SpearBlog

White Sea Bass, aka the Grey Ghost
As a West Coaster you have heard of them, hunted them, fished for them, heard them croak eerily somewhere in the distance and painfully smiled as you’ve seen your friends and other boats land them right beside you.
There are many secrets to hunting and fishing for WSB. The most successful divers have paid careful attention for years and taken mental notes each and every time they catch a glimpse of a tail or are lucky enough to glimpse the hazy off white shade of a big Croakers side.
I’ve made two WSB dive trips.
But I’ve hunted them a thousand times over in my mind and been preparing for them long before I first pulled on that 5 mil green camo suit.

Preparation:
Be ready.
When you arrive on the spot, have your gear set. Don’t be messing around with it at the last minute. Have your booties in your fin pocket and your gloves in your other fin pocket with your mask and snorkel around them both and your weightbelt right here with them. Have your wetsuit out and ready to put on and your gun you are going to use already out and ready.
If the space in the boat allows it, find a corner that no one else is using or a spot on the rail you can keep your gear organized and neat.
Now you can get in the water when you are ready knowing your gear is all in one place. This gives you time to help anchor, get other peoples gear, put up the dive flag, and you aren’t stressing at the last minute getting your heart rate up.

Scope it out:
You’ve reached the kelp bed and you are rushing to get in the water but you are about to blow it if you don’t pay attention. When you are approaching the area you are going to dive, do so slowly, quietly and courteously to the other boats that are already there. If you can hear WSB croaking hundreds of yards away imagine how far they can hear the unnatural sound of an outboard, inboard or jet ski engine.
As you approach, look at the direction the kelp stalks are flowing and take note of the current direction. Look for birds working or bait ripples on the surface. Make a mental picture in your mind how the whole scene looks from your vantage point in the boat. Use other boats, headlands, and anything else that helps you pin point where you are in the kelp bed with just a glimpse above the water.

Always hunt:
As soon as you touch the water you are hunting. Within 10 feet and ten seconds I have already made my first dive. Get the bubbles out of the suit, dive to 20-30 ft and cock your gun while you are there, stretch your lungs and work your way over to the area you are diving.
Too often divers, especially bluewater and WSB hunters who spot 90% of their prey from the surface don’t ever dive until they see something because they don’t feel the need. When a fish does come their first dive they aren’t stretched out and they blow a big fart bubble out the back of their suit and in a flash they’ve blown their first shot of the day.

Shut the %$%^ up!
You know where you want to go, go there quietly.

Keep hunting:
On the surface or underwater you are looking above, below, behind, and in every direction. The Kelp forest is 3 dimensional and the fish can be anywhere so keep your head on a swivel and be ready to shoot in any direction.

Soldier up:
Your looking everywhere so you need to be able to shoot anywhere when you do see a fish. Keep the gun underneath you and with both hands on it when the water is dirty. No matter how good you are the fish aren’t always going to be right in front of you so reduce your profile and keep the gun in a position where you can easily swivel to shoot anywhere at any time.
This means even when you are heading for the surface. if your gun isn’t pointing up when you are heading for the surface you might as well have left it in the boat. It is very difficult and way to much movement to change the from trailing a gun to pointing it forward again when a fish is sighted on your way up. Whoops you just missed that sleeper just under the surface.
Remember you are in the water, you are hunting. That means while you are on the surface or diving up or down.

Visualize the fish:
It is rare in dirty or clean water that you’ll see an entire fish. Usually it is just a fin or outline or different movement in the distance.
When I’m hunting my mind is making a fish out of everything I see. Every kelp stalk or shadow or light spot I’m automatically visualizing a fish made from that one tiny part as if I’ve been given the first piece of a puzzle and I have to put the rest of it together.
You are already good it this, you do this every time you see a hot girl or guy and are trying to imagine what they look like with a lot or all (Brandon’s mind) of their clothes off.
This will be one of your most valuable tools as a Spearfisherman or hunter if you can master it.

Fact: WSB are unpredictable as hell
Go up current and see if there are any bait and hunt the edge of the bait on the kelp side for WSB and outside for Yellowtail.
Work the edge of the kelp all the way around from the bottom to the surface looking for the fish. If you spot one at 45 feet then thats probably where the rest of them are so make your dives to that depth and keep your eyes open.
If they aren’t deep then they might be shallow, or midwater, or in the next kelp bed.
There is nothing better than time in the water. Even the biggest Cones shoot WSB and consistently at that. (a derogatory term short for Coneheads used in exchange for the term Touron (tourist-moron), Jackass, Domer, or Kook) They spend a lot of time in the water and eventually you are going to come across a fish. If you are ready you will get a shot.
Listen to reports and network with the divers and fisherman in your area. When the fish are there you need to be as well but its the guys that don’t say anything about it and instead keep their mouths shut and put the time in the water year after year shoot fish because they were there before the crowds putting the time in the water.

Shoot straight, stay out of sight, see clear:
Gear up properly. All the fish I shot were with a 120cm Riffe Euro rigged with a horizontal reel. When the water was clearer, 130 Euro with a 100′ Armor spectra float line with no buoy, I took the clip off the end of the floatline so that the line could slip easily through the kelp and not hinder my diving by catching on everything and anything. Carry a blow up float on your belt so when you shoot a fish you can clip it off to work him and you are set.
I had good shots on all three fish I saw and stoned each one with a shot to the spine from about 12 feet in only 15 feet of visibility. WSB hunters usually use slip tips because of fish wrapping up in the kelp and soft flesh so the Mini ice pick tip is the best choice paired with a 9/32 or 5/16 shaft. 400lb Mono or cable is plenty for anything that he’s going to wrap you up in.
Green water means Green Camoflauge. I designed the Riffe Cryptic camo with this in mind wanting to fade into the distance when fish see something that doesn’t look right, and by then its too late!
I tried both the Amber lens and a clear Naida mask and both worked well. I preferred the clear lens as there is already so much brown in the kelp and the clear I felt didn’t overload my eyes.

On the two trips I’ve made for WSB:
The first time, I made over 200 dives as did one of the best hunters on the California coast that same day beside me and we were both skunked while a relative rookie diver landed one.
The second time I was “lucky” enough to take a limit of three fish over 40 lbs while the other 8 divers on the boat didn’t even get a glimpse of the Ghost.
This just goes to show that no matter how prepared you are there is always a bit of luck involved. Put everything in place so that you can keep luck on your side and you will be successful when the time comes.

I just got an email from Will who just got back from diving in California, here’s his story:

Just returned from Dana Point. Long story short, I lost a shaft on a big AP on the trip to NC with Bullock. Got a replacement, but didn’t have time to rerig the shooting line before I left. I searched for a dive shop around Dana Point when I arrived and realized how close we were to Riffe. We went over to see the shop and ended up having lunch with Jay and Jackie. They came by our hotel the next evening for cocktails, then took us to their house for a tour. Jay found out I was planning to dive in a 3 mil, and demanded I borrow his personal 5 mil. As you can see in the pics, the suit was a bit big, but definitely sealed the deal. Water was 59 degrees, so I would have frozen in my Cryptic 3 mil. Jay and I spent lots of time talking about your recent trip, and his suggestion was to stay silent and work the outside of the bed, diving to 30 feet then swimming in. I did so all day, and it finally paid off with this nice 51-pounder. I tried to repeat the shot placement you discussed on the blog, but I was shooting down on the fish and I missed the spine by 1/2 an inch. I was warned the E100X was a little small for the job, but with 8-10’ vis, it turned out to be the perfect gun. Great penetration, flopper toggled, and the fish tangled up at about 25’ after making a jump out of the water.

Anyway, the Riffes were unbelievable. What a great family.

Thanks for all the pointers on the blog. Keep them coming.

Cheers,

Willie

Because there are so many people travelling in Australia and it is such a gigantic country, it makes sense that you should purchase one of the cheap vehicles there for trips of more than a few weeks.   I’ve always rented a car or borrowed from friends while there but knowing that I was going to be spending the better part of 3 months there I decided in 2004 that I would go ahead and take the plunge and purchase a chariot that would take me to all the places I’d ever wanted to go and then some.

In past trips, I had been particularly fond of some of the SUVs there. I envisioned myself with a 4WD Mitsubishi Pajero (Trooper) tricked out with a Snorkel for fording deep rivers on the way to secret surf rendezvous and deep in the Bush.  Cruising in style and picking up ladies along the way.  Those Pipe dreams were quickly squashed though as soon as I opened up the Trader and realized that with a budget of $2000 AUD, some ugly vehicle (SUV) would be the only thing I could afford.

With 3 surfboards, 3 spear guns, all my dive gear, camera equipment, clothes, Eskie (Igloo Cooler) and countless other gear I was still going to need something big enough to get all my stuff into but more than likely not as tough and cool as a Land cruiser.  So I started looking at station wagons and vans.  In NZ, all the surfers drive station wagons and everyone thinks they are pretty cool.   In the states, you look like a soccer mom. (Not that there is anything wrong with that.  Thank you mom for driving me all those years But when you are 27 years old its tough to get away with and pull the fairer sex.   Vans were my other choice but they were the hardest by far to find since every other feral European backpacker seemed to be looking for one as well.

After a week of looking at the absolute worst vehicles imaginable, I was beginning to lose hope.  Every one I looked at was a fright, missing headlight, no door,  only one window that would roll down,  Spider Farm, 10 year old tires, it was looking pretty bleak.  Then as if in answer to my prayers appeared the Corona.

The $1200 For Sale sign caught my eye as she passed by me in traffic.  I quickly pulled a U-ey and caught up with her as she pulled into what would be her former home.  A quick test drive and $1100 AUD cash and she was mine. And I was instantly in love.

I drove her home proudly showing her off for all to see and reveled in the fact that she had some of the core qualities of other women in my past. At first glance she was clean, cool,  young(relatively that is 1984), fast(130 kph), had plenty of booty(boot is Aussie for trunk), and as we would find out later wasn’t afraid to get a little rough and dirty or pound some drinks.

After a few days of driving around Sydney, Brad Thornbrough and I set off on our adventure with my girl stacked to nines with gear and booze and ready for action.   Within an hour of getting on the highway we started to get to know our girl a little better.   Seems she not only liked her drinks, since we had to put a quart of oil in every few hours, but she could also shake her booty with the best of them.  Not knowing cars, I couldn’t say exactly what the problem was, but I do know that when you push the gas pedal or release it, the car is not supposed to seem to realign itself on its chassis each time.   But,as they say in Australia, no worries.  The AC that I was so proud of was the first thing to go as it just gave up and began exchanging the hot air from inside the car with that of the engine compartment.

With no major disasters though we arrived at the small beach town of Crescent head in NSW which is the home of some of my favorite waves on the entire coast.   With a few hours of light remaining, we left the main town and navigated the dirt road that would lead us to  Brads first Austrlaian Surf session at a secluded break just 10 k’s distant.   This road runs along the swamp land and is graded “every couple of months” as our local friend and certified Wildman Simon Latta informed us.  It hadn’t rained in a while so the road was in good shape and we made 80 Kilometers per hour and were in the water in no time.

A few hours of trading good waves washed away the dirt and stiffness of the long drive and with the sun setting we celebrated our good fortune with a  cold Victoria Bitter and headed back to town to set up our campsite for the night.

Laughing and talking about the prospect of seeing a Kangaroo on the way back we cruised along the dirt road at a safe speed  until it changed into asphalt again and I was able to pick up speed.  With thick brush on either side we were only afforded a milleseconds glimpse of a brown shape before a thump and crunch was heard as a Kanga commited suicide on the front left side of the vehicle. “Whoa!  Did you see that!”

It happened so fast that there was no way to avoid the animal and even if there had been it would have resulted in us going off the road and hitting a tree.   We stepped out to survey the damage and found that the front left side was crushed in and under, the headlight was smashed,  under the hood the battery had broken loose from its mounts,  the grill was pushed in and the Kanga was a complete and total loss.   It was the equivalent of hitting a furry rock for the amount of damage it did to the Corona.

As we’re standing there in the road in the middle of no-where,  a car full of Aborigine’s pulls up and says,”You goys’ awlright?”  Yeah we’re fine but the Kanga has seen better days.  “Mate, you got some good meat on her. Should take those hind legs for the barbie.”   Yeah that’s a good idea, Thanks.

Despite the stellar advice from the thoroughly intoxicated Abo’s we decided against adding to the destruction of the Cerveza that would surely result by throwing a bleeding carcass in the back seat and instead cleared the road to continue on our way.

My girl was beaten up a bit but the damaged only seemed to be skin deep. And there is so much more to a relationship than looks right?   Brad reminded me  of that fact the very next morning as I backed my girl over the water spicket in our campsite crushing yet another panel and the passenger door therefore modifying her even more.   Dumbass.  The door still opened but it now made a hellacious creaking sound and took away from her over all astetics.

The night of the Kanga it started raining and it didn’t stop for the next week and a half.  Back-tracking to the scene of the crime and then past, we discovered that our smooth dirt road had turned in to a continuous series of potholes, rocks and mud.   Where we had done 80 k’s the night before we now bounced along at 25 and it still felt like we were Off-Roading.  We had no business in our vehicle on that road but I’ll be damned if we didn’t give it our best effort and as the days went by and we figured out where the biggest pot holes were, our speed increased and our lack of regard for the vehicles well being plumeted.  Twice a day back and forth we sped, blowing past 4WD vehicles picking their way carefully along the dirt road and scoffing at their babying their machines that were better fitted for the task at hand than our own.

And then our girl started to get angry.  There was a Surf School in town and having made friends with the instructors and some of the sexy young students were invited to join them for dinner our last night in town.   Enroute to our date the Corona must have caught wind of our intentions and showed her disgust with us by sputtering and gliding to a stop right at twilight in the most mosquito infested section of the road way out in the middle of the bush.  Brad was quickly under the hood but despite his jiggling of wires and cleaning of the fuel filter she made not a sound for 30 minutes.  Temper tantrum over, she started up like nothing had ever happened and the remainder of the evening we let her rest while we (unsuccessfully) chased around sunburned hotties who thought the world of us after we delivered a cooler full of fresh fish and lobster for the feast.

Hung over or still half drunk at 0500 the next morning we crawled back to the Corona on our way North to meet some friends for a dive 200 Km’s away.   Back on the open road once again it felt good to smash the pedal down and we laughed once again at the booty shake and as we became more cognoscente we started to notice some new quirks as well.  With the exception of a muscle car or Harley, no vehicle has any business making as much noise as we seemed to be now.  The roar that resulted from the pushing of the accelerator quickly overcame that noise of something rattling underneath us that could only mean that there was something significantly wrong with the Muffler, if it was there at all.
So what do we do about it?  Nothing.  Drive on, go diving and we’ll worry about it some other time.

That some other time turned out to be the very next day as we attempted to climb the hill to Simon’s house back in Crescent Head.  As she sputtered 50 meters short of our destination I spun her around to face down hill in hopes of keeping the gas flow going to the engine and possibly saving her from passing out on us again.  No luck. I glided to a stop in the shade of a big Gum Tree and let her sleep it off while Brad and I both tinkered with whatever we could think of underneath the hood to get her going again.  As before it didn’t seem to matter what we did and she just decided after 45 minutes or so that she was ready to go again and fired right back up.  Whatever.  The next couple days proved that she didn’t like hills so we avoided them at all costs.  Since we were now staying at Simons, we would navigate our way up the hill at short increments like stairs one block at a time until we were on the same level as his house.  It was a longer route but it seemed to prolong her daily run and prevented her from passing out before we did, a role reversal that neither Brad and I were comfortable or had experience with.

A week later and she was still dying on us every so often and we were convinced that it was a fuel problem.   We decided we could live with it.   By now it was nearing a month since I had bought the car though and in order to keep the Transportation Authority off my back I had to reregister the car before the 30 days was up or I would have to go through a big to-do in order to get the title switched over.   So we headed north again to Coffs Harbor and Civilization.

Once there we checked in to the Hoey Moey, our little Hotel on the beach and then headed off to the RTA to do the paperwork.  After getting there we waited in line for a half hour before being told we needed our passports to register it.  Back out to the car we go again and head back to the hotel only to have her sputter and die again only a K down the road.  We tinkered around under the hood unsuccessfully as usual, until a feral Aussie Bum came over and offered to help. Not wanting to risk saying something to my girl that I would regret later, I told Brad I was going for a walk and took off before I lost it completely.  So now we were so helpless that a Bum was going to work on our car!?

Returning I found the engine purring and the bearded vagabond elbow deep in grease and oil telling Brad how to keep her running smooth.  Amazing!  I offered the drinks in my hands to him and he said, “No Worries Mate, you don’t owe me nuthin.”   Typical Aussie hospitality, even if you live on the streets.  I dropped Brad off at the Hotel and headed back to the RTA and she died again on the way.  Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!  With the temp near 100 degrees now I walked down the road and bought a $2 six-in one screwdriver that we would from henceforth refer to as “the tool kit”.  I called Bazza and within 30 minutes I had taken everything apart that I could think of with no success. He hitched a ride and true to form she cranked up as soon as he was in sight.  By now though the RTA was closed and the only thing I wanted to do was get the hell away from this damn car.

Happy that she was running but a bit wary as to her life expectancy we decided finally to give in and take her to the mechanic to see if he could figure out what was wrong with her.  They looked her over and an hour later told us that they couldn’t find anything wrong but cleaned the fuel pump and said try it as is. And she was, in a sense.  $150 and a new fuel pump and a little cleaning of the fuel lines and they said she should be good to go.   Excellent.   We hopped back in and a few blocks later were parked in front of the RTA again. 30 minutes later the paperwork was done and the Corona was officially in my name.

And then the obvious happened.  We turn the key and nothing.  C’mon.  Again. Nothing.  Ahhhhhhhh!!!  Damn this car!  To make matters worse, every single person that walked into the building had to walk right past us and every comment just added to our embarrassment.

I called the garage and told them to come get the car but they wouldn’t do it because they said their truck was away and we’d have to get another company to do it.  8 blocks away.  We would have pushed it but there was no way I was going to embarrass myself more in this small town by doing that.   A redneck tow was offered by some teenage White trash wanna-b hip-hop gangsta kids but then we found out that they in fact, didn’t even know anyone that had a car to do it, so that was out as well.  An hour later I was so frustrated I called a tow truck and forked of the most painful and pointless $100 of the trip so far to have him pick it up and take it not even 5 minutes away. Even now it makes me so angry to have had to do that.

‘Whatever you did didn’t work.’  I say to the mechanics.  “Ok leave it with us and you can pick it up in the morning.” After plying them with a few more beers they said they’d do what they could to make her road worthy and told us to sell it as soon as we got a chance.   We left it over night and slept well knowing she would be all better in the morning.

What was wrong with it?  A lot, apparently.  “How much do you want to spend?”  The mechanic asked me over the phone.  “The carburetor is screwed, as is the fuel pump, fuel filter, and most of your electrical lines and connections.  The Muffler has been abused something fierce and needs some repairs, that loud noise is because of a hole it has in it.  Mate, that wiggle when you use the accelerator is not from the alignment being off, she’s real f-ed up.  That’s the universal axle or the bearings deteriorated so much that she’s losing it. She ain’t  Road Worthy.”  Just make it so she’ll run and keep it as cheap as possible.

There was a little drinking involved that night.  OK, a lot.  This damn car was driving me insane and I just wanted it to run.   We decided the next morning to push up to Byron Bay to chase this girl that Bazza had met after we picked the car up and planned on selling the car once there.   We picked the POS up and packed all of our stuff in for the trip North feeling confident that the $150 we’d just invested in it would be sufficient to get us the 3 hours North to Byron and Freedom from this machine. Home free….

Or so we thought. Once back on the open road, my foot found the gas pedal and we were passing cars and cruising at 130kph in no time.   And then we got pulled over.  Dammit!  The policeman was driving in the opposite direction and flashed his lights at us before spinning around and pulling in behind us.  Bazza and I just started laughing.  What luck we have.

He took my information and when he came back I asked him what seemed to be the problem.

“Please step out of the vehicle.”

“Besides the fact that it looks like you’ve been using it as a 4WD in the bush and is dirty and dented.  Your taillights are out, as are your blinkers and left headlight.  You’re going 20 k’s over the limit, you have no rear view because of all the stuff in your car and it sounds like your muffler is damaged.”

“This car is a POS.” Yes sir I know.

I gave him the spiel about us making a movie and how we had hit a kanga the night before and it must of done the electrical in.  Him, I, and Bazza laughed our asses off at how bad of shape the car was in and we talked about diving and surfing.  He said he’d write us a ticket for just the Blinker being out but we had to promise to stop and fix everything at the next Petrol station.  All the while Bazza is filming and taking pictures as I stand beside our battered car and have this cop telling me that I don’t have to pay the ticket if I don’t want to.  “If you are thinking about coming back to Oz to live I’d pay it but if not I’d just throw it in your photo album for a good laugh later.”  Priceless.  That is the first and last time I ever expect to hear that from a policeman anywhere in the world.

(As luck would have it that is the only ticket I didn’t pay of the 8 or so I received from speed cameras and will no doubt be the one that screws me when I try and come back. Handcuffs at the airport anyone?)

WE kept our word and Bazza fixed the lights at the next gas station and we were back on the road again, recharged knowing that lightning rarely strikes in the same place twice so we figured we had paid our dues for the car that day already.

“You hear that?” Bazza asks me.

Hear what?

“That clicking noise.  That’s a new sound.”

Where’s it coming from?

“Sounds like from the engine.  See! It gets louder every time you step on the gas.”

What do you think it is?

“I don’t know but I can tell you its not good and it sounds like its getting worse.”

At this point we were about 20 K’s short of the turnoff for Yamba and in the middle of nowhere.  (Not that Yamba is really anywhere either.  It’s a town of about 6000 if that.)  There are no Servo’s (Service Stations) until then so we have no choice but to keep going.

With the temperature gauge rising Bazza leans out the window filming and wetting himself he is laughing so hard because the “tink, tink, tink, tink” sound has grown steadily louder and is now “clank, clank, clank.”

Moving over to the slow lane the noise increases to the point where we are both laughing so hard I can barely steer.  Really now what the hell could this be!  We reach the Exit and have to make a decision whether or not to gamble and go the 18 k’s to Yamba(which actually has surf and things to do) or take the safe route and go left to Maclean (town of 1200) which is only 4 K’s distant.   The choice is easy.  We go left.

There was no reason to call ahead, the entire town knew we were coming and why we were here.

200 meters ahead of us people were whipping their heads around at the god awful sound of our approach.  There was no hiding our shame so we embraced it.  Brad waved to the towns people like I was escorting him to Homecoming but the shouts of encouragement (or so we’d like to think) could not be heard over the now deafening sound emitting from underneath our hood.  Little kids were covering their ears and pointing as it now sounded like someone was hitting the engine block with a sledgehammer every half a second.

So it was with great surprise that before we even came around the corner to the service station the three mechanics started walking outside and laughing at us.

“She’s fucked Mate!”

Tell us something we don’t know.

“No Mate. She’s really fucked.  Go ahead and get your gear out she needs a new engine before she’ll run again.  That sound you hear, that is the bearing at the bottom of the engine that has dropped out and it’s banging around inside the block.  There is no fixing this one. “

OK. It’s beer o’clock.  Thank goodness for the eskie.  We cracked a few beers and tried to get as much info out of the mechanics as possible about the chances of getting on our way again.   They freely accepted the beers but there was no getting around the fact that it was time for me to part ways with the Corona and we set forth to find a new chariot to take us on more adventures through the country. As luck would have it, our new chariot was closer than we thought and the sight of the purple curtains and the column stick shift did little to deter us from claiming our prize and heading off into the sunset in record time.  The Toyota Lite Ace (a mini van of microscopic proportions) was to be our new home and with no time to lose we put her back on the open road barely hearing the mechanic say to keep her under 90 kph. Or did he say it at all?  Anyway we were back on the road and out of Maclean and… overheating and broken down on the side of the road 10 minutes later.

Stripped of our new car we were forced to wait out  repairs before we could get on the road again.  That night we slept in a room above the most raucous, and possibly only, bar in the town of Maclean and being the only Americans trapped there in the history of this Scottish Australian  town, you can only imagine how well we fit in… but that’s another story.

Video:

Why you need an Official Scale. World Record Dogtooth Tuna

Yesterday I was moved to tears by the most incredible fish i have ever seen in my life. 
Diving in Indonesia is one of the most frustrating and difficult projects I have ever embarked on and without an amazing amount of patience, stamina and skill there is no way that you can be successful in a diving environment such as this.
Starting the day we jumped in to a mere 4 knots of current and drifted for 4 hours landed two Dogtooth tuna 40 and 100 lbs which are both excellent fish in any locale. 
Taking a break during the day we went and visited a deserted beach on a faraway shore and as we explored teh little spit of sand and the surrounding countryside Craig and I gave thanks for such a beautiful and unspoiled place on earth that we were able to enjoy.
With the two fish in the boat and our time expired we decided to head back to the mainland 2 hours away. Something in me felt wrong though and I persuaded the boat driver to stay another hour ($15 more) so that we could dive in the ever increasing current for one last shot. 
With a rain squall coming hard on us and the visibility darkening we decided on one last drift. Craig had just broken one blade on his fin and told me, “This is the last drift, make it count, I’ll ride shotgun and bring the second gun so you can shoot your fish twice…”
5 minutes later i was relaxed and diving down through the warm surface layer to the cooler water below relishing the change in temperature that these type of Tuna love so much. At 50 feet i stopped kicking and glided down to find a school of dogtooth tuna surrounding me from 15 to 120 lbs. Patiently i glided deeper and caught sight of the black back of a slightly bigger one on the bottom at 90 feet. Passing the other smaller tuna the big fish turned slightly just as i reached the end of my float line and i squeezed the trigger.
Thunk!
The fish immediately shook his gills and then made two circles on the bottom banging the shaft against the coral in an attempt to break free of the object now lodged in his after half. 
As the great fish strained for deep water i pushed hard for sunlight and grabbed my passing floats on the surface just in time to tell Craig, ” I shot a TOAD!!!!”
Nervous the the fish would pull out i fought him as gingerly as possible and within a few minutes we had him in sight. As he neared the surface I could see he was hurt bad but there was no way i was going to lose this fish and I grabbed my 115 Omer America with a reel from Craig, cocked it, dove and approached him. At 12 feet my lungs were screaming for air at the exertion of the last few minutes and I prayed that my shaking hands would aim true.. whoosh! The fish went stiff and i surfaced pulling the ever growing fish to me.
Oh my god. Oh my god.
I can’t wrap my arms around him! I have never screamed so loud in my life. The rocky cliffs a mile distant reverberated with the sound of my voice and then mingled with that of Craigs and the boat driver. 
With a raging 10 kt current approaching I handed the tail of the fish to the boat driver and jumped in the boat to relieve him but even with Craig and I pulling we could not budge the fish from the water. Trailing the fish to calm waters the three of us pulled the beast into the boat and then there was complete silence.
Looking at the 6 ft long fish at my feet my mind shut down and I was flooded with emotion at what I had before me. Never in my life could i have imagined this possible. Craig and I stared in utter silent disbelief. 
Dogtooth Tuna. What I have always preached as the most challenging and difficult fish in the world to land. Diving 30 miles from civilization in 6-10 kts of current. The whitewater rafting we had done the week before doesn’t even compare to the whirlpools and down currents and 5 ft standing waves we encounter every drift here. 
I can’t describe to you how incredible this day is and how meaningful it is to me. Of all the fish in the world this is the one record i have coveted the most. 
200.6 lbs. 6 feet long and 4.5 feet in girth.
I am the luckiest man alive. 
Cameron

VIDEO:

World Record Dogtooth Tuna on boat

 

Fresh off the trip to Micronesia I was straight back into job hunting trying to find a ship job amidst all this foolishness with the American Ship Captain being held hostage on his own lifeboat off the coast of Somalia.

Having just returned from the same area and not seeing any action taken by the US in a few days was less than encouraging and I have no desire to go back to that area of the world.

Got a line on a good job opportunity through a company in Texas and flew out there to interview.

Within the first thirty minutes of the 2 day interview process they told me I was there man and now, (despite having my unlimited tonnage Captains license for that past 4 years) and officially Captain Cameron Kirkconnell and will be in command of a 600 ft ship that operates off the coast of South America.  I am beside myself excited about it as the job is a good one and I’ve been working hard to find something good in our crumbling Merchant Marine fleet.

Job in hand I got on the phone and started hustling for  a dive trip.

Luckily Keith Love (Texas Bluewater Assassins) and Jeff from Maximum Scuba took pity on me and we met up early the next morning to head offshore into solid 4-6 ft seas.  

I could have cared less and was happy just to be on the water and celebrate.   With hopes of making it way out we were resigned to stay in shallow and swarmed by dozens of Red Snappers who luckily for them are still out of season.  

 

 

 

Keith had said the chance for a Warsaw was good and I did my best to relax in the heaving seas and bit of current to make some deep dives. 

After 15 dives to 75 ft or more I self proclaimed myself as the Snapper Whisperer as the entire school would meet me at 30 feet and follow me down to the lower parts of the rig like lost puppies.  Every movement I made was under close scrutiny and I wish I had a camera to record the 25 lb snapper literally 2 feet from the front of my mask and some smaller ones close enough to touch.  

It was painful but amazing and I learned a lot about Red Snapper’s habits and what movements and other tricks kept them coming in and pretty much committing suicide.   

Off to the next rig Jeff and Keith gave me a good hour in the water to try again before they headed down on Scuba and I started the process of diving to depth at all of the most productive spots of the rig.  (Incidentally this was a rig that I had dove 4 years prior and remembered the structure and irregularities that hold fish having seen it in clear blue water)

After working the entire rig with nothing but a small Permit to show for it I made a dive out wide in hopes of shooting a big cobia or Mackerel that would be circling.  Resting in the hazy green void at 70 ft I waited and was surrounded by my loyal Snappers and Blue Runners as usual.  

Looking down into the darkness towards the end of the dive I could barely make out the shape of something else that was strangely still and out of place from the swirling cauldron of Red and Blue surrounding me.   

I coasted down and my hopes soared as the form took the shape of a decent sized Grouper and I pulled the trigger of my Riffe 130 Euro hitting him squarely in the top of the head.  

Ready for a war I was let down that the fish simply rolled over and I pulled him easily to the surface and rejoiced in my first Warsaw Grouper while Freediving.  

The feat of shooting them is nothing extraordinary. It is finding them that is the difficult part as this species spends the majority of its time at depths of 500 ft and greater.   As far as we can tell in North America only a handful of these fish have been shot freediving and most have been flukes.  We have been targeting them for a few years in Louisiana without success and on the East Coast of Florida as well and while chances are good we will get one eventually I have to give most credit to Keith for putting me on them and giving me the opportunity to dive first before they went down on tanks.

GEAR:

Riffe Euro 130′s with Horizontal Reel for all three guys rigged with 9/32″ hawaiian flopper shafts.

3mm Green Cryptic Suit (Green winter water and water temp 69 degrees), Riffe Stable snorkel for the rough seas to keep it clear of water,  Amber lens Naida mask for the crappy visibility to pic out the details and brighten up the overcast day.

 

NOTE:

As far as I know the only people to shoot Warsaws freediving: Jason Wentmore’s buddy off the East coast in 30′ of water!   Chad Palan in South Florida.  Keith Love’s friend in Texas and unconfirmed reports in Brazil. That is a pretty small group.

 

Physical description:

The warsaw grouper is the only member of the genus Epinephelous that has 10 dorsal spines, the second of which is much longer than the third. The color is a grayish brown to dark reddish-brown background with numerous small, irregular white blotches on the sides. The color appears much lighter around the nape and along the posterior margin of the operculum. All of the fins are dark brown, except the white-splotched spiny portion of the dorsal fin.

Biological description:

The warsaw grouper has a wider distribution along the southern United States than the other large grouper, the goliath grouper ( E. itajara). Warsaw range from North Carolina to the Florida Keys and throughout much of the Caribbean and Gulf of Mexico to the northern coast of South America. The species inhabits irregular bottom, notches, valleys, and drop-offs, occuring in the continental shelf break in waters 350 to 650 feet deep. Other species inhabiting this productive deep-water zone are snowy and yellowedge groupers, tilefish, and silk snappers. Warsaw are long-lived, reaching up to 6 feet and over 300 pounds. The warsaw’s huge mouth enables it to engulf prey whole after capturing it.