Jack Boulware

One of the fastest fish in the sea. Razor sharp teeth. Just try and catch one.

A Fish Tale
The legendary wahoo is one of the fastest and most mysterious fish in the sea – and it serves as a worthy opponent to the most seasoned of fishermen.

Skipper Kevin Aderhold climbs down from the captain’s chair and warns us that the forecast calls for rough seas. “Four to six feet. Everybody ready for a whuppin’? It’s gonna be rough out there.” He looks each of us in the eye. “I’m not kidding.” Earl “Bayou” Dufrene, the boat’s owner, shrugs. “Won’t be the first, won’t be the last.”

The rest of us look at each other. Last week’s trip was canceled because of weather. None of us got much sleep last night, tossing and turning with adrenaline. We’re already here at the dock. As they say in the action movies, “Let’s do this.”

We leave the Venice Marina, chug out of the channel, and head south, past the shrimpers and tankers and Coast Guard boats, slipping out the back door of the Louisiana delta. Two hours south of New Orleans, the marshland tapers off to the end of the world. Ahead of us, there’s nothing but the Gulf of Mexico.
Our charter boat is a twin-engine Glen Young Flybridge sportfisherman, 42 feet long and packed with high-end rods and reels. Its lockers are filled with fresh bait, frozen bait, and lures as long as your forearm. We’re going to need it all, because we’re after wahoo, the most difficult fish in the sea.

We could chase down a marlin and fight it for a few hours. Or we could drop anchor, toss out some chum, and wait for the tuna to show up. We could always do that. And to be honest, it would be much easier. But there’s a special cult of anglers surrounding the wahoo, addicted to the folklore of a fish so mysterious not even scientists know much about it.

The wahoo, or Acanthocybium solandri , is a large mackerel found in tropical waters all over the world. Although its numbers are plentiful, it swims solo rather than in schools. Unlike similar fish, there is only one species of wahoo. It’s never evolved into anything else.

Its snout measures half the length of its head, and its powerful jaws are lined with razor-sharp teeth. It’s like a tube-shaped dinosaur. The dorsal fin folds down into a slot down its back, streamlining the fish into the ocean’s fastest creature with gills. Wahoos have been clocked at 60 to 75 miles an hour. They routinely snap off regular monofilament fishing lines, and can bite an artificial lure in half.
The world-record wahoo caught on hook and line is 158 pounds, but some reports say it can grow as large as 218 pounds. Because it’s so difficult to catch, there are no limits for either numbers or size.
Wahoo is often served in restaurants as a white steak, similar to tuna or swordfish, and listed under the name ono (Hawaiian for sweet or delicious). According to one legend, early European explorers discovered waters filled with such fish along the coast of Oahu. When they looked at maps, Oahu was often spelled “Wahoo,” and the name was given to the fish.

Chasing down wahoo is an expensive sport, and many charter operations don’t bother. You must painstakingly hand-tie steel leaders to the monofilament lines in order to withstand the wahoo’s powerful attack. You can’t use steel leaders for some other fish, like tuna, because they can see them easily and will ignore the bait.

In Louisiana, you need to stop at the Puglia’s Sporting Goods shop in Metairie, go to the wall of colorful wahoo lures, and pick up some Braid Marauders and Rapala Magnums. You might need teaser lures, too, such as the Dancin’ Dolphin daisy chain of three rubber dolphins, which look realistic and attract the fish’s eye. You should also bring onboard a downrigger – a device that lowers your bait depth when trolling. You need a boat big enough to handle blue water up to 80 miles offshore. And you’ll need lots of fuel, because you’re always moving. The boat we’re on cost half a million dollars. To go fishing.

Earl Dufrene and his My Lil’ Buddy Charters are one of a handful of boats based out of Venice that will fish for wahoo on request. Similar charters operate through the southern U.S., as well as in Mexico, _Thailand, Brazil, and South Africa. The Bahamas hosts an international wahoo championship each year. In the Gulf of Mexico, wahoo season runs all year long in blue water, and from November to April closer to shore.

Kevin, the skipper, and Jonathan, his first mate, finish tying up the leaders. Like a lot of guys in the delta, both are well acquainted with a fishing boat. As he climbs back up onto the captain’s deck, Kevin pulls out 39 cents from his pockets and flings the coins overboard for good luck. “He does that every trip,” says Jonathan.

The Sackett Bank sits in the Gulf about 22 miles southwest from the tip of the Louisiana delta. Imperceptible to the naked eye, it’s actually a massive underwater dome, about 200 feet below the surface, and surrounded by water twice as deep. Currents around the mound create natural upwellings that attract small fish, which in turn bring top pelagic predators like tuna and wahoo. Anglers call this area the Midnight Lump. It’s about seven square kilometers of excellent fishing.

We approach the Lump, where several boats are already bobbing on the surface. If we were after tuna, we’d stop here, too, but the wahoo are rumored to be farther out. Captain Kevin speeds us on through the Midnight Lump.

Oil platforms start to pop up in every direction on the horizon. Since the late 1940s, oil companies have erected around 3,000 rigs off the coasts of Texas and Louisiana, milking the precious fuel from the ocean floor. To catch fish in the Gulf, you go out to the rigs. Smaller fish like to hang around the pilings, to hide from the bigger fish – for instance, a hungry wahoo.

Kevin slows the boat down and approaches a rig. We put out three lines and begin slowly circling the platform. “Sometimes they’re smarter than you,” Earl says, lighting a cigarette. “The bigger ones are harder; they’ve been around a few times. You have to make ‘em wanna bite.”

A couple of workers in hard hats watch us from the catwalks. I ask Earl how you can tell it’s a wahoo on the bait. “You know what you got,” he smiles. “That line goes across the water at 40 miles an hour. It’s singin’._”

Earl grew up on the bayou and has been fishing nearly all of his 55 years. His charter business is only a little over a year old, but he’s already thinking of getting another boat. Like every other fisherman in Louisiana, he eats a lot of fish. But he can’t stand sushi, can’t bear the thought of eating raw tuna. On the other hand, Earl admits he loves to eat raw shrimp, heads and all, with “a little salt, pepper, Tabasco.”

We speed off to another rig and start circling again, trailing three lines at a slow speed. No fish here either. We head out farther and reach what’s called the rip, where the blue ocean water meets the green water from the Gulf. It’s a dramatic, visible line in the ocean, blue on one side, green on the other, divided by a wall of vegetation extending, often, all the way to the sea bottom.

Smaller fish feed and hide along the rip, so we troll the blue-water side. Transparent Portuguese men-of-war drift with the swells, looking like empty plastic bottles. Seabirds perch on the clumps of seaweed. Flying fish, a favorite food of the wahoo, skitter about the waves like aquatic blue jays. But still, no bites. The lines trail uselessly behind the boat.

Suddenly, someone yells, “Fish on, fish on!” The boat engines cut, there’s a flash of fish on the surface, and then nothing. It didn’t catch the hook. The crew pulls in the lines and adds teaser lures in front and behind – three different baits on three lines. We continue along the rip, watching the lures behind the boat. Somewhere below the surface, wahoos are darting about, ignoring us.

Hours later , under clear sunny skies, we’re still circling rigs. The weather turned out perfect. I think we’re about 40 miles from shore, but I’m not sure. There is nothing but sun and rigs and miles of blue water. Time means nothing. The pace is out of another century. I feel like Captain Ahab in Moby-Dick, scouring the high seas for the elusive white whale. Or the fisherman who was dragged out to sea by a giant marlin in Ernest Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea. Except in my fish tale, nothing happens. And college students aren’t forced to write term papers about it. Although I am curious exactly how to turn in a magazine story about fishing, without any fish.

The combination of sun and light wind relaxes all of us. We sit and stare at the water, lulled by the engine noise, as Kevin trolls the rip and circles the rigs.

I recall all the happy people pulling up tunas as we cruised through the Midnight Lump. Yesterday our crew caught 17 black-fin tuna in one and a half hours. The clients were so tired they said, “That’s it, we’re done for the day.” And when I first contacted Earl, his boat had caught two wahoos the day before. Venice was hot. The wahoos were on. But not today – and after all the talk about how exciting wahoos are, I’m convinced it’s as real as the giant squid.

I wonder if Earl is feeling as frustrated as I. He comes out of the galley with another sandwich and says, “The fish ain’t hungry, but I am.”

The skipper and first mate are feeling more antsy. They want to catch something. They can’t go back to the marina empty-handed. Kevin tries one more rig, and after a few circles pulls in the lines and says we’re headed back to the Midnight Lump. We roar along at full throttle, kicking up spray, the wake forming a perfect V behind us. Nobody says a word.

A single boat remains at the Lump, motionless in the midday sun. Earl says there were so many boats today, all chumming for tuna, that the chum attracted sharks, which scared away all the fish. And so that’s why the Lump is now empty. Our crew puts out the lines and begins trolling. Within two minutes, someone yells, “FISH ON!” and reels in a three-foot King mackerel. Jonathan grabs a bat, smacks the head, and tosses it into a locker of ice. I think this is all pretty exciting, but the crew assures me it’s just a mackerel, and they don’t taste that good.

Five minutes later, “FISH ON!” It’s another King, slightly larger. Earl lands this one into the boat. The mood change is instantaneous, the adrenaline pumping. Finally, we’re catching fish. “The next one’s yours,” they tell me.

We troll for a few minutes. Suddenly, the rod shakes violently, and the reel zings. “FISH ON!” Whatever is on the hook, it’s hauling, rolling out yards and yards of line. Jonathan squints out at the line dancing across the surface: “Could be a snake.”

He helps me grab the pole and jam it into my harness. The boat is chaos. Everybody starts pulling in the other lines and yelling, “Keep it tight! Keep the line tight!” The fish is unspooling line crazy fast, like it’s attached to an Indy car. Kevin confirms, “Wahoo!” from the captain’s chair.

I struggle with the rod, trying to turn the crank of the reel. Kevin works the boat throttles, watching the line, keeping the slack tight. The rod is darting and bucking. Wahoo apparently don’t fight as hard as tuna, but it’s exhausting enough for me, and I can barely turn the reel a few rotations at a time. I’m panting like a dog, my arms are burning. To pass the pole to someone else is a sign of weakness. Some fish fight so hard, it can take up to five guys to land it, passing the pole down the line.

Suddenly the wahoo pops to the surface. Jonathan sticks it with a gaff and hauls it into the boat. Its wicked jaws are snapping, the body is colored a shimmering blue and silver, flopping and sloshing around the deck. John clubs him two good ones while somebody else unhooks the bait.

“Looks like about 50 pounds,” says Kevin. Everybody is whooping: “Camera – where’s your camera?!” I’m completely shaking. Earl and I hold up the wahoo by the tail; it’s covered in slime. Snap, snap. We toss the wahoo into the box of ice. Earl high-fives me, laughing: “It’s addictive, isn’t it?”

Jonathan refits another bait and tosses it back into the gulf. “We’ll be fishing all night now!

1. # #

In addition to My Lil’ Buddy Charters, here are a variety of other outfitters available for wahoo fishing.
LOUISIANA
My Lil’ Buddy Charters
(985) 532-9747
www.mylilbuddycharters.com

Paradise Outfitters of Louisiana
(985) 845-8006
www.paradise-outfitters.com

Reel Peace Charters
(985) 534-2278
www.reelpeace.com

Xtreme Fishing Charters
(504) 364-1869
www.rodnreel.com/xtreme

TEXAS
Wahoo Charters
(361) 549-6968
www.wahoo-charters.com

The Saltwater Cowboy
(361) 563-8862
www.fishntexas.com

FLORIDA
Sea Wrangler Charters
(321) 459-3412
www.sea-wrangler.com

Atlantic Deep Sea Fishing
(321) 452-5315
www.atlanticdeepseafishing.com

SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
Coiba Adventure
(800) 800-0907
www.coibadventure.com

Salvador’s Sportfishing Charters
(858) 483-3771
www.elbudster.com

BAJA CALIFORNIA
Gordo Banks Pangas
(800) 408-1199
www.gordobanks.com

Fly Hooker Sportfishing
011-52-624-143-8271
www.flyhooker.com

HAWAII
Chupu Charters
(808) 637-3474
www.chupu.com

High Noon Sportfishing
(808) 895-3868
www.fishingcharterskona.com

Kuuloa Kai Charters
(808) 637-5783
www.kuuloakai.com

WORLDWIDE DIRECTORY OF WAHOO CHARTERS
www.hotspotguides.com/fish
ing/a_Wahoo_fishing_guides.asp

(A version of this story appeared in American Way magazine)