Gary caught a fish...

I have mentioned from time to time about Gary fishing and catching this and that, but on this trip he has always caught fish that weren't the best eating fish.  Therefore, I have been relieved from the responsibility (mainly) of telling him he can't keep the fish to eat for dinner.

However, on our 10 hour voyage from St Barts to St Kitts Gary caught a fish.  Not just any fish.  He caught a Wahoo.  A BIG one.

I like fish, don't get me wrong, but the mess and the hassle can be tiresome.  But we are live aboards, and the fish we catch will become a vital part of our lifestyle.  So I let him keep the fish.

We had just reached St Kitts and turning down the western coast when something hit the line.  Gary jumps to attention and I grab the helm.  Gary yells various instructions at me "turn to port", "no, turn to starboard", "too far", "too fast", "quickly, the other way!", "take the jib down", "move the dinghy".  Finally the fish was close to the boat.  It was obviously a biggie.  "Its a Wahoo!!" Gary screams in delight.  After consulting our fish flashcard that we now stow on deck for easy access, I confirmed that yes, he had indeed caught a Wahoo.  It took off again, this time the other way, pulling another 50 metres off the reel in one hit.  But finally, Gary had tamed the fish and managed to pull it aboard.  Upon pulling the fish onboard, more instructions were yelled "get the camera", "get me a knife", "not that knife, the other knife", "get me the hammer", "get me the fishing book", "get me the cutting board". On and on it went, until finally the fish was filleted and the cockpit was a mess of blood and guts.  But Gary seemed happy.  

Then the inevitable question came..."we don't have any ice in the chilli bin, so can I put it in the fridge?".  My thoughts flew back to when Gary caught his first fish.  Thoughts of fish blood spilled through the fridge, bread smelling of fish - well EVERYTHING smelling of fish.  But I had no way out of it.  He was right, it needed to be put away in the cool.  This time it was my turn to yell instructions "put it in the snaplock containers", "no, not those containers, the other ones", "double bag the containers before you put it in the fridge".  

In my mind, the measure of a good fisherman, is not how many fish you catch, or how skilled you are at landing the catch or playing the fish, but being able to clean the boat so well that your better half can't tell that you caught a fish.  I, extremely helpfully, had already got out the deck cleaner, scrubbing brushes and sponges for Gary to clean up.  So when Gary emerged from below after putting the fish in the fridge, still with that damn smile whacked across his face, thinking that he could now sit back and relax, I was ready for him.  Into his hand outstretched towards the can of coke, I placed the scrubbing brush.  That, and the determined look on my face, informed him that it was not time to relax, it was time to clean up.  And clean up he did, as I sailed us all the way to Basseterre, another hours journey.  

So we have been eating fish for every meal for the last three days, after already off loading the majority of the fish to five other boats.  The fridge is still backed with fish, and Gary continues to clean the cockpit whenever I find a trace of fish guts.