ON RAGED THE TEMPEST, violent and unforgiving, as the otherwise still waters of the lagoon were whipped into whitecaps by mountainous waves that came crashing over the reef. Albatross parents hovered over their chicks, sheltering them under their mighty, eleven-foot wingspread lest the wind’s fingers snatch up their young and toss them mercilessly into the shark-infested lagoon. Palm trees bowed down like penitent sinners genuflecting at the altar, fronds flagellating; and flooded groves of ironwood trees—imported by order of President Theodore Roosevelt to thwart soil erosion—could not do their job.
The storm pounded at the barracks door and I, with all my weight, pushed against it, incautious of danger, determined to discover what had disrupted my slumber in the middle of that wicked night, and when finally I broke through, raindrops pelted my face and bare arms like a discharge of shotgun pellets. Suddenly, a lightning strike tore open the sky like a field dressing knife to the gut of a slain deer. Eerie moonlight pierced through the darkness and in that moment, I saw two planes land, one at the heels of the other, their wings teetering perilously from one side to the other until their wheels touched down on the only operational runway on Midway. They were identical. Three white block letters were painted on their black fuselage. It was all I needed to see, and I returned to my rooms in the bachelor officers’ quarters, unchanged and untouched since World War II, and tried to go back to sleep.
And when, the next morning, as the sun rose in a cloudless cornflower blue sky (as it always does in the wake of a mighty storm), I was summoned to the mess hall, briefed, and vowed to my country that I would never speak of the incident I had witnessed.
The storm pounded at the barracks door and I, with all my weight, pushed against it, incautious of danger, determined to discover what had disrupted my slumber in the middle of that wicked night, and when finally I broke through, raindrops pelted my face and bare arms like a discharge of shotgun pellets. Suddenly, a lightning strike tore open the sky like a field dressing knife to the gut of a slain deer. Eerie moonlight pierced through the darkness and in that moment, I saw two planes land, one at the heels of the other, their wings teetering perilously from one side to the other until their wheels touched down on the only operational runway on Midway. They were identical. Three white block letters were painted on their black fuselage. It was all I needed to see, and I returned to my rooms in the bachelor officers’ quarters, unchanged and untouched since World War II, and tried to go back to sleep.
And when, the next morning, as the sun rose in a cloudless cornflower blue sky (as it always does in the wake of a mighty storm), I was summoned to the mess hall, briefed, and vowed to my country that I would never speak of the incident I had witnessed.
AFTER OUR SHARK ENCOUNTER, my guide, Rick Gaffney, his wife, Jeanette, and I never ventured from the lagoon again—nor, as we soon discovered, was there any need. What sport we had! We played yellow fin and skip jack, blue fin and once a small shark; species of fish with Hawaiian names spelled almost entirely in vowels; and though there were sharks in abundance, they were bent on snatching fledgling albatross chicks that, weighted by downy fluff, failed to lift-off on their virgin flight. An enormous green turtle came alongside the boat, craned its wizened neck and darting a disapproving look, continued on its way. On a remote beach cut off by a jetty lived a colony of Hawaiian monk seals. An endangered species, only 1,200 are estimated to exist today and we had been warned to keep at least a hundred yards away and obliged until the third morning, when an inquisitive patriarch swam right up to the boat. The gargantuan’s gray coat looked like velvet, his eyes were like black marbles, and his nose like a pug dog’s.
“What shall we do?” Jeanette whispered.
“Don’t bother him,” Rick replied. “He’ll go away.”
But he didn’t. He was as intrigued with us as we were with him.
After our guest departed, Rick steered our Boston Whaler toward Sand Island, the largest of Midway’s three islets. Derelict, utterly abandoned, it is a restricted wildlife sanctuary and humans are seldom allowed. A vast mob of wailing, shrieking tropical birds descended upon us, hovering so close I could feel their wings beating the air. The sound bites for Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, The Birds, were recorded here. Rare and exotic seabirds, some on the brink of extinction, populate the battle-scarred beaches: petrels, frigate birds, terns, noddy, red-footed booby migrated here, but Laysan Rail and Laysan Finch were introduced, and by some bizarre happenstance, the household variety of yellow canary flourishes in the wild. And, of course, there were albatrosses.
This time of year, the albatross number in the countless of thousands. The “nomad of the ocean,” old seafarers believed they were a good omen, portending land was near; others thought they were spirits of sailors lost at sea. The Alaysan albatross is the pelagic (open-ocean) species that frequents Midway. They can live at sea for five years, but are uncoordinated on land, (hence the nickname “goony bird.”) But they are masters of the air. They glide with such sensitivity to air currents they need not flap their wings for days, and even fly in their sleep. With a wing span of 13 feet, life span of 60 years, and weight of 25 pounds, these magnificent birds, like breeding swans, mate for life. An albatross couple returns to their mating place, perform a bizarre dance, and procreate, hatching only one chick a season. In late spring, the threesome takes off on a long ocean journey but if the chick plummets to the water, the weight of its drenched down feathers pulls it underwater where, invariably, a tiger shark is poised to devour it—a brutal thing to witness, but an annual ritual Mother Nature has orchestrated since The Beginning.
An artillery gun, rusted in its cradle, pointed grimly at the sun-blistered, wind-eroded crosshatched network of runways that launched our flyboys into battle decades before. The wreckage of bunkers and gun parapets half-buried under dunes was sole evidence that here a colossal battle had been won at no small cost for the blood of 349 airmen and sailors stained these beaches; and as I walked alone among the ruins, and beheld the patch of sky their planes pierced, I could hear across the sea and the years the rocketing mortar and their undying cries for victory.
“What shall we do?” Jeanette whispered.
“Don’t bother him,” Rick replied. “He’ll go away.”
But he didn’t. He was as intrigued with us as we were with him.
After our guest departed, Rick steered our Boston Whaler toward Sand Island, the largest of Midway’s three islets. Derelict, utterly abandoned, it is a restricted wildlife sanctuary and humans are seldom allowed. A vast mob of wailing, shrieking tropical birds descended upon us, hovering so close I could feel their wings beating the air. The sound bites for Alfred Hitchcock’s movie, The Birds, were recorded here. Rare and exotic seabirds, some on the brink of extinction, populate the battle-scarred beaches: petrels, frigate birds, terns, noddy, red-footed booby migrated here, but Laysan Rail and Laysan Finch were introduced, and by some bizarre happenstance, the household variety of yellow canary flourishes in the wild. And, of course, there were albatrosses.
This time of year, the albatross number in the countless of thousands. The “nomad of the ocean,” old seafarers believed they were a good omen, portending land was near; others thought they were spirits of sailors lost at sea. The Alaysan albatross is the pelagic (open-ocean) species that frequents Midway. They can live at sea for five years, but are uncoordinated on land, (hence the nickname “goony bird.”) But they are masters of the air. They glide with such sensitivity to air currents they need not flap their wings for days, and even fly in their sleep. With a wing span of 13 feet, life span of 60 years, and weight of 25 pounds, these magnificent birds, like breeding swans, mate for life. An albatross couple returns to their mating place, perform a bizarre dance, and procreate, hatching only one chick a season. In late spring, the threesome takes off on a long ocean journey but if the chick plummets to the water, the weight of its drenched down feathers pulls it underwater where, invariably, a tiger shark is poised to devour it—a brutal thing to witness, but an annual ritual Mother Nature has orchestrated since The Beginning.
An artillery gun, rusted in its cradle, pointed grimly at the sun-blistered, wind-eroded crosshatched network of runways that launched our flyboys into battle decades before. The wreckage of bunkers and gun parapets half-buried under dunes was sole evidence that here a colossal battle had been won at no small cost for the blood of 349 airmen and sailors stained these beaches; and as I walked alone among the ruins, and beheld the patch of sky their planes pierced, I could hear across the sea and the years the rocketing mortar and their undying cries for victory.
DAY IN AND DAY OUT we fished and fished, catching, and releasing, one wonderful denizen of the Deep Blue after another, never once tempted to pass again through the rusted, monumental hulls of the freighters, now at one with the coral reef, that stood guard at Midway’s watery doorway to the Pacific. And when, on the eighth and final day of my time on Midway, I still had failed to land a Giant Travally, my determination was as keen as a thoroughbred at the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby to win my own race. When you are on the other side of the globe from home, and the sands of the hour glass are fast slipping away, a sense of urgency sets in. I traveled all this way to hook a record Giant Travally on a fly. And I wanted one, bad.
As usual, the lagoon glistened like polished marble, no cloud marred the azure sky, and God’s lesser creatures were going about their business. Rick revved the motor and the old tiger shark that had accompanied us the entire week took his usual position astern. fourteen-feet long with a head the size of an oil drum; he was a credit to his species. A brace of yellow fin tuna straddled each flank and like synchronized swimmers, followed the shark’s every twist and turn. The band never came within striking distance of our lures, nor showed any interest in our flies or chum, so naively we harbored no fear—yet I assure you, there is plenty of reason to fear tiger sharks for they are the fastest and cruelest of man-eaters.
I am of the school that no steadfast rule applies to the weight fly-rod you cast in blue water: an 8-weight is enough for most yellow fin tuna but have a 12-foot at the ready should you encounter a blue marlin. A 6-weight carefully played can land a small skipjack but there’s no assurance should something bigger won’t come along. I was fishing a 9-foot, 4-piece, 15-weight mid-flex rod with a weight forward density compensated fly-line and a tarpon shock leader—plenty of gun for a giant Giant Travally, but a hefty pole for a woman angler of average build. So, when the magnificent fish I had hoped finally arrived within spitting distance, it was clear “she” was not just a record fish, but the record fish. Over the next three hours I tied on every gaudy streamer I had but nothing I cast sparked a hint of interest from my aquatic adversary. Maddeningly, she was right there, right below the surface, circling our boat, round and around. I could have touched her had I leaned over the side of the boat, but our shark and his two adjutants were hovering nearby.
Finally, I took out the last fly in my box, a Royal Coachman, and tied it on to a #6/0 Chartreuse and White Big Eyes Red Tail.
“What are you doing?” Rick asked.
“Why not?” I said somewhat defensively. “She won’t take it. She won’t take anything….”
I will never know why the combination excited that fish so, but she lifted out of the water and snatched the flies in her massive mouth. Jeanette lunged for the fighting belt and strapped it around me as I fought to hoist the rod tip high to set the hook. Rick sprung for the wheel, throttled the engine, and the chase began.
As usual, the lagoon glistened like polished marble, no cloud marred the azure sky, and God’s lesser creatures were going about their business. Rick revved the motor and the old tiger shark that had accompanied us the entire week took his usual position astern. fourteen-feet long with a head the size of an oil drum; he was a credit to his species. A brace of yellow fin tuna straddled each flank and like synchronized swimmers, followed the shark’s every twist and turn. The band never came within striking distance of our lures, nor showed any interest in our flies or chum, so naively we harbored no fear—yet I assure you, there is plenty of reason to fear tiger sharks for they are the fastest and cruelest of man-eaters.
I am of the school that no steadfast rule applies to the weight fly-rod you cast in blue water: an 8-weight is enough for most yellow fin tuna but have a 12-foot at the ready should you encounter a blue marlin. A 6-weight carefully played can land a small skipjack but there’s no assurance should something bigger won’t come along. I was fishing a 9-foot, 4-piece, 15-weight mid-flex rod with a weight forward density compensated fly-line and a tarpon shock leader—plenty of gun for a giant Giant Travally, but a hefty pole for a woman angler of average build. So, when the magnificent fish I had hoped finally arrived within spitting distance, it was clear “she” was not just a record fish, but the record fish. Over the next three hours I tied on every gaudy streamer I had but nothing I cast sparked a hint of interest from my aquatic adversary. Maddeningly, she was right there, right below the surface, circling our boat, round and around. I could have touched her had I leaned over the side of the boat, but our shark and his two adjutants were hovering nearby.
Finally, I took out the last fly in my box, a Royal Coachman, and tied it on to a #6/0 Chartreuse and White Big Eyes Red Tail.
“What are you doing?” Rick asked.
“Why not?” I said somewhat defensively. “She won’t take it. She won’t take anything….”
I will never know why the combination excited that fish so, but she lifted out of the water and snatched the flies in her massive mouth. Jeanette lunged for the fighting belt and strapped it around me as I fought to hoist the rod tip high to set the hook. Rick sprung for the wheel, throttled the engine, and the chase began.
It was as if the GT had been charged with lightning. Rick stayed on her, playing her at her own game, expertly maneuvering the boat between the reef and the fish to prevent her from disappearing into the maze of coral and cutting the line. Seconds seemed like minutes and minutes like hours and so the fight went on, Rick driving the boat at breakneck speed dangerously close to the reef, maintaining a hair’s breadth between us and disaster. The fish never tired and I was fueled by adrenalin; I’d give a little, she’d take more until the screaming reel all but caught fire as she tore into the backing. This was the fight I had come to fight. Again I reeled in, plunged my rod tip down, hauled it up—surely I was gaining, my opponent was close, so close,…I could see the white of her black coal eyes…
“She’s heading for the reef!” Rick cried over the deafening motor.
And then it was over. The GT in a sudden surge of stength streaked across the bow, darted through a crevice in the reef, and broke the line.
“You don’t know how close we came to wiping out on the reef,” Rick said, exhausted from the chase, “but, oh, what a ride! That was world record for sure.”
“The biggest Giant Travally I ever saw…” Jeanette chimed in breathlessly.
I said nothing.
“Time to head home,” Rick said, and he turned the boat into the setting sun and headed for port.
How bittersweet, how supremely bittersweet. A silken line connected me to a majestic sea creature and in those moments, I lived as I had never lived before, or since. Now it was over, done. Dejected, I made my way to the bow, sat, legs crossed, and gazed across the lagoon for the very last time. It was hard to say goodbye; my throat tightened; tears welled in my eyes. Then, the green-blue lagoon boiled as though the long-extinct underwater volcano that is Midway’s crownshield had revived and erupted and through the white foam rose a herd of dolphins, far too many to count—dancing, smiling, laughing, cavorting alongside the boat, a drove come to shepherd us to homeport. Their merry cries pealed like church bells as they leapt out of the water with unbridled glee. We approached the dock. Rick cut the motor. The dolphins vaulted out of the water, turned in midair, disappeared into the deep, and as quickly as they had come, they were gone.
I can never go back to Midway, this I know. But I see in my mind’s eye the haunted, shimmering white beaches and incorruptible Nature unbridled. It had come to me now, the answer to that perpetual question, “Who am I in the greater scheme of things?” My journey led me closer to the answer: for on Midway I found something of myself—and there I have left a piece of my heart for all eternity.
Delight is to him—a far, far upward, and inward delight—who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self. Delight is to him whose strong arms yet support him, when the ship of this base treacherous world has gone down beneath him. Delight is to him, who gives no quarter in the truth, and kills, burns, and destroys all sin though he pluck it out from under the robes of Senators and Judges. Delight, —top-gallant delight is to him, who acknowledges no law or lord, but the Lord his God, and is only a patriot to heaven. Delight is to him, whom all the waves of the billows of the seas of the boisterous mob can never shake from this sure Keel of the Ages. And eternal delight and deliciousness will be his, who coming to lay him down, can say with his final breath - O Father! —chiefly known to me by Thy rod—mortal or immortal, here I die. I have striven to be Thine more than to be this world’s, or mine own. Yet this is nothing; I leave eternity to Thee; for what is man that he should live out the lifetime of his God.”
--HERMAN MELVILLE, Father Mapple’s Sermon from Moby Dick
“She’s heading for the reef!” Rick cried over the deafening motor.
And then it was over. The GT in a sudden surge of stength streaked across the bow, darted through a crevice in the reef, and broke the line.
“You don’t know how close we came to wiping out on the reef,” Rick said, exhausted from the chase, “but, oh, what a ride! That was world record for sure.”
“The biggest Giant Travally I ever saw…” Jeanette chimed in breathlessly.
I said nothing.
“Time to head home,” Rick said, and he turned the boat into the setting sun and headed for port.
How bittersweet, how supremely bittersweet. A silken line connected me to a majestic sea creature and in those moments, I lived as I had never lived before, or since. Now it was over, done. Dejected, I made my way to the bow, sat, legs crossed, and gazed across the lagoon for the very last time. It was hard to say goodbye; my throat tightened; tears welled in my eyes. Then, the green-blue lagoon boiled as though the long-extinct underwater volcano that is Midway’s crownshield had revived and erupted and through the white foam rose a herd of dolphins, far too many to count—dancing, smiling, laughing, cavorting alongside the boat, a drove come to shepherd us to homeport. Their merry cries pealed like church bells as they leapt out of the water with unbridled glee. We approached the dock. Rick cut the motor. The dolphins vaulted out of the water, turned in midair, disappeared into the deep, and as quickly as they had come, they were gone.
I can never go back to Midway, this I know. But I see in my mind’s eye the haunted, shimmering white beaches and incorruptible Nature unbridled. It had come to me now, the answer to that perpetual question, “Who am I in the greater scheme of things?” My journey led me closer to the answer: for on Midway I found something of myself—and there I have left a piece of my heart for all eternity.
Delight is to him—a far, far upward, and inward delight—who against the proud gods and commodores of this earth, ever stands forth his own inexorable self. Delight is to him whose strong arms yet support him, when the ship of this base treacherous world has gone down beneath him. Delight is to him, who gives no quarter in the truth, and kills, burns, and destroys all sin though he pluck it out from under the robes of Senators and Judges. Delight, —top-gallant delight is to him, who acknowledges no law or lord, but the Lord his God, and is only a patriot to heaven. Delight is to him, whom all the waves of the billows of the seas of the boisterous mob can never shake from this sure Keel of the Ages. And eternal delight and deliciousness will be his, who coming to lay him down, can say with his final breath - O Father! —chiefly known to me by Thy rod—mortal or immortal, here I die. I have striven to be Thine more than to be this world’s, or mine own. Yet this is nothing; I leave eternity to Thee; for what is man that he should live out the lifetime of his God.”
--HERMAN MELVILLE, Father Mapple’s Sermon from Moby Dick
