I just received my newsletter from the International Game Fish
 Association, (IGFA) and learned in this age of political correctness
that they have changed the name of a fish. Actually the notice was
sent out some time ago, but things don’t always travel so fast on
the coconut telegraph. The largest member of the grouper family,
after years as being called the Jewfish, has had its name changed to
Goliath Grouper. A bottom dweller living in many oceans and preferring
structure, they are known locally here as “Mero”. They live on our
volcanic reefs and grow to over 700 lbs.

Why Goliath? Isn’t he a biblical character? Won’t some group of
atheists protest?

Why not just call it the Giant Grouper? Didn’t the “Giant” succumb
to a falling beanstalk? For sure cattle ranchers and butchers would
revolt. A band of crazed vegetarians could put them out of business.

Aren’t we sometimes too polite. Polite ….. Political?   Are the two
words related. Maybe we should change one of them.

Anyway, all this fuss about jewfish, I mean Goliath grouper makes
me think about a fishing trip long ago.

In the mid-seventies Florida started a immense artificial reef, slash,
 lets get rid of some junk program. They gathered zillions and zillions
of used tires and junk cars, loaded them on barges and dumped them
in huge predetermined piles on the floor of the Gulf of Mexico. I guess
they figured if the Titanic could sit in fairly good condition for half a
century, maybe an old Buick just might also. Today the cars and such
have rusted away to nothing. The tires will be around until hell freezes
over, but most of the bundles of tires broke up and drifted to parts
unknown. Even though the project proved to be a disaster, it
functioned quite well for a while.

The piles of “junk” first brought in small fish like sardines, pinfish and such. The pelagics soon followed, hanging around to feed before moving on. Finally the bottom dwellers like snapper and grouper moved in, calling the newfound castle of fast rusting metal home. In a couple or three years there was a good enough population of these that anyone with navigational equipment and a map supplied by the government could slap a few fillets on the grill. Divers and fisherman were often at odds over rights to the artificial reefs.

A bottom dweller’s instinct is to scurry into hiding when frightened. Naturally this would be a coral reef, ledge, or in our case here, volcanic caves. In this case however, it was a Ford, Chevy, Goodyear, Firestone, or maybe even a Cadillac. Those who didn’t know any better would anchor on top of the pile of cars and drop a bait to the bottom. Any good size fish that was fooled by the offering only had only a matter of inches to rush into the jagged rusted steel and free themselves from the grasp of a greedy angler. Many anglers also returned to port without an anchor. Anchors, too, fell victim to the gnarl. Some of us though had it figured out. You anchor up about fifty feet off the reef, use chum to draw the fish out of their shelter, and haul them into the boat.

We were tossing six and eight pound groupers in the cooler left and right. I felt a light tap on the line, set the hook and almost got jerked out of the boat. Line left the reel, not screaming like a marlin, but a slow steady pull, as if I were connected to the caboose of a freight train. Then it stopped.

I pulled back with all my might. It wouldn’t budge. I could feel the fish shaking but could not move it. Thirty minutes later and nothing changed.

Then I had an idea!

I had noticed a dive boat anchored not far away. It had a dive flag up the size of a hot air balloon and painted proudly in big bold letters were the words “Sea Hunter” on the gunwales. I called them on the marine radio.

I explained I had some kind of monster hooked to the end of my line and if they would come over and go down and shoot it, I would be more than happy to split it with them. This was years before any of us became conservation minded.

The rapid jerking on my line told me he must be close. For twenty more minutes I waited and still nothing. Suddenly the bubbles from the scuba gear let me know the dive was on the way to the top. He surfaced next to our boat, spear gun in hand with eyes as big as saucers.

“Well just plug him between the eyes,” I pleaded, “and we’ll drag it out with the boat!”

“I’ve been trying to do that for the last twenty minutes. Every time I get close, it rolls the window up!”

Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and Keep a wet line!