Hooking Wreck Fish off San Salvador Island

The coffee’s hot, the morning cool. On the horizon a blood-summer sun peeks above the blue Atlantic. Before long, the temperature of the cooling coffee and the warming morning will inverse.
“We have to use the four hook rigs here. E. B. informs me. “If we drop six hooks down, chances are, we won’t get them back.”

Paying little attention, I’m staring at distant Frenchman’s Bay, picturing the school of bonefish foraging the conch nursery on the rising tide. But, they and my Thomas and Thomas nine-weight will have to wait.

“Why, what’s down there?” I ask.

“Wreck fish.” E.B. Replies…..“Monsters.”

Above us, on the patio size bridge, Capt. John Stark pilots the 68 Hatteras seaward off our overnight anchorage in the lee of San Salvador Island. Eyes fixed on the bottom machine, he’s headed to deep water, two thousand plus feet. Fading astern, the limestone cliffs of Sandy Point glow pink- white in the early light.

We’re between legs of the Bahamas Billfish Championships, stocking up before returning to the Kilcares’ between-tournament slip at Riding Rock Marina. The boat has been away from San Sal two weeks and the islanders will be expecting fresh fish.

We’ve been met with these expectations at most island stops along the tournament trail…. comes with the territory. These Islands are E.B.s’ (Emory Black) home ground. He’s from San Sal and knows these people and these waters as only a native son can. E.B.’s cleaned and given away so much snapper and grouper at every island port, I’ve accused him of running for Governor.

Since joining this Ruskin, Florida based veteran team in October, I’ve witnessed their antsy anticipation during the fall triple-digit wahoo bite. In tournaments, I’ve observed their preparation and professionalism….. John and E.B. are two-time B.B.C. champions. Now, a new attitude emerges. A harvester mentality takes over as hunter-gatherer instincts buried deep in their DNA, rise with the sun.

Two, Linger 50 electric reels, mounted on short stubby sticks rest in rod holders, spooled with two-hundred pound test braid. E.B. snaps on a four No.12 circle hook rig, topped with a water activated strobe, anchored with an eight pound cylinder-shaped weight. An up-to-date deep-dropping rig.

Dropping’s increased popularity among the Bahamas sport-fishing crowd is due in part to improvement in technology. Modern braid has replaced weighted wire on reels machined with the tolerances of Swiss watches. This combination makes this fishing option attractive to many who formally feared bandit reel dangers, as-well-as their commercial fishing overtones. Plus, the sensitivity of braid adds a little thrill to harvesting. With braid, even the soft tapping of a feeding snapper a thousand feet below transfers to the rod tip.

Yellow-eyed, Queen, and Black snapper are favorite target species, mystic grouper another. Found at depths in excess of seven-hundred feet, they’ve never seen the light of day. Arriving cooler chilled, if maintained in this condition, these fish are as fine a table fare as found anywhere on planet earth.

Today”s quest is for wreck fish who range below a thousand feet. “Look for a sloping bottom rather than a straight wall drop.” advises Capt. Stark. Marking fish at two-thousand feet is like marking yellow tail on the reef. But, once found, boat handling skill and strict attention to current and wind will determine success.

“I mark down the co-ordinates at the start, and at the finish of a drop. By subtracting the two, I determine the speed of the drift.” advises Stark. “This way I can adjust how far up-current, or upwind to begin the drop.”

E.B. baits-up with squares of wahoo belly. Other effective enticements include squid, razor-bellied pilchards, and horse-eyed jack.

“We’re here. E.B.” John announces. E.B. slips the weight over the side, releases the brake and the drop is on. With braid, the operation is hands-free. The weight hits the sand, E.B. sets the drag light and feeds out line, bouncing the weight along the falling bottom.

After three or four hard taps, E.B. tightens the drag, hits the button and the stubby rod bends double, the powerful reel strains with the load.

“We got em. Man we got em.” E.B.’s ecstatic. He loves every form of fishing, even electric.

It takes a full five minutes of winding to see color, another minute to the surface. E.B. gaffs the bug-eyed carcass, and together we horse it thru the transom door. Before the morning’s over, we’ll have two more of these beauties, along with an assortment of snapper and two over twenty pound dolphin who cruised by. E.B. caught both with his hand line.

At Riding Rock Marina, word spread fast. There are very few secrets among the eight hundred residents of this friendly, family island. E.B. and John, filet, scale, gut and chop all afternoon, dispensing whole fish, fish filets, and chunks of fish to the grateful crowd.

E.B. scales a large queen snapper and sets it aside.”This one’s for my grandmother.” he says. “She’s ninety-two. She’ll like this.”

Hot Dog shows up with fresh conch and starts his famous salad. Pop arrives with his left-hand strung guitar and strums a Bahamian melody, singing for his supper.

You know…….. I believe E.B. will be governor.

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