In Florida Party Boating
My Miami friends had an offer they were sure I couldn’t refuse: a morning’s fishing on an outriggerequipped, flyingbridge‐crowned charter boat they’d booked. But refuse I could, and did. I had my eye on something very different, a democratic fishing institution called the party boat.
Twentylive years ago a friend, his father and I used to make the weekend midnight run on a party boat called the Mucho K. On my very first night I reeled in a poisonous eel. I can still remember the mate screaming, “Snake! Snake!” as he held my line over the railing and battered the eel’s head with a hammer. But I also remember other nights on the water. the line of men standing quietly at the rail.
So last winter I turned my back on a plush charter boat and called an old school buddy for a report on the party boat scene. The Mucho K was still operating, he said, but he insisted that I try the Sea Runner, docked at the marina in downtown Miami. “It’s the boat now,” he said.
There are nine party boats working the area, operating out of the marina, out of Haulover on the north end of Miami Beach and out of the Fifth Street Dock on the south end. The boats vary in size from 55 to 85 feet, but their basic design is the same. All have a large, enclosed cabin, a pair of washrooms and lots of railside deck space for fishing.
All are Coast Guard licensed, equipped with shipto‐shore radios and depth finders, offer the same assortment of soft drinks, beer and snacks at about the same prices, and fish the same general areas. Most usually run three fourhour trips a day—morning, afternoon and evening—and charge about $8 a trip.
The words “usual,” “most” and “about” are necessary because party boat captains are an informal lot. Boats that usually make two daytime trips will occasionally stay out all day on one trip—with a commensurate adjustment in price—or will skip some particular night. Any such change, of course, is decided well in advance.
The Sea Runner regularly fishes one sixhour trip a day, followed by a fivehour night sailing. I booked passage on the day trip. The morning I walked aboard was cool and clear, with a light chop in the waters of Biscayne Bay. The marine bulletin the night before had contained small craft warnings, which probably accounted for the fact that only 16 prospective fishermen, less than a fourth of capacity, were on hand.
Half were tourists and half native Floridians, which fits the normal pattern of daytime fishing. (Night runs depend more on a regular, resident trade.) They included a family from Connecticut, two college girls from Kansas, a policeman from Chicago, a gardener from Coral Gables, two Eastern Airlines pilots and a hospital worker from Hialeah. As I said, very democratic.
The gardener and hospital worker brought their own equipment, which immediately identified them as serious fishermen. Boats provide rods and reels—some renting them for about $1 and some not charging—but most regular customers prefer to use their own rigs. Bait comes with the price of a ticket.
The captain shook his head as he looked at the nearempty parking lot that paralleled the dock. “They do it every time,” he said, referring to the weather forecasters. “They deliberately overrate the winds and seas, just to keep small boats in the bay. It’s smart, safetywise, but bad for business. You’ll see;, it’ll be fine out there.”
The captain’s prediction proved accurate. By the time we reached the Gulf Stream, the 70‐foot boat was steadily churning through moderate seas under a clear, bright sky. I stood at the railing and watched the line of hotels that was Miami Beach shrinx to a strip of sand.
The farther out the Sea Runner sailed, the more charter boats could be seen cruising the Gulf Stream. They were proud looking, riding tall in the water, polished chrome fittings flashing in the morning sun. Small groups, four or five friends, pay as much as $100 for half a day’s sport.
Charter boats, primarily looking for game fish, usually cruise or troll through the water, dragging baited hooks behind. Party boats such as ours pick a likely spot, cut their engines and drift, fishing for whatever is around; we’d be thrilled to catch a sailfish but happy with a snapper, kingfish or amberjack.
The chances of finding a good spot are increased by the presence of several reefs in the waters off Miami Beach. Some are natural, large coral configurations that are part of the marine food chain. Others are manmade, created by towing old boats offshore and sinking them, one atop the other. In time the wrecks become part of the same kind of food chain, housing sea plants that feed small fish, the small fish luring larger fish.
When we reached the first reef, about 45 minutes from the marina, the members of our party broke into three distinct groups—old fishermen, new fishermen and nonfisherrnen. There was no problem telling them apart.
On the trailing side of the boat, the business side, those with fishing experience could be seen leaning over the rail, rods extended over the water, lines nun out and tight. Right beside them were newcomers, struggling with already fouled reels, pulling at tangles of monofilament line that only got more tangled with each frustrated yank. It was a busy time for the mate, going from one problem to the next, clearing lines as he patiently explained how to let the spool out slowly, applying mild pressure with the thumb.
Far from such concerns were the two coeds from Kansas, stretched out along the bench on the other side of the boat, soaking up sun and enjoying the gentle swaying of the ocean.
It was the Aospital worker who got the first big strike, and within minutes he pulled in a kingfish estimated at 10 to 12 pounds. Then, before the looks of envy had faded from his companions’ faces, he pulled in another, even larger. “One more,” he confided, “and I think they’ll throw me overboard.”
The problem did not arise. Throughout the course of the day nothing more exciting was landed than an assortment of bottom fish—snapper, grouper and the like. About midafternoon there was a 20‐minute battle between a passenger and an amberjack; the amberjack won.
The general agreement was that there was too much wind for good fishing, or that it was a bit cool. But no one complained except the man who lost the amberjack: he urged one more stop on the way in.
Though it was nearly 3 P.M., the usual time for heading home, there was a reef on the way and the captain consented to try it. It was there that the Sea Runner encountered a school of dolphins, those colorful gamefish with the long dorsal fin so common in Florida waters.
For a solid 25 minutes everyone who wanted to participate pulled in at least one of the thrashing, fighting fish, which considerably raised spirits on the way into the dock. (‘I think it’s the cool weather that attracts ‘em,” said one of the pilots.)
For me it had been a pleasant enough outing, though my catch totaled only two small snapper. But there was something missing. And as I drove away from the dock, I found myself thinking about the Mucho K. Instead of turning off at my Miami Beach hotel, I drove acrosr, Haulover Bridge, then through the network of little roads that lead under the bridge and to the marina, where six party boats and a fleet of charter boats dock.
It was the hour when the boats return from their afternoon runs, and I stood with the crowd of people who always gather to see the daily catch. It had been a good one for everyone, and especially for the Mucho K—several kingfish, amberjack and even a sailfish. The captain was cleaning the fish, and I watched him neatly stack the fillets and throw the remains to the waiting gulls and pelicans.
Then, to my own surprise, I found myself walking straight up the gangplank and asking the mate about space on the midnight run for that night. He looked at me quizzically, thought a minute, then informed me that he did in fact recall stories about midnight fishing trips—when I was a child”—but that there certainly had been none for the past 15 years.
The shock must have shown on my face, for he put his hand on my shoulder in a consoling manner and assured me that night fishing was night fishing; the 8 P.M. run would surely suffice. I had gone too far into my own past to turn back, so I signed on for that evening.
The picture as I approached the dock about 7:30 was a composition in eeriness. The marina at night. The incongruity of sport fishing, a daytime activity, transported into darkness. Harsh, individual points of light replacing infinite sunlight.
Most of the 26 passengers who would be on the Mucho K that night were already aboard, and it was clear that nearly all of them were regulars. Some greeted the captain and mate by name, and a few even brought their own beer to store in the boat’s cooler.
Tiny Edwards, the Mucho K’s 400‐plus pound captain, told me that he rarely saw the same people on both night and day runs. “The people at night are different,” he said. It did not take me long to see the difference.
My daytime companions had been interested in a casual, sunny outing; the prospect of catching fish was an added attraction. These night people were more dedicated. They came because of their affection for fishing and because it was cool and relaxing, because they worked during the day, and, not to be ignored, to get away from whatever was their normal, nightly routine. Few brought any semblance of that routine with them.
It was primarily a male experience. The one woman on board sat with her companion—both were tourists—at the bow of the boat, separate from the main body of regulars and apart from their interplay.
Conversation among the regulars was easy and subdued on the way out to the Gulf Stream; one man even stretched out in the cabin and slept. But once the fishing began, the tempo picked up: laughter and jokes from one end of the rail to the other, and a nonstop flow of beer from the cooler.
Standing at the rail, my fishing rod in my hand, I reexperienced feelings I had known as a child. I remembered how important it was to leave the hassles of being 9 years old back on shore for a time. Miles of night have that power, to isolate and insulate, to turn what cannot be seen into what does not exist. All things are manageable when floating on an island of light, fishing in a sea of dark.