I’ll turn 51 this month. To some I may still be just a spring chicken. For others of the Millennial and up and coming “Centennials” (also known as Generation Z) I’m probably more like an old buzzard.
I doubt young guns could possibly understand how the healing process changes as we age; sore back, aching knees, and those skin cells that don’t renew as fast, meaning cuts and scrapes take a little longer to heal. Brushing my teeth one morning this spring, I saw in the mirror a small crack in between my eyebrows; putting the toothbrush down, I rubbed my finger across a light but clearly visible scar on my forehead. Thinking back to last July 27th, I started to laugh.
At the 48th Annual White Marlin Invitational captains meeting, I bumped into Capt. Jimmy Zavacky of the charter boat Reel Determined. Jimmy said he and his crew would be fishing hard in day one of the tournament, but asked if I wanted to do a “ride along” for day two to take photos. Departure time would be 1 a.m. from Morrison’s Marina in Beach Haven, just enough time for dad and I to catch the Phillies game at Citizens Bank Park (they dismantled the Astros by the way, in just over three hours) and make the two-hour drive back to Beach Haven to meet the crew.
Onboard the 36-foot custom Runaway, I was more than comfortable in the bench seating area of the bridge as we headed out into the darkness, but Capt. Jimmy insisted I head up to the front berth for some shuteye. Considering his crew had busted their tails the previous day and was functioning on two hours of asleep apiece, I didn’t want to steal a rack from anyone; but all assured me it was okay, and even with 3 to 4s slapping at the hull, I fell fast asleep to the hum of the Cummins diesels.
Another joy of growing old is waking up startled; perhaps it’s my work schedule, constantly traveling, sometimes sleeping in my own bed only a few nights a week, but I find I occasionally sit up straight, instantly, from a deep sleep.
And about an hour before dawn, I did just that, springing forward from the small berth as we hit the trough of a swell, smashing my forehead into the bracing of the upper bunk. Literally seeing stars, I could feel the sticky moisture collect on my face almost immediately. Sliding my finger around the wound in the dark, I could tell it wasn’t nasty. But even without the light, I knew it was a bleeder (another benefit of age it would seem). I took the sweatshirt I was using as a pillow and pressed it tightly to my head, laying down again to fall back into a series of little “tiger naps” for another hour until the engines finally cut as we slowly idled to our destination.
With sunlight finally illuminating the cabin, I shuffled into the head and peeled back the sweatshirt, which was now stuck fast to the small gash. Mopping away dried blood, I could see a bruise was beginning to form, but I was able to conceal the cut itself behind the nosepiece of my sunglasses; or so I thought. I walked out towards the cockpit, figuring no one would notice, and wished Capt. Jimmy a casual “g’morning” as I walked past the helm. “What happened to you,” he responded almost immediately.
We did end up catching a couple of yellowfin to 57 pounds and change; not the tourney-winning bigeye the crew had hoped for in the tuna division. But it’s always nice to bring something to the scale each time you press out in search of fish. Something other than stories of course, which is what my friend Pat heard as I stepped off the boat and onto the dock, where he immediately asked, “what happened to you?”
“Well, it’s like this Pat, there I was…”
