OCEAN VIEW, Del. — It’s not that kind of dolphin.
They call it mahi-mahi to avoid confusion, and probably because it looks better on a seafood menu. Diners will order grilled mahi-mahi. Grilled dolphin makes people think of Flipper. Nobody wants to eat Flipper.
Flipper - that kind of dolphin - is a small whale, a mammal. This kind of dolphin, mahi-mahi, is an open ocean fish that’s prized as much for its fighting ability as for its superb flavor and texture. Grilled, with a dash of garlic and butter, there’s nothing better. It makes a good sushi, too, and ceviche.
It’s right up there with tuna, which has a major role in this story, too.
Rich Long, a longtime friend and Little Rock Central 1982 classmate, has lived in Maryland since graduating from Penn State in 1986. He invited me to fish with him and Capt. Dave Collins on the Capt. Ike II (www.captikeiicharters) off the Delaware Coast in late September. Joining us were Todd Hylton of Frederick, Md., an insurance and title company owner, and Hoon Kim, who works with Long at Lorillard Tobacco.
“What kind of fish do you really want to catch?” Long asked on the drive to Delaware.
“Dolphin,” I replied. They are so beautiful, and I love to eat them.”
We left Indian River Marina long before sunrise and plowed about three hours through the deep swells of the North Atlantic to the Gulf Stream. It was an amazing sight. The ocean off the coast has a grayish cast, but the water in the Gulf Stream has a translucent, cobalt quality, like the glass of an old time Coke bottle.
Once in the Gulf Stream, Capt. Dave’s first mate, Brian Joseph, rigged multiple lines - including outriggers and down riggers - with ballyhoo, a baitfish used to catch dolphin, wahoo, tuna and marlin. All eyes scanned the water for anything floating; a patch of kelp, even a stick of wood. A floater attracts baitfish, which in turn attracts predators, especially dolphin.
Long spotted a single piece of wood. Collins veered toward it so that the baits would pass close. Sure enough, one rod plunged. Then several went down. A rodeo ensued as we all battled dolphins. When mine neared the boat, I “got color.” The fish flashed the most brilliant burst of chartreuse, then morphed to blue, then gold. It was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.
During this melee, the sickle-shaped dorsal fin of a blue marlin poked above the surface.
“An 8-pound dolphin is a baitfish to these guys,” Long said. “Get ready!”
The marlin strike never came, but it was thrilling to know we were around them.
We caught 18 dolphins that day, but Long had a hunch that the next day would be better. He chartered Collins again for a second outing.
I smelled it long before I saw it, the sweet odor of a bream or crappie bed. The smell came from the carcass of a big tiger shark floating on the surface. We caught dolphin next to that, too, but then we saw the big line of seaweed. We caught even more dolphin, but Collins is a tuna man at heart. He holds the Delaware state record for bluefin (873 pounds), and he considers any day that he doesn’t catch tuna a bust.
Tuna did not appear to be in the cards, and dolphins were scarce that day, too. We only caught 10. With only two hours to go, Hylton and Hoon napped while Long sipped on a Coors Light and I chatted with Joseph. I just happened to be closest to the rod when it plunged. Whatever hit ran fast and took out line quickly. I grabbed the rod, engaged the spool and began reeling. The nappers awoke, and Long strapped the fighting belt around my waist. The fight was on.
“Runs like a big wahoo!” Joseph said.
It felt like a turbocharged race car, so fast and powerful. Whenever I gained on the fish, it ran. Over and over and over it ran. My biceps and shoulders burned. Then my back and torso began to burn. I backed against the fish box and put my full weight into it.
Finally the fish neared the boat.
“That’s no wahoo,” Long said. “That’s a tuna. You can tell by the way it keeps going to the bottom.”
“We got color!” Joseph yelled. “We’re close!”
The fish flashed bright turquoise with golden accents.
“Tuna!” everybody yelled in unison.
Collins could stand it no longer. Success to a captain means big fish in the boat, and this fish wasn’t in the boat.
“You’ve had him on there too long!” Collins barked. “You need to get that fish in the boat before it gets loose!”
We were at an impasse. The fish wasn’t running, but it held its ground. And then the drag started clicking, faster and faster, until it became a low whine. The fish was running again, and it was going a long way. My body language said it all.
“You’re toast,” Long said. “Gimme that rod!”
I handed him the rod and strapped the fighting belt to his waist. The fish fought with renewed vigor, and Long lasted just 10 minutes. He gave the rod to Hylton, who got it to the gaff in just three minutes. It was a gorgeous, 64-pound yellowfin tuna.
“That took 50 minutes and 1.1 miles,” Collins said. “Good job!”
I fought that crazy fish nonstop for 37 minutes, and my arms felt like jelly. That’s when I learned that fighting and landing a tuna is usually a group effort, with everybody taking short turns to avoid fatigue.
“I knew how bad you wanted to land it yourself, so we let you go,” Long said.
“It wore me out just watching you,” Joseph said.
“You ever had tuna before?” Kim asked.
“Sure I have,” I replied. “Bumblebee is my favorite.”
“Damn hillbilly!” he scoffed.
“Right out of the can,” I continued, “with a plastic spoon.”
Collins burst out laughing and said, “After you eat some of this fresh, you won’t ever eat canned tuna again.”
As we entered the harbor, Joseph hoisted the tuna flag and the dolphin flag up the mast. We were the only boat to score a tuna that day, a matter of great pride for Collins.
“That’s why he’s the only captain I ever fish with,” Long said. “He always pulls it out at the end.”
As for fresh tuna, Collins was right. There’s nothing better.
Sports, Pages 28 on 10/14/2012