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800 Miles to Empty

May 1, 2008

At 36,000 feet, we left behind our intention of being men on a fishing adventure and turned into idiots. The jet was pointed toward Alaska. Empty beer cans sat on our tray tables. It was June 21, the longest day of the year in the Northern Hemisphere. For days we would chase fish under the watchful eye of an eternal sun. So, why not fish as long as possible, in as many places as possible, with as little sleep as possible? It was a premise sure to produce good stories, but it was also pretty stupid. Our physical and mental condition was already questionable. Delays had turned into cancellations and a rerouting through Atlanta. We were worn thin and still had four hours before landing in Anchorage.

JOHN: The delays en route didn't leave us much time to visit with two representatives from GMC who were waiting at the airport with a 2007 Denali they were going to let us use during our stay. (If you're doing an Alaska road trip, it should be in a vehicle named for one of the state's most famous landmarks, right?)

We were headed to Seward, and it was already 10 p.m. when we hit the road. Our three-hour drive down the Seward Highway was shrouded by drizzle and the dim light of dusk. By the time we reached our hotel, we'd been awake for nearly 24 hours and were due at the docks in less than five hours.

Biggest. Halibut. Ever?…B.Y.O.F.

WILL: The next morning we met Wally of Crackerjack Charters (877-224-2606; crackerjack
charters.com), a grizzled sea captain tuned in to halibut like a hound on a blood trail. Despite his expertise, something felt amiss. It was the weather. You could read the forecast in the exaggerated lines on his face. Twenty-knot winds and eight-foot rollers. With those seas in a body of water named Resurrection Bay, it was time to repent. Prayers and Dramamine were in order. The seas beat us like an angry prizefighter. We watched our shipmates hug the railing and let fly the contents of their stomachs.

Two of them bemoaned the relative emptiness of their coolers, telling us their wives wouldn't be happy if they returned home without halibut fillets. So at the end of the day I tied on a diamond jig, drenched it with fish attractant and sent it 300 feet down.

After a few sharp jerks, I was pulled to my knees by something gargantuan. This was the barn door the fellas needed to bring home. The fish yanked and I yanked back. My back seared with pain as I tried to keep the pressure on. Waves washed over the gunwale. I was fighting a true sea beast. Primal screams came from my gut, and I vowed not to let the thing get away.

This went on for about 20 minutes, without any progress. My histrionics were starting to become awkward for everyone on board when Wally stepped in.

"Let me hold the rod," he said. He jerked it a couple of times and turned to me. "You're hung."
There I stood, in Resurrection Bay, the world's most humiliated fisherman.

JOHN: In addition to several mid-size halibut, we caught a bunch of yellow eyes—a type of grouper—and took a few fillets over to the Apollo restaurant, where the cooks prepared them for us.

We were surely a sight to behold for all the nice families and older couples who made up the restaurant's clientele. Our faces bore the effects of a day of salt, sun and wind. Our clothing smelled of cut herring and halibut blood. Nonetheless, we settled into the pleather booth, ordered a round of Alaska Ambers and recounted our day on the high seas.

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