I believe that I have just experienced a piece of pure fishing magic – a point in time where hot gamefish action collided with a lethal crew and skipper, a bunch of competent anglers and a rip-snorter of a boat. It was a combination that made everything possible and, within the realms of our dreams and hopes, we endeavoured to make the most of it.

It is unclear how it all started. I suspect that it was the fortuitous blending of some friends with similar aims and attitudes, along with a yearning to sample the extra services that the ‘new’ 48-foot Striker offered over the ‘old’ one. To make things even more tempting, not only did she have one of New Zealand’s best-ever skippers at the wheel in the form of Bruce (‘Smithy’) Smith, but also the services of international deckhand, Brian King, fresh from seasons on giant bluefin tuna at Cape Hatteras and monster black marlin off Cairns.

Striker is not a cheap boat but as it turned out, this was the best year in which we could have splashed out for a five-day trip, with the combination of Bruce, Brian and second deckhand Dean being unbeatable. At the time of our departure in May, Striker was on a total of 148 marlin for the season and, with the second-best boat still under 100 fish, it was obvious that they were doing something right (especially when one also takes into account that Te Ariki Nui headed the previous season [1995-6] with 75 fish – and that was considered fantastic!).

Accompanying me on the trip were Tim Ricketts, John Rae and Dave Akeroyd. As is usually the case on any trips I’m involved in, it seemed they only agreed to come along in order to gang up and poke the borax at me! I hoped to deflect some of their jibes and jeers with a superlative fishing performance – and even if I didn’t produce one, at least I could write that I did.

The main aim of the trip was to land marlin on light tackle with the emphasis on 6 and 8kg tackle, along with 4kg and saltwater fly gear if we felt lucky or brave. Having never taken a marlin on tackle less than 15kg before, this was a big step up for all of us. But after witnessing the outstanding effort of Sam Mossman taking the current [1997] 8kg world record the previous year [1996], I felt that anything was possible, especially with the extra advantage of our excellent crew.

We were supposed to meet up with Bruce and Striker at Mangonui Wharf in mid-afternoon, but due to organising the construction of a special ‘crutch’ gaff for the fly-fishing segment of our trip, Tim and I were running an hour or so late. This allowed John and Dave to get the best bunks, as well as acquaint themselves with the crew.

It was while out on the deck talking to Brian that Dave first got an inkling that this deckhand was a little out of the ordinary. At the time, Dave couldn’t quite understand why Brian’s eyes regularly flicked away and then back again while discussing the only topic worth discussing prior to a hard-out trip. Then suddenly, without warning, Brian grabbed a nearby gaff and in a single, cat-like movement, swung it down into the water and deposited a flapping john dory on the deck.

Arriving at four o’clock, Tim and I were subjected to a torrent of good-natured abuse from friends and skipper alike. We barely had time to throw our stuff on board before the mooring ropes were cast off and Striker set off towards North Cape, where we were to stay the night. Along the way we paused at a rock only long enough to pick up 20 koheru (not yellowtail mackerel) before tucking into a bay as darkness fell.

The following morning we awoke to lumpy seas and a stiff southerly wind. Having celebrated the start of our trip a little too enthusiastically the night before, and having been too excited to sleep, it did not take long before the boring ache between my brows appeared to slither down my intestinal tract to the heaving seas below and attempt to retrieve it back up and out my mouth. Not used to being anything more than queasy, I concentrated on not doing anything embarrassing in front of my friends, despite their being in similar states. Brian said that I was changing colours like a chameleon.

With breakfast retention foremost in my mind, last moment preparations to the tackle were completed hastily and with little enthusiasm. This resulted in a verbal kick up the bum from Brian for having my plaited 8kg double an inch too long (to claim a record) and when I followed this up with a bust-off while testing the drag, Brian looked at me long and hard and said, “Your credibility is going right down the tubes, Mark.”

At the time I had to agree, especially as I then found that my line was breaking well below its stated breaking strain. When trying for records, everything must be spot-on, with thorough preparation before the event playing a very big part. Despite the weeks of planning, some of the most basic aspects had been overlooked.

Despite their blotchy, sickly faces, my friends still managed to smirk and point at me. I felt like a cockroach sprayed with Raid whose crushed remains were now sticking to the bottom of Brian’s boot. My cheeks bulged once more from the bubbling inner turmoil but mercifully I kept it down and my last vestige of pride remained intact.

We reached the King Bank and slowed the boat a little to allow the hookless Moldcraft lures to work at their optimum speed. Although this bank had not been working as well as the Middlesex, Bruce was sure that at some time it would, so the gamble was made to stay for the afternoon. We trolled for about three hours before a shout from the flybridge alerted us to a dorsal flashing back and forth behind the closest lure. Everyone moved surprisingly quickly for a raw, slightly seedy team, with the rigged livebait tumbling over the transom as the four lures were brought smoothly aboard.

It was Tim’s turn on ‘strike’, so almost disbelievingly he found himself holding his little outfit and struggling to prevent a very powerful koheru from stripping all his line off. (Man, those things are strong when they first hit the water!). As it was, he still found himself with a singed thumb and a bait that had succeeded in roaring past a somewhat bewildered marlin: where had all that food had suddenly gone to?

A Smithy blast from upstairs encouraged Tim to wind his bait in to the correct position whereupon it was promptly eaten. A long, 20-second wait preceded a firm lift of the rod and the fish was hooked.

There was no mad rush by the marlin, just a steady pull. In a moment Bruce had Striker hard-out in reverse, her motors roaring and swells crashing over the transom, transforming the cockpit into an exciting mixture of roiling saltwater and swirling clouds of black diesel exhaust. Whatever the fish did it could not escape Bruce, who did a great job of keeping it off-balance, staying hard on its tail one moment and then spinning the boat around and trying to intercept it the next.

It was very exhilarating to watch, with the waves crashing whitely over the stern, Tim winding like a man possessed, and the crew , tensed and coiled like over-wound springs, waiting for even the tiniest chance. Meanwhile the thundering noise of the racing engine enveloped us in an adrenalin-pumping soundtrack.

Then suddenly the marlin was up and jumping on the surface. Smithy charged in for the ‘kill’ with Brian poised like a German pointer over the stern, arm fully outstretched for the elusive leader that jinked and flew just beyond reach, whitewater cascading all about him.

Then he got it – just the very end near the swivel, but that was enough – and in a blur of hands he secured a double wrap. Meanwhile, the marlin went ballistic, wrenching him from one side of the cockpit to the other, even after Dean had successfully tagged the fish. When it calmed down, Brian was able to remove the circle hook from the corner of the stripie’s mouth and we watched it swim steadily off into the blue-green depths.

Tim was absolutely elated – “Only 25 minutes on 8kg – try and beat that one, guys!” he cried out gleefully.

Unfortunately that was pretty much it for the day, although John did manage to successfully fight and overcome a particularly fast and strong koheru that not only burned off the striped marlin present at the time but also imitated its unstoppable run. Smithie reacted to the perceived take by slamming Striker into reverse so that John could get some easy line, and in seconds he had pumped his trace up to Brian’s reaching hand, whereupon his ‘catch’ was effortlessly traced into view. We all hooted and cheered at the sight of the vigorously wriggling baitfish and a very sheepish-looking John. Smithy, on the other hand, looked unimpressed.

“Geez, you’re a bunch of hopeless bastards!”, he said...

The following day was a cracker – it’s amazing what a little sleep and ‘Paihia Bombs’ can do for your perspective on life. With continuing reports of the Middlesex Bank fishing well, we caught some fresh koheru and got on our way. We had not quite reached our destination when we got our first strike. A brief rip on the ratchet alerted us to the fish in the gear and Dean had to wrestle with the hungry marlin for a few seconds when it was reluctant to give our softhead teaser back. Then the livebait went over and was immediately pounced on.

With our Number One 8kg marlin fisherman hooked up once again, Smithy put Striker into hard astern, her motors thundering and the whole boat shuddering and convulsing as horsepower and water resistance grappled with one another. Despite the swirling water being so deep in the cockpit that it washed around his knees, Tim continued to pump and wind furiously and in minutes the trace was grabbed by Brian’s ever-searching hand. But this fish was not to be ours. Holding on hard, Brian was whirled and slammed around the cockpit by the crazily jumping marlin, preventing Dean from getting a clear shot with the tag pole and moments later the 450lb leader snapped at the hook.

Anglers 1, fish 1.

The rest of the morning was unexpectedly quiet. With so many reports of hot action, we were expecting strikes throughout the day, especially with the start we’d had. Consequently, we decided to stop for an hour’s tarakihi fishing, with John Rae making good use of a light outfit spooled with superbraid, quickly filling a fish bin with the tasty 2-3kg fish.

Then we went back to work. It was early afternoon before another marlin crashed the back lure and, surprisingly, it was my turn. Years of gamefishing experience only just enabled me to lift the 8kg outfit from the holder and wait, with gently knocking knees, while Brian lobbed the baitfish over the side. In a misty daze, my fingers slowed the spool and held the hard kicking koheru close in and almost immediately, after a couple of hard bangs, the spool couldn’t be checked any more.

“Aaaahhhh...” I said hesitantly, mindful of John’s embarrassing moment the day before, “I think it’s just eaten my bait...”

“Righto. Let’ get ‘em!” said Bruce and immediately began to back up on the slowly unloading line.

At this point I thought that this might be a good time to see if there was anything big on the end, so engaged the Shimano reel and lifted the rod. Excitement and relief flooded through my body as the Daiwa VIP 870 loaded up and line began to steadily peel from the spool, and when a cold, green wave crashed over me, the fog vanished from my brain in an instant. With still shaking legs, I cranked and wound as fast as I could and moments later the fish was right there, on the surface, moving fast. Brian went out to his full extent and managed to get half a wrap on the trace but it was ripped free and the fish absolutely smoked away, leaping and crashing across the surface. With Sam’s six and a half hour battle the year before very much in mind, I couldn’t help wondering if we might end up regretting the missed chance.

The fight continued and I settled down to doing some the hard slog. Fortunately the hours spent using 6kg tackle on yellowfin tuna earlier in the season were not wasted, with the experimental Black Magic 8kg fluoro nylon feeling like unbreakable hawser in comparison. However, my confidence was not shared by the others aboard the boat, who later told me they were cringing as I jammed my fingers onto the spool and bent my knees in order to achieve maximum leverage from the line.

The fight continued on for well over an hour before the fish came to the top once more. By now I was thoroughly drenched, totally focused and enjoying every minute of it, so when Bruce spun the big Riviera around like a toy in an effort to intercept the marlin on the surface, I was more than ready for some sustained high-speed winding. Again, there was the dim sensation of the swells hitting the stern and drenching me, as well as the feeling of my legs getting sucked and pushed by the swirling waters in the cockpit, but with the trace almost there, seemingly hanging in mid-air and only just out of reach, I barely noticed. A couple of times Brian came to within inches of grabbing it, but on each occasion the marlin managed to surge away at the last moment.

Just as I started to think we’d again missed our chance, the swivel miraculously appeared once more and this time Brian managed to seize it, double-wrapping and then leaning back as hard as he dared, while the marlin careered across the stern, covering us with even more water and receiving a tag from Dean in the middle of it all. And it was fortunate that he did, because in the midst of a particularly vigorous jump, the trace broke and the fish went free.

I can’t describe the elation I felt in having achieved a long sought personal goal, but the five minutes of hooting and laughing probably gave everyone on board a pretty accurate indication of my feelings at the time.

The faint smile of satisfaction was still on my face when my turn came around again the following hour. Now that we had discovered where the marlin seemed to be congregating, we dispensed with the softhead lures and were slowly trolling a single live koheru instead. I had completed 12 of my 15 minutes when I felt the koheru kick with extra vigour before getting firmly nailed by an unseen beastie. After a few seconds passed, Bruce gave me the nod, I lifted the rod to set the hook and the motors gave full voice once more.

Seemingly unaware of what had happened, the fish remained near the surface, encouraging Bruce to reverse Striker at maximum speed. With the motors pounding away and the air thick with diesel exhaust, it wasn’t long before the water was again pushing up and over the top of the transom – and then a marlin could be seen, swimming quickly, but without panic, directly ahead in the calm blue water. I could not believe that the fish would let us simply grab the trace, but it happened, and as Brian stoically held on, the tag was placed into the rampaging fish just seconds before the hook came free.

Even before the marlin had swum from sight, Brian lobbed the still kicking livebait into the water as an interim measure, while preparing a new one. We were amazed at what happened next. As the koheru juddered and spasmed in erratic circles close to the stern, the just-released stripie spun around, raced over and gobbled the hapless baitfish once more! Despite this being an unusual and thrilling sight, I inwardly groaned as I thought of how lucky I had been to land the marlin so quickly before and doubted I would be so fortunate again this time.

Lifting the rod and hooking the fish once more, it seemed that we were locked into an action replay of the last fight, the fish staying near the surface and scooting along with Striker hard on its powerfully beating tail. In fact, the only difference between this fight and the last was that there was so much water in the cockpit at one stage that I was almost washed from one side to the other, and when Brian traced the fish, he was so keen to grab the nylon that he plunged his head and shoulders into the breaking swells in order to reach it (A keen boy, that...). The hook was removed without placing a second tag and having been brought to the boat twice in five minutes, the marlin swam off into the glistening waters once more, hopefully a little wiser for the experience.

(Predator called up and said that I couldn’t count it the second time because it was still exhausted from the first fight. I could hear Sam Mossman laughing in the background).

Our third day turned out to be a major. Again, there was no action until the afternoon and it started when a marlin decided to try and take John’s koheru away with it. Unfortunately for the fish, it did not realise that the thin strand of 6kg ensured a tenuous connection with Mr Rae – for the present, anyway.

When John successfully hooked up and this fish also stayed close to the surface, it was an obvious candidate for a quick catch and release. This is the type of fish Bruce loves, with Striker occasionally being on the plane as we raced from one anticipated interception to another, the sliver of line slicing and whisking across the tops of the waves, perilously close to breaking point. It was high-risk stuff and unfortunately this was a round that we didn’t win, with Bruce just catching the line with the corner of the stern and dragging it into the propeller.

Exhilarated by the 10 minutes of excitement, we were really fizzing at what could happen next – but not so much that we couldn’t have a nice glass of Sauvignon Blanc with our lunch. As expected, as soon as it was poured, John’s bait was taken again. An almost delicate lift of the rod was all that was necessary and there was a flurry of activity as glasses of wine were stuffed into spare gumboots, jammed in between padded seats, allowed to bob around in buckets or simply left to their own devices. Cameras were snatched, doors were locked and action stations assumed. We expected action and were not to be disappointed.

It started off in the usual fashion, with Bruce ripping the boat this way and that, successfully keeping the fish off balance and almost resulting in an early boating, Brian getting a few fingertips’ full of leader, but not enough to hang onto. While hardly a chance, it was still a moment that John was to rue in the hours to come...

But that was yet to come, with the passage of action that unfolded next turning out to be some of the most exciting that I have ever had the pleasure to witness. For the next fifteen minutes that marlin spent more time out of the water than in it. And far from being a little hesitant after the last loss, Bruce was more aggressive than ever, with the calm blue water smashed into frothing foam by both boat and fish. Sometimes we were racing forward at over 20 knots, the next moment Striker was shuddering and vibrating as she backed up, the water spraying over angler and cockpit.

But at the end of it all, the marlin had gone deep, leaving us with only the exciting memories, a soaking wet angler and a steadily unloading reel. Welcome to the world of 6kg fishing!

And that was pretty much it for the next seven hours. Despite trying everything that he knew – and even a few things that he didn’t – Bruce simply could not get Striker into the right position for a realistic shot. The main problem was that the fish refused to be normal. It swam south into the swell and current, rather than north as all the others had, forcing Striker to crash into the oncoming swells and interrupting the momentum that was so critical to being correctly placed on every occasion.

It must have been a soul-destroying exercise for John: how many times did he wind back hundreds of metres of line, the cold spray raining down on his T-shirted form, only for it all to be lost a few minutes later as the fish dived deep or whenever he was asked to sacrifice it by Smithy in another effort to trick/plane/pump the fish to the surface for gaffing?

The day went by and slowly faded into blackness. John finally got so cold that he was forced to put on some waterproof clothing and a spotlight was positioned so that the little strand of spider’s web was illuminated so Smithy could see it (it had been bad enough in the daylight hours).

Those who know both John and I will also know that we love to poke the borax at one another at every opportunity. Therefore I was very disappointed to be witnessing a performance that could only command respect. For almost eight hours he had been working hard, taking every opportunity in steadily deteriorating conditions, to land a fish on line that most anglers would consider sporting even on snapper. Unfortunately for him, his friends were not of the same calibre, with our team spirit slowly dissipating into the blackness as the hours dragged on and it was at this stage that the fish won its freedom.

It was not immediately obvious why the line broke. John had just been holding onto the rod, watching the line peel off as it had so, so many times before, when suddenly the tip sprang up and it was all over.
There was no swearing or cursing, just disbelief and commiserations as John quietly wound in the slack line and put the outfit in the rod rack for another day. Walking into the saloon, he slumped to the floor and stretched out, luxuriating in the simple feeling of freedom once more. As the muscles slowly relaxed and untwisted, he got around to making a damage assessment: his fingers in particular were a real mess. They had only been clamping onto the Hypalon grips, but they looked as if a knife had sliced down the side of them. Two weeks later, as I write this, he is still receiving medical attention for one of them. Throughout the fight he had never once complained, and for a pasty-faced, baby-skinned pen-pusher, I felt he’d done remarkably well!

Holding a post mortem on his tackle the following day, John found that the abundant salps (jelly-like organisms that float around in the ocean’s currents) had gummed up three of his roller guides to the point that they would no longer turn. This eventually caused the 12lb line to deteriorate, with it breaking at only a bit over 7lb when tested on the scales.

The final day belonged to Dave – and just as bloody well! For three days he had been tormented by watching the rest of us having a wonderful time fighting marlin, while he simply forked out money for his share of the boat. He hadn’t even had a bite, and by now his bottom lip was dragging around the cockpit getting fish scales and bits of nylon stuck to it. What he needed was some marlin action, the sooner the better, so Smithy had to organise it.

He started off slowly, giving Dave severe heart palpitations when a marlin came up behind his panicking koheru, gave it the five times over and then rejected the offering. This was the first time that Bruce had seen this happen, and despite Dave railing against the injustice of it all, the fish did not return.

Then Fate smiled on little Davie Akeroyd. It popped up another fish for Dave on his very next turn, which, unlike the last stripie, gobbled down the bait with no hesitation. A brief wait, a lift of the rod and Dave was hooked up to his dream!

When the fish jumped shortly after, the dream looked to have improved even further as the marlin appeared to be in the 120kg class – a possible world record and a sight that had everyone on board buzzing. As the nylon angled to the surface, I traced the progress through the zoom lens of my camera but still only just caught a glimpse of the stripie as it erupted from the water on the edge of the viewing frame...where the bait and hook flew in a high arc from its mouth.

Tragedy! Dave slumped forward, totally gutted, but just as he began to dejectedly wind in, there was a flash of fluorescent blue and Smithy yelled at Dave to put the reel in freespool, which he did. Still looking through my zoom, I could see a huge stripie circling the very sick koheru, and just as it seemed to make up its mind to eat it, a much smaller one flashed in ahead of it and gulped the bait down. I was so excited by what I was seeing I forgot to take a photo!

This was to be another major battle. In the early stages we had been horrified to see the rod abruptly unload, but just as we gasped the rod buckled over again. However something was not right. The rod tip was now nodding and pulsing under pressure and Bruce looked grim.

“What do you reckon, Mark?”, he said to me quietly.

“I think it might be tail-wrapped,” I responded.

“Me, too. I don’t have a lot of confidence that this fish is going to get landed...”

But Bruce is forever the professional. Despite his personal feelings, he never stopped trying for Dave and again he went through the complete repertoire in his search for a manoeuvre that would spur the marlin into coming to the surface, hour after hour.

To Dave’s credit, he also responded to the challenge, and despite being obviously dejected at one stage (at the time he was experimentally free-spooling hundreds of metres of hard-won line in order to see what happened), he got more and more focused as the fight went on.

Like all of us, the previous day’s fight was still very much in his mind and Dave decided that he would not wait until the last moment to start placing increasing amounts of pressure on the line. Instead, he eased the Shimano TLD15’s drag up while the line was still relatively strong and by the fourth hour, his light game rod had a very healthy bend in it.

This seemed to be all that was necessary to tip the balance, with the situation suddenly looking a lot more positive. Not only was Dave finally able to move and control the fish, but the marlin also took to making repeated runs in front of us, just deeply enough to avoid being traced.

It certainly felt good to see Smithy on the attack again after struggling for survival for so long and then suddenly, without fanfare, the double knot broke through the surface of the water, ducked back down a couple of feet and then emerged once more. We held our collective breath as Brian strained to reach the leader, but after a few tantalising moments it disappeared from view once more.

Far from being dejected, our spirits were buoyed by the experience and we all felt that the fish was close to beaten. With what was by now a truly murderous drag setting, the specialised Berkley game rod wrenched over in the deepest of arcs but was also lifting nicely. No one was surprised when the double again slid out of the water and just kept coming.

Brian stretched out; fingertips became handfuls, and next, he was leaning back for greater leverage as the marlin thrashed around in a surprising last-ditch display of strength. Racing around alongside Brian, some frank prompting from the skipper encouraged Dean to sink home the flying gaff, and when the splashing subsided, the fish was ours.

It’s hard to describe the emotion that flooded through the boat at that moment. Dave just stood there in a daze, entranced by the sight of the marlin coming through the transom door, and it was only when I grabbed him, hooting, and slapping him on the back, that he came back to earth – still speechless but his eyes glistening with the joy of the moment.

Already an achievement in itself, Dave’s capture became even more meritorious upon closer inspection of the fish. At some stage, the circle hook had been thrown and had caught up again around the base of the tail. Dave had managed to beat a marlin by pulling it backwards. We later found that his drag setting had finished up at 5.5kg and when we simulated a slow run, we snapped the line.

Although we knew that the marlin wasn’t a record, we still looked forward to weighing it at Mangonui. It turned out to be 98kg and was transformed by the local fish smoker into some of the best smoked fish that I have ever tasted.

There is no doubt that we will do it all again. The light tackle we used turned out to be surprisingly efficient and we proved that, although the boat and crew can make a huge difference in the fighting time, it seems that 8kg nylon is capable of overcoming marlin, even in a worst-case scenario.

It is, however, a strange way to go fishing. Despite our trip being a huge success, there were times where one was forced to sit and watch other people grappling with personal goals for hours on end, with the outcome by no means certain – all the while with wads of money falling from your pockets. Keeping that in mind, we currently suspect that 6kg tackle is about as light as it is practically possible to use.

So until next year’s trip, the heavy tackle will continue to quietly corrode away in cupboards while our souped-up snapper outfits increase in number and are lovingly polished every second day.

A Blast from the Past! This article originally appeared in NZ Fisherman magazine - July 1997