!" . . . "You're handling it all wrong!"
Then a real fisherman came to my rescue. He
was Lewis Symmes, whom I'd fished with before.
"Anything I can do?" he asked.
The leather socket strapped to my hips was rip
ping apart under the pressure. When Mr. Symmes
saw this, he gave me his pole socket, a swivel type
set in a plywood base that rested on my legs. He
also gave me a harness to put around my shoulders
to which I could hook the reel. My body felt less
like dead weight after that
As the sky' became a deep gray, the pier began
to empty. Only a few spectators remained when
Mom and Dad returned with blankets, a lantern,
and some cake for me. They knew I wouldn't give
up this fight too easily, and they came prepared
to spend the night.
"What's on the line, Dad?" I asked.
"I don't know," he yawned, "but I do know
I have to get up early." He huddled in one of
the blankets sound asleep in a few minutes.
For the rest of the night Mom and I chatted
to keep each other awake. The fish never let
up the constant pressure and neither did I.
Whenever I dozed, I would awaken myself with
a reminder: this could be a great record fish, and
I could prove I was man enough to land him.
At dawn I was shocked to notice that my line
was now due north of me. The fish was about
200 yards from shore the same distance as I
was. Suddenly my line went slack.
"He's off, Mom," I yelled. "No, wait he's
coming straight for us." Dad jumped up to
watch. My monster fish, my beautiful record was
coming straight for me! The line literally gushed
onto the reel as he charged the pier. I was wide
awake and fighting once more.
From about 150 yards out, he raced in. About
100 yards, then 100 feet then only 50 feet from
the end of the pier. My line dropped almost
straight off into the water as the monster charged
the pilings.
Suddenly he turned, heading straight for the
middle of the Atlantic again. We thought we saw
his massive outline as he whipped past the pier.
It didn't look like much more than a huge, shape
less shadow, camouflaged by the breaking waves
and murky bottom. Then he vanished.
It was now 13 hours since I first hooked him,
and I could barely hold the pole and stay awake.
Dad left for the base, so Mom kept encouraging
me. The fish had gone back to his long, sweeping
traverse. I was sure I had him, though. His
charge toward the pier had been in desperation.
And I had checked it. I had won, or so I thought.
Dad returned with a full breakfast. I could
hardly stay awake to eat it, but when I was
through I really perked up.
A radio news reporter came out and inter
viewed me in his mobile unit The word must
have gotten around because by mid-morning the
pier was jammed with people.
As for the fish, he was still tugging just as
hard on the line as I was. Line! The sudden
thought stunned me. I had been fighting a
1 imf''
.-?:, .-'S3
The 15-year-old lad's parents stayed near as he
battled the big fish on into the second night.
monster all night on a 63-pound-test line! I
began to worry that it would break any minute.
Around noon, Dad informed me that several
skin divers wanted to go down to try to identify
the fish. In fact, if I wanted, they would shoot
it and haul it in. I said it would be all right for
them to look but not to shoot the fish. If this was
a record catch, I wanted it caught the right way.
A fish with so much fight deserved that much.
When the skin divers returned, they reported
that the water was too murky to see much, but
according to their observations and the opinions
of several expert fishermen, we decided that I
was hooked into a giant jewfish, weighing be
tween 300 and 700 pounds. But we couldn't be
sure it was only a guess.
It was now 24 hours since the fish and I had
tangled. The crowds were so big, Air Police were
called out to handle traffic. Well, I figured, it
won't be long now, and I'll have my record catch.
And then, as I mentioned in the beginning, came
that terrific tug that almost toppled me into the
surf. The precious yards of line ran outward.
Setting the drag on my reel as tight as possi
ble, I pulled until my pole was bent in an in
verted U. It was no use. The line was going out
too fast. Frantically I thumbed the reel and
leaned with everything I had against the fish.
With only 30 yards of the full 350 remaining,
the fish eased off.
The crowd cheered, and I sat back to catch
my breath. It was the toughest part of the battle
yet. As the sun set behind me for the second
time, several newsmen arrived, bringing all
sorts of equipment: radios, lights, cameras.
Mom and Dad watched me closely to make sure
I wasn't too tired. One fast jerk or false step
and I could end up in the surf. Twenty-eight
hours after the battle began, my Dad made a
decision : "Mike, I'll have to ask you to get some
sleep." I didn't want to leave the pole, but I
knew Dad was right.
I placed the pole in the railing on the pier and
gave instructions that no one was to touch it
If anything happened, I was to be awakened.
Grabbing a couple of blankets, I curled up
right on the end of the pier. For the first time
in 30 hours, I closed my eyes.
I slept for about two hours when suddenly I
sat bolt upright. I thought I heard something.
It sounded like a piercing whistle like a whip
singing through the air.
"The line's gone loose, Mike," Dad yelled as
he rushed to the pole.
I bounced up and jerked the pole from the
railing and began reeling in the line. The crowd
was silent I heaved back on the pole, searching
for that familiar snagged-on-the-bottom feeling.
It wasn't there. Then a whisp of breeze lifted
my line out of the water.
It had failed! The 63-pound-test line had
stretched as far as it would go and broke.
I turned slowly to Dad and the others. "He's
off," I said. I could have cried. I guess that's
why I went right to work packing my gear.
Dad patted me on the back as we walked to
the car. All I could think of was that my fish had
a tremendous will to live. When I thought of
that, I found that I was kind of glad he got away.
He deserved to live.
I pulled my straw hat over my eyes and, as I
began to fall asleep, I remembered all the other
fish out there. The next time I hooked a big one
I was darn sure I'd get him.
( Editors' Note : Before returning to school this
September, Mike Douglas proved himself right.
First came a "warm-up" a fighting 7.1pound
tarpon landed in only 33 minutes. Two weeks
later a 125-pound hammerhead hit his line with
lightning unexpectedness: an hour later Mike
had landed him. The monster jewfish! "Next
year," says Mike.)
Family Weekly, Octotwr 17, 19C3
15