The 23rd Annual Homer Jackpot Halibut Derby sponsored by the Homer Chamber of Commerce starts today. If you promise not to fall asleep, I'll give you a few important facts. To run part of this derby, there must be tagged fish. To have tagged fish, you must have charter boats and captains courageous enough to take out a bunch of unknown volunteers willing to catch and release 100 highly annoyed slimers that don't appreciate additional bling in their gill plates.
Six of the bottom feeders are worth $10,000, 41 are cruising around with $1,000 tags and 53 are sporting $500 wires. That jacks up to $180,000 which nowadays may pay for enough fuel to get to the end of the Spit and back.
The derby also has monthly cash prizes for the four biggest fish brought in that haven't mysteriously swallowed bowling balls or downrigger weights. Entrants also have a shot at winning a monthly drawing for $1,000 if they throw back any halibut over 60 pounds and $5,000 for the one-time seasonal draw.
Note: Since I'm easily confused and more easily accused, please check out http://www.homerhalibutderby.com/ for the facts so I can resume making things up. Thank you.
Now for the rest of the story
On April 14, as I was leaving our cabin enroute to the Sports Shed to receive my boat assignment, I noticed two pheasants fly by in front of the truck. I should have stopped and called to inquire if there might be a weather delay because neither bird had its wings spread. I didn't and thus experienced my first drive out onto the Spit where I had to keep my wheel turned right to adjust for the wind. Needless to say, the expedition was canceled for 10 days in order to allow time for the water blown east to flow back into the inlet.
On the eve of the 24th, I didn't sleep well because recent local weather forecasts had been sporting the same credibility as Al Gore's global warming theory (I should know. I shoveled a ton of his b.s. off my deck last week). Anyway, I fired up the computer around midnight to check all international weather patterns from Homer to Honolulu. Everything was clear and the only detectable front was moving slowly up from the tip of South America. But that minor anomaly convinced me that we were destined to take a last minute e-ticket ride on sneaker winds lurking in Cook Inlet. So I dug out my boat booties that have the gripping power of a giant squid hanging on to a highly pissed blue whale. The rest of my ensemble was standard halibut battle gear. Sweat pants and a jacket that could be slimed, bloodied, torn, soaked in sea water and then air dried so that they were useable for the rest of the season, but not allowed back in the house. All of this included a matching hoodie that would not only protect me from the elements, but also from direct hits by fermenting bait herring and/or power hurled beverages subtlety mixed with breakfast burritos.
Although things were a bit bumpy getting to our secret spot we weren't worried until Ma Nature had a gas attack that sent us waves so high we could have seen Kodiak from the crests if it hadn't been for the haze and the albino buffalo-sized white caps.
Two things impressed me about that badass situation first, the captain immediately chilled for safer waters and second, no one lung-launched their munchies toward one of the distant ice fields.
We had a tough gang.
Captain Rex gave us one more shot fishing behind Yukon Island, but that turned out to be as hot as a penguin's butt in mid-winter so we boogied for the harbor.
Opportunity No. 3 came on the 28th. The day started out beautifully as our bunch embarked to tag the remaining five fish. We were confident that we'd knock those puppies off in no time. It took a bit longer. At first things were so uneventful that we might as well have been trolling for clams. I was mumbling that at 216 feet, I was technically 16 feet over my maximum of, "Who gives a $^#* if I don't have any bait left, I'm not reeling up again" depth.
But then, wham, teammates Steve and Dave started getting strikes along with Holly and Michael who also nailed flats while keeping everyone else baited and fishing. Gary (a.k.a. major fine artist) was amazing by keeping all of the Irish Lords and a truculent skate occupied.
Finally, the mission was accomplished and we even had fish for dinner.
My special thanks again to the stalwart and professional team of the Winter King. Without you I would have never learned how to fish without a hook.
When he's not out tagging halibut, Nick C. Varney can be reached at ncvarney@gmail.com.
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Homer Alaska - Oped -
Story last updated at
8:47 PM on
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Third time's the charm when it comes to tagging halibut
By NICK C. VARNEY
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