Deep Sea Fishing With Freaks

By Alston Ramsay | Monday, October 15, 2001

When my Uncle Ben asked if I wanted to go down to the beach and do some deep-sea fishing, I was all too eager to accept, asking only, 'Well what kind of fish are we looking for?'

'Oh, I don't know... Hopefully dolphin, and maybe some mackerel. Dolphin's the best eating though.'

'Far out. (Pause) Uhhh, isn't that illegal? I mean, dolphin?'

And thus began an adventure that almost saw the end of two members of the Ramsay family at the hands of my uncle's supposed 'friends,' a ragtag amalgam of what, Ben and I declared later, could only be described as freaks. Well, really only one in particular, but the others fall only a miniscule step behind in this classification.

First to arrive at Ben's Emerald Isle abode was Matt Gray, a willowy man, six foot three, thin as a stick, with closely cropped hair revealing the true extent of his hair loss. The one word that popped into my head after I saw him was 'goof,' the type of guy everyone made fun of in high school because of his complete lack of coordination. This only added to my surprise when I learned Matt was a 4th year resident radiologist down in Charleston. He would, in the course of the weekend, single handedly make me lose faith in the medical profession.

Next to show up was the duo of James Hession and Nate Becker. I had met Nate before, but never had any extended contact with him. What I knew was related to me by Ben, and the stories in which he was involved normally ended in some sort of drunken debauchery. In the latest one, Nate had punched a hole in Ben's ceiling after a night of alcohol-induced revelry. Of course, immediately afterwards, he apologized profusely and went on to reimburse Ben for the damage. Ben's response to the incident, after I asked whether or not he was angered, was, curtly, 'Well, that's what friends are for.'

Now I come to Hesh, the aforementioned 'freak' of the group. A fairly short man sporting a humorous, unbecoming little goatee, James is the type of man who feels the need to constantly exude masculinity in a futile effort to build a bizarre image of his 'manliness' in the eyes of others. He would momentously claim on numerous occasions that yes, in fact, Rage Against the Machine was his favorite band. This I found a bit odd coming from a 33-year-old dentist.

His philosophy on life, and I kid you not, was, 'Either come strong or don't come at all,' which was generally uttered in a guttural roar. Admittedly, I was not brazen enough to ask for elaboration on the motto, but I can only imagine. He also managed to share with us all sorts of thoughts that he should have kept to himself, such as the first thing he always thinks upon meeting a woman for the first time, which was one of the more disturbing things I've ever heard in my life, revolving around what he would like to do with (to?) her.

He took pleasure in describing things which most balanced human beings would not be excited to discuss. Such as when he explained in excruciating detail a phenomenon known as 'Traumatic Oral Sex.' Apparently, it is an ailment for which patients seek their dentist's advice 'Oh yeah, we see it quite a bit,' not knowing the origins or meaning of bruises and discoloration of the mouth, which can be one of the first signs of leukemia. Suffice to say, I now know much more about the anatomy of the soft palate than I ever wanted to. James had many other stories that I've chosen to block from my conscious mind, for my own sanity.

His beady brown eyes, placed slightly too far from each other, glinted with an intensity that was clearly going to be misguided. Unfortunately, my first impression was all too correct.

To christen his twenty-four foot boat's first cruise in the ocean, Hesh had his heart set on going out to the Gulf Stream before dropping the lures. 'We won't even drop the lines till we hit 300 feet of water!' Forty miles offshore, I prayed for good weather, realizing that Hesh would not wait, that he was going the next day even if a hurricane ravaged the coast. It was in his head, and he was an ornery little runt, whom no one in their right mind would entrust with his or her life.

While not a hurricane, the next morning dawned with gusting winds blowing in from the sea, creating 4 to 5 foot swells. At 5:30 AM, my brain could not quite comprehend the endeavor we were undertaking, and I was reassured by Nate's and Hesh's constant assertions that, 'It'll stop blowing in the afternoon, and then she'll lay down,' referring, of course, to the tumultuous seas. The early morning had numbed the part of my brain that would regularly note this as an extremely hollow comment. To their credit though, that was what the weathermen called for.
But by 6:15 AM we were heading toward the boat ramp anyway, at which point Nate turned to me and asked if I could hand him a beer from the cooler. I smirked, momentarily thinking it was a joke, but once I realized he was serious, I quickly acceded to his demand with a newfound respect for the man. Hardly in my life has a single deed impressed me as much as that one. Except maybe 15 minutes later when he asked me to get him another one. Talk about devotion; the sun hadn't even risen yet.

It was only after we entered the channel that I realized the extent of our peril. Hesh had absolutely no idea how to work any of his new electrical systems (like a child with a brand new toy), including, most importantly, the GPS system, the heart and soul of any lengthy fishing trip. The first thing he did was unleash the engines and speed across the channel, grounding us into a sandbar on the opposite side. After a few moments of deliberation, we reversed course and found the correct route.

As we headed from the safety of the outer banks into the undulating ocean, Nate piped up, 'Don't worry, once we get to deeper water, then she'll lay down. Just wait till we hit the edge of the continental shelf!' Three and a half hours later, 45 miles out, I waited for this prophesy to be fulfilled. The waves continued battering the boat, and I clung to the center console for dear life and tried to remember if I was prone to seasickness or not.

Within a few minutes of dropping the lines, we had a bite, and judging from the piercing whir of line being taken, a large fish. Nate reeled it in, and sure enough, as it drew closer, we determined that it was a very nice dolphin. Of course, as soon as this realization came about, the fish dove, and the line caught in the transom. We killed the engines and pulled them out of the water, but the line was already severely tangled. Our only choice was to cut the line and lose the fish. Or so I thought. Suddenly, Hesh stripped his shirt and dove head-first overboard without saying a thing. The rest of us were dumbfounded; in four foot swells, the boat or engine could easily slam into Hesh, knocking him unconscious, and none of us were going in after him. Sure enough, though, he grabbed the leader wire, handed it up to us, and climbed back into the boat, clearly expecting praise for his utter foolishness.

I just ignored him.

That dolphin ended up being our largest, about 3 feet long. At one or so, after a mere hour and a half of fishing, during which we caught two more smaller dolphin, Hesh made his way to the side of the boat, cleverly avoiding everyone's gaze. He did not realize that Ben and I were secretly watching him. He vomited a few times and furtively glanced behind, making sure no one had witnessed the spectacle. Then, still wiping his mouth, he yelled out, 'I smell the wind changing, so we better head on in!' I think what he really smelled was the damp remnants of lunch plastered to his collar, but I was certainly not going to challenge this fortuitous decision.

As we headed toward shore, the wind had changed direction and picked up, so, once again, we had to go into the surf and wind, slowing our progress to a crawling pace. We even dropped the lines in again, as we weren't able to exceed a trawling speed, and we caught another fish.

Nate and Matt were using the extra time to consume vast quantities of beer, and doing an excellent job at that, especially when they decided to shotgun a beer to celebrate our making another 10 miles of progress (after 2 hours I might add). I was shocked. Here were two grown men, grasping the boat with one hand, lest they be tossed overboard, and chugging Coors with each other. I politely declined invitations to join in the festivities.

Ben and I sat on the side intently eyeing the squalls surrounding our position, hemming us between massive thunderclouds, any of which could unleash an unholy barrage of wind, rain, and lightning on our tiny craft. I shivered as I recalled hearing earlier in the morning of two waterspouts off an inlet not 30 miles from our destination. After catching a glimpse of the ominous clouds, Nate yelled out, with a strong slur, 'Don't worry, after we go through thisss storm right up here, then she'll lay down!' I glared angrily in his direction, but he couldn't see anything through the salt and rain that had accumulated on his glasses.

The constant pounding of the waves was fatiguing. Arms, legs, back, and neck became sore and stiff. But we weren't the only ones enduring the relentless fury of the seas. The debilitating effect the crashing had on us was mirrored in every bolt on the boat, and Hesh's desire to go faster (which is pointless in extremely rough seas) only exacerbated the situation. Suddenly the entire instrument panel imploded inward as the screws stripped their encasing entirely. I thought we had lost the GPS system, and I could only recall that the area of ocean we were traversing had more shipwrecks than anywhere in the world, and was known as The Graveyard of the Atlantic, with numerous hidden shoals constantly shifting, awaiting their prey. I thought about navigating the next 30 miles with nothing more than a compass, and James Hession at the helm. Fortunately though, the circuits were intact and we managed to wedge the board back into place by stuffing t-shirts underneath, which we had to readjust every 15 minutes.

Now let me digress. Once a boat is rocking enough, muscle tension makes it extremely difficult to urinate over the side. One simply has trouble relaxing enough to make anything happen, because the entire lower body is flexed, trying to maintain some semblance of balance. Unfortunately, Ben wasn't able to squeeze a drip the entire time; he could only stand there helplessly cussing about his inability to relieve himself and the inherent pains associated therein.

Once Nate and Matt were drunk enough, they became, as expected, quite obnoxious. Matt made the fatal mistake of pouring part of his beer on Ben, purposefully at that. This proved to be a most grievous error. Ben was soaked anyway from the rain, but as a matter of principle, he had to have his revenge. Instead of outrightly stating his rage, he bided his time, waiting for the opportune moment to pounce, which presented itself within 10 minutes. Matt somehow ended up laying on the fiberglass behind the console. Perhaps he had fallen from his cooler perch, or had decided to pass out for a few moments, but he lay defenseless upon the deck, with eyes closed. Ben seized the moment to unzip and stand over Matt.

For a full minute nothing happened, same as all day, despite the determination in Ben's eyes. I stared on in wonderment, praying that Ben would overcome this hurdle and triumph. Then, lo and behold, Ben's will power overtook the biological hampering of his nether regions, and a cascade of urine descended upon Matt. I assume the warm liquid drenching his leg awoke him to reality; Matt was astounded. Ben had just pissed on him. There was nothing to do but lament that this battle had been lost. By far, the highlight of the trip was Matt slowly opening his eyes to determine whence this warmth came.

Six and a half hours after turning back, we entered the safety of the Intercoastal Waterway. Hesh's boat had not faired so well. As he unnecessarily juiced the engines, every bolt aside from just the instrument panel's had been jarred loose; I took a perverse satisfaction in this.

The second we arrived on dry land, Hesh demanded that someone take a picture of him and the largest fish we had, for his photo album, which he broke out later that night, forcing on us a sinfully boring monologue about where and how he had caught each and every fish. Later, Hesh would have the courtesy of cleaning the fish in Ben's driveway, leaving the scraps for the next day and a half, before finally disposing of them after the smell became nauseating.

Of course, the morning after that, Ben would realize where the innards had been discarded. With his binoculars in hand, he scanned the surrounding area, only to have his eyes catch on something in the vacant lot next door. Needless to say, Hesh was dragged from bed most unpleasantly, and forced to retake the rotten carcass, after which he departed hurriedly.

With Hesh, Matt, and Nate's exit, Ben and I lapsed into a state of supine bliss, thanking the Lord that we had survived our encounter. For a while we tried to determine if we should have learned anything from the experience. I came to the conclusion that there was no resounding moral to be gleaned from the weekend, except, maybe, don't pour beer on Ben.

Matt's still talking about that one.

Deep Sea Fishing With Freaks

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