There's No Place Like Home

In 1939 audiences were treated to one of the best motion pictures of all time. Bringing music and cinematography to a whole new world, The Wizard of Oz brings audiences to an enchanted land swirling through a twister to land in a place where lions brave the yellow brink road, tin men feel their way through life and scarecrows realize that life is even better if you only have a brain. I think the American Congress can really associate with all three of these characters - bravery, feeling and an understanding that a brain is tantamount to good politics. I digress: this is neither a political blog or one built on foundational understandings of economics. This is the third installment of my fishing expedition and I bring us to one of the most famous quotes in all of cinema history: "There is no place like home."

Halfway through the night on our ride home southwest from the Swains to Gladstone, the winds started up again. Because the night had been so calm up until this point, I was startled to the point of waking. The waves cause the boat to twitch like a horse shaking a fly from its head and I immediately opened my eyes briefly and thought to myself.

"Oh, sunshine."

Most of the other pirates on the ship had reminded me that since I had been doing so well for the last days of the trip, I had my sea legs, in other words, I shouldn't suffer too much on the ride back. I lay in the upper bunk, Robert sleeping in the lower silently dreaming away in his own, non-seasick way, running through the last day of fishing on the Capricorn Star.

The sun beat down on us most of the day; sunscreen was a must. Some of the other fisherman had arisen at 4:30 in the morning to begin a new day of mackerel fishing; I had taken my turn wanting a chance at the long sleep fish and Graham had allowed me the chance. By 5:30 one had taken the pilchard dangling on the end of a line where three large hooks pierced at intervals. The mackerel, not wanting to end up on the boat went running, line zinging this way and that. As I grabbed the pole I remembered wanting to make a good impression on the other pirates. Unfortunately, the kind of equipment used on a deep sea fishing expedition is much different than North American Lakes and I found myself fumbling and fooling around with the line until eventually, as Warwick and Graham were watching, the mackerel swam to the front of the boat and found a way to tangle itself around the anchor. I watched the captain smile as he looked over the point of the boat.

"I think you've caught something much bigger than a mackerel," he said.

That was the longest sentence I heard him say all week. I wish he wouldn't have seen me. When I returned back to the stern of the boat, Warwick stood, head almost scraping the ceiling, smiling. I knew what he was thinking, "Rookie." After a display like that, there is nothing that I could do but laugh at myself once again. Life is much more enjoyable when you learn to laugh at yourself (that's my attempt at justifying being a lousy deep sea fisherman).

After we ate breakfast, some kind of egg with spaghetti and four pounds of bacon (Steve made the plates look like smiley faces - I guess he was happy to almost be off the ship for a few hours) the boat took off for a few more stops of fishing before the long, disinteresting ride, ten kilometers per hour across the ocean. At the first stop, I positioned myself on the duck board again away from my neighbors Peter and Adrian. Because we'd all gotten to know each other a little bit during the week, they did not take offense for my absence; it was not because of them, but it was a space issue. Just like all of nature longs for a little extra space, so did I and I watched with a small amount of schadenfreude when the middle of the boat connected with snagged lines. Just as we were about to leave, a tug on my line allowed me to catch one last fish. This one had heft and with a sinking resignation, I assumed that one of two things would happen on the long way up from the depths of the ocean: 1, I had a nice fish on that would be a piece of nice fish when it came up half swallowed by a shark or 2. I had caught another friendly remora. Let's face it, during the week, I was a remora magnet - even as the sharks had their feed of all the other fish approaching the surface, their friends found my bait as appetizing as a steak after a week at a vegetarian getaway.

Remoras, also called a 'suckfish' by Encyclopedia.com, is a scavenger. It has a flat disk on the top of its head which allows it to 'suck' on to various predators. The smallest remoras glom on to tuna or swordfish but the most common suckfish attach to sharks or whales, sometimes even the undersides of boats. The sucking property of the remora is so great that some tribes of the Polynesian people tie lines to the tails of remoras which suck to sea turtles which they can then pull in without even using a hook.

The remora makes its living, then, finding a decent host, attaching itself via 'sucking up' to the predator and then taking the scraps from whatever is left over. Not only does the remora not expend any energy in movement because they are pulled wherever the predator is going, but they also don't have to hunt down their own prey. What a life. I've known quite a few people who would have been remoras in previous lives. They were very prominent at college and usually when we would be having a celebration at the house. The suckfish would start showing up at the same time as all the coeds, the predators, who came with empty cups. Then, when the predators would get a drink, the remoras would ask the predators to fill their cup also thus sparing them any effort (or money) to enjoy life. It doesn't stop at college either; remoras are seen everywhere any time there is a celebrity in attendance. You can see them from a distance. I went to a Harry Connick, Jr. concert once and as he tried to leave the venue, people were around him crushing him for an autograph, a handshake or to press a CD into his hand as if he would listen and be moved to record it on a new CD.

It is simply part of nature that this happens: wherever there is power, there is safety. On the African plains, all the animals crowd around elephants and giraffes. Lions are hesitant to approach elephants, and giraffes can see them coming for miles around. Remoras are nature's highest form of sloth, I guess.

Anyway, back to the fishing story, this fish turned out not to be either choice one or two, but the third option was something I hadn't really considered (but continually hoped for). It was a red emperor. We hadn't caught any for the whole week of a keepable size until that morning when Graham had snagged one. But here I was, holding a nice red emperor up from the duck board hoping with all my might that it was big enough to keep so that Warwick and Russell would see it. Warwick, being the good natured person that he is, took a picture of me and finally he could see that I was truly a much better fisherman than he was. Sometimes I just write things because I know that the person I write them about will be reading it also. Kind of like when you are talking on the phone in a very public place and say at a much-louder-than-necessary voice to your wife, "Yes, you'll have to put on some clothes when I get home. I'm hungry."

The rest of the day was spent in relative stasis. The waves stayed low and the captain took us to other spots that, I would guess, he had never caught anything before - he probably just wanted to get home. After reeling the lines up for the last time, it was not really a sad thing to begin our journey homeward. There is no place like it. By the time the week was ending, the pirates were getting restless and ready to be away from the boat, the smell of fish, the sound of the motors and ready for landlegs.

The sun began setting for the last time, a beautiful sunset and the dolphins swam with us for a while. After dark, the stars shone glisteningly white across the ocean like permanent snowflakes attached to the dark canvass of the sky. Great pods of immature flying fish flew beside the side of the boat as we raced toward the west. After a large meal, many of us headed off to bed, others watched a movie and some sat, staring at the stars connecting the points of light like a draw by number picture.

Until the shaking of the boat, the time went quickly and then, as I prayed for a settling in my stomach for the last little while, we were nearing the port of Gladstone. Morning breakfast was at 4:00 and when I arose, the first, I noticed the beauty of land with only a trace of sadness to be leaving the sea behind.

After docking, we alit on land again, each hairy pirate giving expression to different pleasures of being back on solid ground, although it didn't really feel like it. The longer one is on a boat, the longer it takes to adjust to walking on land again. For the first two days of return, my steps were shallow and shaky and I was grateful that this passed.

What a great trip it was. We headed to Robbie's house, picked up our fish, handed out trophy's for biggest fish, said our goodbye and headed home to meet our wives and children. It is always good to be back with family.

It's always good because there is no place like home.