Early assignments aren’t a friend of the sportswriter. Late night ball games and phone tag with coaches generally leave the Trib’s sports department asleep for most of the morning.

“Waking up early” likely means somewhere between 10 a.m. and noon.

We have the ability to see 6 a.m., like I did on my recent fishing trip in Corpus Christi, but don’t expect much more than a groggy response.

Trib sportswriter Brian Bateman (left) and father Paul caught their limits in redfish on a recent fishing trip out of Port Aransas. The day before, the Batemans nearly escaped a run-in with a 400-yard long oil tanker when their guide’s motor stopped working.
Marvin Engel photo

So for a cargo ship to blast its horn right at you and nearly capsize your boat before the sun is fully visible, that’s a good contender for a cruel start to the day.

I used to think that fishing was relaxing. Sitting on the shore or propped on a cooler in a boat with a leg over the side and a line in the water seemed the ideal way to watch July turn into August. But I may change my mind after last week’s sea-fishing trip.

I stumbled out of bed around 3:30 a.m Saturday., stubbed my toe on an old wicker dresser and hobbled into the living room where I prepared for our big trip. I tossed pigs-in-a-blanket, orange juice, some granola and Dramamine — to keep from getting sea-sick — in my mouth, while my father, Paul, did the same. We gathered drinks and crackers for the trip and headed down to the car.

I passed the time on our 20-minute trip to Port Aransas thinking of all the fish we would be bringing home: redfish, trout, dorado (also known as Mahi-Mahi; fish so good they named it twice), ling and maybe even a small shark. Paul had caught a 3-foot juvenile hammerhead on our last trip, and I just knew it was my turn to pull one in. My uncle had lost a 7-footer after a 10-minute battle. Maybe I could exact revenge on the fish.

Before we knew it, the sweet stench of rotting fish and diesel fuel wafted into our car as we had pulled up to the public marina. There was Captain Doug, our guide to the sea’s rich bounty, completely dressed the part. His fisherman jacket covered a plaid shirt and shorts covered in fishing hooks. Captain Doug encourages us with the excellent weather report and assured us we were in for a good day as we loaded our cooler and selves into the 20-foot boat. He had just bought a top-of-the line motor a week earlier, so we would be speeding out to sea to spend most of our time fishing, not in transit.

We bought it, hook, line and sinker. My adrenaline spiked, countering my Dramamine-induced sleepiness. Little did we know of our upcoming peril coming out of the Gulf of Mexico.

Doug cast us away from the dock and cruised into the channel. Shrimping boats were returning from their all-night campaigns against the tasty crustaceans. Doug told us how their captains tended to run their boats ashore in the shallows and spend the day sleeping and cleaning their equipment. Anchors allowed the boat to sway too much, and an impaired recreational boater could easily strike the side and sink both craft. He later pointed out John D. Nixon Jr.’s Polly Anna, the largest shrimping boat built by hand in the world.

The sun had just peaked over the horizon, granting those unfortunate, conscious souls at that hour with a Bob Ross-esque skyline. Fishing boats skimmed between oil tankers and cargo ships in the distance. My father and I were busy watching the scene when suddenly the motor cut off.

“This thing’s had some trouble with its ignition switch. Give me a sec and I’ll have it fixed,” Doug said.

Adrift in harm’s way

We should have known that was a bad sign, but the Batemans have only been deep sea fishing three times since I was born. We figured he knew what he was doing.

A second turned into five minutes. He was giving us two extra hours of fishing for free, so we weren’t too worried. Charter boats and other fishermen were headed east toward the Gulf, while we were slowly drifting west into the middle of the channel. They were stealing all our fish while we were watching Doug writhe on his right side with his head jammed in the engine housing.

Then came a loud air-horn blast. Followed by another. Then two more.

On the fourth sound, Doug leaped off the deck. Four horn blasts means “Danger: Doubt,” as in “I’m not sure I can maneuver my 400-yard ship filled with 300,000 deadweight tonnage away from your tiny boat.” Doug’s face turned white as he saw a giant, red-and-black oil tanker closing in on us. He grabbed for the radio, but he had disconnected the battery to fix the engine.

He lived up to his occupational stereotype in the next few minutes as my father and I learned a few more words you can’t write in the paper.

“If he gets too close, y’all throw on lifejackets!” Doug shouted as he feverishly tried to get the battery working.

I was either still groggy from the Dramamine and early rise or just didn’t realize the danger. Fortunately my father did. He grabbed two lifejackets as the oil tanker started turning. It was roughly 30 yards away and still cutting into our safe distance.

I was set to jump in and swim to the shore, some 300 yards away. Paul would have been right behind me, and Doug, although a captain of a boat, probably wouldn’t go down with his ship.

The tanker came within 10 yards before straightening. All three of us breathed a sigh of relief. I’m sure the navigator of the tanker did, too, after exclaiming a few choice words directed toward us.

I had planned to jump if the ship got within five yards. It’s a good thing I didn’t. My father’s neighbor is a navigator for ships in that class and explained several days later that we probably would have died if we were in the water. Coastal tankers create a strong undertow up to 20 yards out, and funnel everything straight toward the propeller for maximum thrust. Just two years ago a Columbian stowaway jumped ship when it reached coastal waters near Corpus Christi and was never seen again. I like to think he made it to shore and is making a living somewhere along the coast.

Never saw the sea

After that ordeal, a harbor pilot towed us to the shallows. Doug spent the next hour working on the engine before calling a towboat. We watched dolphins and seagulls battle in shrimpers’ wakes for loose scraps of trash fish, oysters and small shrimp before pulling back to shore at 9:30 a.m.

Captain Doug apologized and returned our deposit. Doug had been the only area guide willing to go deep-sea fishing for less than $1,000, so we decided to go bay fishing the next day — with another guide.

We skimmed through the bay shallows, at times nearly scraping the bottom. Our first stop with Captain Marvin Engel was a dud. The wind blew in from the south, which isn’t good for fishing in the region. The tropical depression that hit the Texas Gulf Coast in late June really put a damper on wind and ocean currents and the fish weren’t following their usual patterns.

But as usually happens in fishing, a seemingly insignificant detail turned into a limit catch of redfish. One of Marvin’s co-workers spotted brown water — a sign that a school of fish had kicked up muck in the shallows. He called Marvin, but by the time we arrived, there were four other charters with lines in the water.

Unlike catching trout, which will bite anything within eye sight, fishing for redfish requires precision. We were landing our chad-tipped hooks 25 feet from the hot spot with no luck. A 12-year-old girl stationed 20 yards away even reeled in one, but none for us. After Marvin’s co-worker reached limits for his customers, he motioned us into his spot. Within five minutes of our first cast, a 27  1/4-inch redfish —  3/4 of an inch below a tag — snagged my line. Paul pulled in his line so they wouldn’t tangle, but another fish snatched his bait as he reeled in. Both catches were successful, but difficult. The fish were far more powerful than most of the fish I’ve caught in the deep sea. Then the school scattered when a nearby boater turned on his trolling motor.

“Don’t worry, They’ll come back around,” Marvin said in his spicy Cajun tone. “With redfish, you have to be patient.”

The other boats weren’t, but 45 minutes later, my father and I had our limits in redfish. Paul pulled in a small sting ray, but we cut the line. Those aren’t any fun when they leave a stinger in your forearm.

We pulled in 36 pounds of fish. None was smaller than 24 inches.

But most importantly, we returned to dry land to enjoy a blackened redfish feast.

bbateman@wacotrib.com

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