She Fishes for Sun, Sky, Laughs, and a Few Tuna

Labor Day weekend, a time when most of my friends are throwing backyard barbecues to send off the summer. It’s a time for big department store sales, a time for the last run to the beach.

So, what am I doing?

Spending the weekend sliding around on a blood-slippery deck 115 miles out to sea with 34 exuberantly macho men, that’s what.

Now, I can hardly be called a woman with a sporting attitude. I’d rather spend an autumn afternoon planting bulbs than watching the Big Game. The notion of a sports obsession was an alien concept to me. Or at least that was true--before I found Fishing.

*

It all started with a fishing pole I got three years ago. I needed a hobby that put me somewhere soothing and far away from computers, crowds and traffic jams. Somewhere like the Pacific Ocean.

Fortunately, on my first trip--aboard the Monte Carlo, a half-day foray out of San Pedro--I was next to a polite, experienced gentleman who made the observation: “Uh . . . ma’am . . . I think you may have your reel on upside down.”

After remedying that situation and baiting up (you haven’t lived until you’ve been squirted in the face with ink from an angry squid), things improved. It seemed that we caught every variety of rockfish. The “pin heads” (boys who work as junior deckhands for little money and free fishing) helpfully showed me how to tie multiple hooks on one line over and over again. Tony, the cook, played John Lee Hooker and B.B. King on the boombox while cooking up killer tacos. It was a festive, highly addictive experience. By the end of that first trip, the fish weren’t the only thing on board that had been hooked.

But a half-day boat in local waters, which often has a couple of women aboard, bears little resemblance to a 2 1/2 day trip; and fishing for docile rockfish is nothing like battling a strong, stubborn albacore. Yet when I heard about this Labor Day weekend adventure on the Freedom, I slammed down my $235. And here I am.

My arms are aching from the four albacore I’ve managed to get on deck. After the dubious success of dragging a slippery, still-fighting, 35-pound tuna by the tail to my gunnysack without falling down, it’s time to bait up again. I slip across the pitching deck toward the bait tank.

On my way, I’m showered with sardine scales. The deckhand is merrily “chumming” (tossing bait) from the top of the bait tank to encourage the “bite” (albacore feeding frenzy).

*

Three hours into the bite we all glitter from sardine scales. I’m drenched with chilly water from the bait tank. Not exactly the hot bubble bath I’m longing for.

Tuna trips are frantic affairs. The air is thick with profanities even when things are going great. The men are away from their women, and it’s time to just be boys.

Passions are high, and more than one argument starts on the deck. I hear Mike, the captain, yell he’ll head back if “you guys can’t be gentlemen.”

As the lone woman on this trip (28 male customers and six male crew members ranging in age from 18 to 70), I am tested a bit by a few of the men; I hear a smattering of really dumb, really non-PC jokes. I just smile. One man tells me that going out on any fishing boat would be his mother’s idea of “living you-know-what.” I just smile again, glad that I’m not his mother.

The crew and several of the fishermen already know me, having seen me on overnight yellowtail trips. The Freedom has two bunk rooms with three tiers of narrow bunks with blanket and pillow (I always bring my own pillow case). Each of the two bathrooms has a sink, toilet and doors that lock.

*

Back at my spot along the rail, I cast my bait, preparing to do another round of the “tuna shuffle.” The fellow next to me attempts to reel in a fish that wants no part of coming to the surface. The boat’s cook, a fierce, red-bearded fellow named Matt, bellows, “Aw, take off your panties and reel that fish in like a man!”

Everyone laughs. Really, none of this banter has much to do with me. I keep fishing.

Now we are at the end of the first day. We have landed 377 albacore and 35 bluefin in a little more than six hours. Even the old-timers marvel at a bite of such length. The galley is filled with men in a celebratory mood.

Even I feel included. They’ve watched me snag my paltry eight fish to their 16-fish average, but I was still part of it.

They had laughed at my casting, and my knots were examined skeptically. My tackle was wrong, my line too thick, my hooks too large. But I listened, learned and gratefully accepted much-needed advice.

When I lost a fish I had struggled with for 10 minutes straight, and swore out loud, I was loudly cheered. Now they joke with me, rather than around me. Suddenly, I am no longer “Ma’am.” Suddenly, I have a first name.

The final evening, I go up on the bow to watch the sun set. It’s chilly. The sun glows yellow beneath a dark cover of clouds. The ocean has a purple cast. I look forward to the nap I’ll take on the way home.

Yet, despite our stained, sweaty and sunburned appearance, despite our aching shoulders, backs and arms, I imagine most of us are already wondering how soon we can get away to fish again.

We’ll be thinking of the jokes, the stories, the thrill of finding the “school,” the excitement of the fight.

All that albacore in my freezer is just the bonus.

Joyce Croker can be reached by e-mail at socalliving@latimes.com.