Fishing Aboard The Relentless II
with Captain Scott Bussen

I’ve never been fishing. Sure, when I was a kid I would catch an occasional brim or catfish behind my house in the creek, but I’d never really been Fishing.

It’s four o’clock in the morning and in about an hour, I am going Fishing - ‘”Deep Sea Fishing,” to be exact. But right now, my burning eyes are fixated on my computer screen: the weather page. Moments before, I was sound asleep dreaming quietly of a warm day, out at sea with a few close friends, catching fish. But my slumber was soon interrupted by the ringing of my phone. I sprang up. Maybe we got cancelled? Maybe the seas are too rough? Maybe our boat sank? I had no idea.

But it’s none of those things. It’s my idiot buddy in Brooklyn, calling me to either tell me how drunk he is or how drunk he is. I don’t answer. Back to sleep. The phone goes again. And again. Same guy. He doesn’t realize I have a very important mission when the sun comes up. Now I’m too mad to sleep. I promise to strangle him the next time we meet. I schlep into my office and bring up the weather page.

Temp: 66 degrees. Humidity: 0%. Winds: SW at 3mph. Rain Chance: 0%. These are all good things, I presume. Like I said, I’ve never been fishing. Which is strange, because moments ago, I’d dreamt I was fishing. How did my mind know what that was like? Here I am, born and raised in Florida, and never been out in the open Atlantic.

I turned off my computer, got dressed, and grabbed my bag. Outside, the waning moon was slowly dipping into the west, the stars dancing, the palms swaying. Swaying. A bucket of anxiety washes over me. I’ve heard that being seasick is up there with the worst; there’s no turning back and it doesn’t stop. When I inquired about this nasty affliction, I was told that if I was that big of a sissy I could get something from the pharmacy. So I did. A sent a little prayer to St. Anthony that it would work, then got in my van and began to round up my sleepy comrades one by one before heading for Port Canaveral.

Although still dark, the Port was bustling with men darting about for last-minute supplies, making last-minute arrangements, perhaps writing last-minute notes to their wives lest they should get swallowed by the sea. I don’t know what their doing, really. I’m like an American child in a Chinese Algebra class. None of this is familiar to me. But I try and stay calm. “I have my cell phone, sunscreen, water, money to pay off pirates and a big bag of beef jerky,” I tell myself. Deep breaths. What a sissy. Suddenly I hear one of my comrades whisper loudly: “There he is! Let’s go!”

We gather our things and follow this stranger down the gangplank in silence to the end of the wharf to our ride, and there she is. She’s beautiful. More woman than I imagined. At 36 feet her gleaming chrome curved salaciously round her ample hull, the firm bow poised for hungry attack, her antennae quivering with anticipation. We settled in as our Captain untied ropes, iced coolers, stowed gear, fuelled up, filled wells, and performed other Captain-like duties. We offered assistance, but it was politely refused. As the final preparations were being made and no one was looking, I whispered to the lady, “Be gentle. This is my first time.” The engines fired up into a playful growl and we began our journey.

Our first order of business was to catch live bait. I was informed that this is normally a simple task, but on this particular chilly morn schools of pesky baitfish eluded not only us, but seemingly every boat in the Port eagerly awaiting to get a day of fishing underway. Our Captain, stern and alert, steered his vessel with the skill of a cat, impressive for such a large craft.

There were what seemed like a dozen boats circling, men at their bows armed with huge nets hanging from limbs and teeth, anxiously awaiting a glimpse of these stealthy fish, or at least a cry from the helm to release the nets. Our Captain remained cool and collected, for this was nothing new. His calm was a product of decades spent plying these waters and it showed, as he guided us through the mass of boats like a cunning bull.

His eyes scoured the surface for the tell-tale twinkles of life and once they were spotted, his net was released into a giant flying circle of doom. He quickly jerked up the net full of those salty bastards whom we would soon be feeding to much smarter, larger fish. This was no ordinary Captain, this was Captain Scott Bussen; his steed, the Relentless II, and this was their ocean.

Upon completion of “Operation Live Bait,” Relentless II hummed toward the rising sun. She had the confidence of a true veteran and her pride hung in the air like a salty mist. I watched as the distant shore slipped further and further away. There was no turning back. I nervously clutched my beef jerky and intoned another little prayer.

Since we were only seven, including the Captain, there was plenty of room on the ride out. Our crew consisted of Raines, Frankie, Bohak, and Skip, - all seasoned fisherman - and myself and Mack, completely unseasoned and oblivious. We felt like two virgins going out on the town with the Hell’s Angels. The boat cut through the ocean like a samuri’s blade through a tender tuna loin. While we rode, some dozed and some gazed out into the endless blue, but our Captain was working. All while keeping us on course, he rigged nine poles with leaders, weights, and hooks and assured us no fish would escape our wrath. He was well aware that he had two rookies aboard, and he was intent on making their first fish memorable.

After an hour or so, the boat slowed and the Captain fixated on a mounted 4-inch screen. He threw her into neutral, turned around and said, “This is going to get ugly.” My heart raced. “Is that good or bad?” I thought. “We’ll catch our limit here and then go after something else”, he said as handed us poles and began cutting bait. We quickly positioned ourselves at the rear of the vessel. As he handed me my rod, he gave me a quick lesson on how to reel, how not to reel, don’t let this go here, and if this happens do this - not this - and if you can’t fix it, call me and I’ll do it, and don’t be a sissy.

Our lines dropped. Silence. The Captain roared, “C’mon boys! What the hell’s goin’ on?” as if we were somehow in control. Just then, standing next to me, Mack’s rod bent in half. “Holy...!” Captian Bussen rushed over. “That’s it boy, pull ‘er up. She’s a fat sow!” Mack simply grunted, trying to turn his reel. Every muscle in his body looked stressed. I quietly chuckled to myself and thought: “Man, what a wimp.”

Then BAMMO. There was an aquatic elephant on the other end of my line running like an espresso-fuelled Seabiscuit. My first instinct was to hand the pole to someone else, but the Captain would have probably thrown me overboard. I struggled on. I could not believe this was a fish. I felt like I was trying to lift a bag of cement off the ocean floor. Everyone else was laughing and yelling: “C’mon, REEL!”

Mack brought his up first. A healthy red snapper. Our Captain was there like Ahab, gaff in hand, and in one one motion slung the gasping beast into the ice chest. “That’s one!” he shouted. “Thirteen to go!” I finally pulled mine up, another big beautiful red snapper. It was gaffed before I could say “Look guys!” Before I could gather my wits, Cappy had re-baited me and tossed in my line. “I gotta do that again?” I thought, shivering.

At that moment I realized everyone had one on. We were laughing and yelling creative obscenities while Captain Bussen hustled from line to line, gaffing, re-rigging, re-baiting, and counting down our limit. This had to have been some magic spot, because we reached that limit in just under an hour. The cooler was full of these pink and orange beasts and it was only 9:30 a.m. The engine began to growl and we were off again for other game.

As we all laughed with excitment over our astonishing kill, I heard the distinct crack and whisper of a can of beer being opened, and as I reached thirstily for mine with weary arms, a foreign feeling came over me. The feeling that at 32, I had finally become a man. I was so happy I wanted to call my mom.

Of course there was no time for that. We were on our way further out to wrestle the kingfish. This is good fun and they’re plentiful this far out in the Atlantic. This was a different kind of fishing. This was trawling. Slowly dragging baited hooks around until the sleek, hungry monsters bit one. The rest of the afternoon was spent taking turns reeling the silver gems in. Cracking jokes and beers was the order of the day. Time flew by, and in what seemed an instant, we had our limit of kingfish. Captain Bussen radioed in alerting them of our return and steered his mighty vessel back toward the east. As we motored along, some slept and some continued the revelry, but Captain Bussen sat contently at the helm, tired from his day’s work.

When we arrived back at the Port, the docks were abuzz with boats unloading their booty in front of the curious masses. We brought up our gear, filled a wheelbarrow with fish, and wheeled it up to the filet tables amid the oohing and ahhing of spectators. Like a pro, Captain Bussen fileted each fish with the care and precision of a surgeon. We humbly gave the best filets to our Captain as a kind of sacrifice to the gods. It was the least we could offer for such a pleasant trip to sea.



After all the work was done, the good Captain took us all next door to the Tiki Bar at Grill’s for a victory round. We all stood proud. We swapped stories and even joked that Capt. Bus was such a good captain that if we weren’t getting any bites, he probably would have dove off the boat, swum down, and hooked fish to our lines with his bare hands. Captain Scott Bussen had done his job and done it well. He had six happy, sunburnt souls who returned not only with a trove of sparkling fishes, but memories to keep for years to come. As for me? Yes, I know the Atlantic, my friends. I rode upon her back and plucked glistening fruit from her blue depths. I boarded that ship a boy and stepped off onto the dock a man - a Fisherman.