Through a central access in the open wheelhouse was a cabin with galley and large seating area. Forward again was a sleeping cabin with an en-suite shower and toilet. A similar adjacent facility was for general use. Two further twin berth cabins were located partly under the wheelhouse floor aft of the saloon.
Her elegance belied her rugged structure; constructed in multi layered glass fibre she was designed with a heavy deep-v planing hull to give her maximum stability in rough seas. Two gleaming white twelve hundred and fifty-brake horsepower MAN diesels powered her. Her huge fuel capacity provided a cruising range of almost one thousand miles at twenty-five knots; her maximum speed when needed was in excess of forty knots.
The vast teak decked cockpit area provided ample safe space for fishing or diving activities. There were seats and cool bait boxes strategically located at the stern. To protect the passengers and crew from the searing tropical sun the whole cockpit was covered by a colourful Bimini awning.
A woman they presumed to be the fisherman’s wife was preparing something at the cooker and looked up shyly when Greg entered the cabin to deposit their kitbags. Contrary to Greg’s expectations, it was neat, tidy and smelled fresh; it was immaculately.
Oscar, his arms folded, leant casually against the narrow flush decked transom as Greg reappeared from below.
“Looks as though she was designed for something more than just fishing,” he whispered as Greg took up a similar position.
“I think you’re dead right my friend,” Greg whispered back. “One thing though, I think that’s his wife on board, so it’s probably their home as well.”
The fisherman jumped back onto the boat having released all but one of the mooring lines, which he left as a temporary spring to a ring in the wall. He stepped up to the controls and started the massive engines. The throaty roar from the initial flip of throttles deafened the passengers still standing at the stern of the boat. He throttled back to let the engines rumble comfortably at one thousand revs.
“You need to let these babies warm up a bit before you open them up,” he smiled as he tidied away the fenders and mooring lines. He checked the gauges; apparently satisfied, he crossed to the ring and released the line. The boat drifted slowly away from the quay, nudged gently by the outgoing tide. The fisherman slipped the engines into gear and, still at idling speed, let them drive the boat slowly towards the harbour entrance.
“By the time we’re at the harbour mouth she’ll be perfectly warmed up.” He held the steel-rimmed wheel lightly in his gnarled hands.
“By the way, my name is Dick. What will I call you?” he smiled
“I’m Greg and my father is Oscar,” he replied earnestly.
“Is he really your father?” Dick queried with genuine curiosity.
“Well no not really but I have to treat him like a naughty son some times!” It was Oscar’s turn to laugh.
Staring ahead, Dick just nodded his head and smiled understandingly. Soon afterwards they reached the harbour mouth.
“We’re going to try a wreck about three miles into the bay to start with. It’s on the way to the main place; I want to try and catch some small fresh bait to use on the much deeper wrecks further out, OK?”
He eased the throttles forward and the vessel gathered speed instantly. Dick scanned his instruments then gradually pushed the control levers fully forward. The boat surged, assuming quite a steep angle at first and then as the powerful engines gently lifted the heavy hull onto the plain the boat’s attitude levelled out and she accelerated away with tremendous force. The two men were obliged to grab at the nearest handholds to avoid falling back into the cockpit.
The boat was soon racing along at thirty knots. Dick slowly pulled back the throttles until the motors were humming gently in unison. The log showed ‘speed through the water’ twenty-five knots.
“My God that is some power!” exclaimed a thrilled Oscar.
Dick ignored the remark, seemingly absorbed with the business of navigating the boat to the site of the first wreck. Greg used the opportunity to go down to the cabin where he took the hand-held ‘Garmin’ GPS (Global Positioning System) from his bag. The instrument, no bigger than a mobile telephone, was capable of continuously charting your position, anywhere on the face of the planet, with an accuracy of about one square metre. He switched the tiny device onto standby mode and put it into his pocket.
Six or seven minutes later, Dick eased the boat back to the displacement speed and slowed to a few knots. The woman appeared suddenly from below and made her way forward carrying a large orange float with a coil of nylon rope attached. She opened a hatch and extracted an anchor already attached to its own line, onto which she expertly looped the buoy line before looking back at Dick, indicating she was ready. He then released the main anchor using the remote control at his helm position. The woman threw the buoy and line over the bow.
Dick smiled back at his guests.
“Just a couple of minutes and we should be right over the wreck,” he said, adding in anticipation of the question, “The buoy is a trip line for the anchor in case we get tangled in the wreckage down there.”
They used rods with feather lures and were soon bringing up small fish of various descriptions to be deposited in the refrigerated bait box at the stern. After about an hour of fishing Dick proclaimed that they had more than enough for their needs. Almost disappointed to have to stop, they gathered up their gear and moved away and were soon flying gracefully through the oil flat water, leaving a straight frothy white wake behind them. They stopped at a couple of sites but Dick decided that there was too much run for them to hold position.
“You just end up losing all your gear if the run is too strong!” he advised with his knowing smile. “Don’t worry there’s plenty of choice out here!”
They moved off to the next site.
Each time they stopped, Greg pressed the ‘Mark’ button on his GPS. This created a trail of positions and the courses to them.
“I think the next one will be OK. It’s in about sixty-five metres of water and should produce some the larger groupers you’re so keen to catch,” Dick announced seriously.
They spent the next three or four hours trying various locations catching three medium sized groupers weighing between twelve and twenty pounds. They kept the smallest and returned the others alive to their own world.
Oscar held the fish in his arms, with Greg at his side, for the traditional photograph. “This,” Oscar announced, “is going to be cooked simply and slowly on the Bar-B-Q with just a little salt pepper and butter and perhaps the merest squeeze of lemon juice”
His mouth watered in anticipation of the feast.
With the day’s fishing over, the three men sat in the stern of the cockpit leisurely sipping cool cans of beer as they skimmed back to the harbour with the woman at the helm.
“I have to say a big thank you for the excellent day we’ve had,” Greg announced, thumping the contented Dick on the shoulder. “Shall we do it again tomorrow?” he asked Oscar innocently.
“I’m game if you are,” was the simple reply.
“Good, very good,” Dick agreed happily. They opened more beers. “You liked the lunch my woman prepared?” Dick queried cautiously.
“We certainly did. It was delicious!”
The woman turned around from the wheel and smiled shyly.
“Thanks and cheers,” they raised their beer cans in salute. “Same again tomorrow will be perfect,” they confirmed. She nodded and returned her attention to the sea ahead of them.
That evening, back at their rented chalet. Oscar was busily preparing the Bar-B-Q for their prized fish. They had already made casual friends with their neighbours, who were also renting the adjoining beach chalet for a couple of weeks and invited them to share the Bar-B-Q.