Familia Affair

“Go hide in the cabin for a little bit, while we cut her loose.” Mario told me this as we were finishing loading the last of the boxes of baited longline from Paul’s truck onto the boat.

I tucked down into the boat’s sleeping quarters. From here I could feel when the boat was freed of her land leashes, and in only a few minutes we were out of the harbor. The American stowaway was free to come on deck.

There was really nothing shady going on aboard the 11-meter Familia Silveros, but as skipper Paul had explained to me, Portugal is a land full of paperwork and rules, and the Açores weren’t exempt. As seems to be common sense in most of the working world, avoiding paperwork and superfluous authorities when possible is the best option. I was grateful that Paul was willing to take me out, and fine with my role as the unofficial fifth-wheel of the boat.

Paul’s crew consisted of Mario, Chico, and Joseph, three men in their forties with plenty of sea time, as well as a little extra padding, under their belts. Paul is younger, trimmer, and taller than his crew, and I could immediately see that he was one of those die-hard fishermen whose mind rarely wanders from marine thoughts. Model boats in his house, displays of maritime knots on the wall, fishing gear of all types in every corner of his garage, several boats in various stages of life to his name on Sao Jorge, shop space to work on engines, even talk of a bigger, brand new boat in the works in mainland Portugal. The Familia Silveros could sleep three forward and at least a couple more in the cabin, and although she was now rigged for longlining, the boat, like her owner, was an eager fishing machine, and could quickly adapt for jigging, tuna fishing, or hauling lobster traps.

We left Velas at dusk, and after a ten-hour steam at a steady seven knots, passing between the picturesque islands of Pico and Faial, we reached the fishing grounds. Around 5am it was time to set the gear. This was a different longline setup than I’d ever seen, and at first seemed quite complicated. A fifty-kilogram chunk of hardened lava served as the main anchor at each end of the “ground” line, but instead of this line stretching along the sea floor (as with halibut or blackcod), this line hung about 50 meters above the bottom. Fixed to this mile or so of mainline were 140 sparlines, spaced evenly, and with a snap-swivel at the tag end. As the mainline paid out, the snap of each sparline was clipped to a 25-meter piece of stout monofilament, and along this mono, every meter or so, was attached yet another branch of monofilament, and at the end of this short piece was attached a small J-hook. At the tip of the main branch of monofilament a fist-sized rock was tied, and served as the bottom anchor for it’s respective branch. This the snap end of the monofilament, in theory, hangs at 25 meters above the bottom, and the small rock sits directly on the bottom. This fishing tree would be much more easily explained with a drawing. I’d love to see the image drawn by somebody after reading this dizzying description! The end result of this style of fishing, when set correctly, is that for a mile-long transect, the bottom 25-meters of the water column have a good number of hooks waiting in ambush, sharp barbs dressed as small chunks of salted mackerel. Somewhere around 3,500 treacherous bites per set.

All of the baiting- a considerable amount of work- had been done ahead of time by Mario, Chico, and Joseph. The 25-meter stretch of mono is essentially fixed gear in longliner jargon, and this crew was using gamelas-ingenious “flower pot” bins- to keep hooks and line in order. Order is a good thing to have when hooks are flying overboard and being pulled quickly toward the bottom by heavy rocks. Around the fringe of each shallow wooden flower pot is a rubber tab with slits cut in it. Baited hooks are placed in these slits, and then the line between hooks is coiled inside of the bin. Each bin holds four fishing “branches”, and so 100 hooks around its fringe. The three men had baited around 80 of these boxes.

As soon as the last hook was out, Paul pointed the bow towards the other end of the set. Apparently there were either hungry fish at the bottom or not, and the mackerel did not stay on the hook for long, so there was no point in letting the gear soak. Hauling was smooth and the fish coming up from 250 fathoms (one fathom equals six feet, so this is around 1500 feet) were mostly all new to my eyes. According to Paul, the day’s catch was poor. Peixão, a silvery wide-eyed perch-like fish, boca negra and cantaro bagre, two species of small orange rockfish, and peixe espada branco (white spadefish) were most common. The spadefish reflected twice the light as chrome on a new Harley, had dagger-sharp fangs, and skinny stretched bodies appropriate for their name, with tiny and seemingly useless tails at the tip of the sword. Small blue sharks and conger eels also rose on the line, and a single large cherne- the crown jewel of Açorean groundfish- a grouper prized for it’s delicate white meat. I can verify that the reverence for a plate of this fish is deserved.

Unphased with what may not have been a great haul, Paul turned his attention to jigging for the day, trying to target cherne. Each of the men mounted a jig contraption- basically a spool of wire with a crank handle and a means of adjusting the drag on the spool- along the boat’s rail. To the end of the wire they attached a section of mono with ten or so line-hook branches, and with a weight at the bottom end. Down to the bottom went the small tree of hooks, each jig basically a single vertical strand of the morning longline setup. The difference was that these strands were actively monitored from the top by Paul and his rotund crew. By dark, the jigging efforts had landed another 100 kilograms of fish, but no cherne.

We ate fish, potatoes, and wine in the dark, and dropped anchor in 280 fathoms of water, far from Pico, the nearest landmass. The next day the process was repeated, with less success. That night we ate beans and sausage and dropped the pick in 480 fathoms (2,880 feet). To me, this was more than notable- including scope, Paul had a good mile of line out between the 35-foot boat and its anchor! Here we sat in the deep blue, rocking and rolling through the night. Mario couldn’t have slept much- he insisted that I take the cabin floor instead of the bench seat, and with several big leans to starboard in the night he rolled off. (This happened exactly four times. I remember because when a guy like Mario rolls onto you, you don’t forget.)

Heading to the fishing grounds and moving between different fishing grounds, Paul would always troll a couple lines for tuna. It’s hard to imagine a fish being speedy enough to hammer a lure zipping along at seven knots, but tuna have no problem. Even when targeting groundfish, Paul’s eyes were always scanning the surface, looking for fishy waters- a flock of gulls, jumping baitfish, a different look to the water than experienced eyes like his can read. The tuna seemed to be somewhere else these days, but as we steamed back towards Sao Jorge, past the perfect volcanic cone on Pico, the trolling continued.

The crew and Paul seem especially welcoming to a guy they just met a few days before. There was a distinct absence of the tough-guy fishing attitude. Mario speaks English well although rarely chooses to use it, and at some point in his past lived and fished in southern California for 17 years (A man in town told me he left after getting shot in the leg. Mario never mentioned this small detail. Part of the mystery.) He insisted on lending me an extra pair of socks, so that I wouldn’t have to put on wet ones in the morning. Chico’s voice is as animated as any cartoon character, with all sorts of non-verbal tones adding to his side of any conversation. Even in a country where it seems like every conversation is filled with volume and energy- normal conversations here seem to have the suspense of a fight or an emergency to a foreign ear- Chico stands out. (He also promises to kill me if I make any advances on his daughter, which I have no intention of doing, but which the rest of the crew keeps encouraging.) Joseph is all smiles under his thick mustache, and seems to take great pleasure in asking his “Amigo Americano!” a long question in rapid Portuguese and then cutting into any possible response with a rolling laugh. Paul made it clear throughout that he was happy to have me along, and insisted on giving having me over for dinner before and after the trip. Good guys, these Açoreans, and hard workers. Although I still had to go below when heading into port, I felt like part of the Familia.