Call from the Bullpen by David Maull
The Bullpen | Cape Henlopen | Sports Front Page
Catching No Fish Hard Work
From the Nov. 19, 1998 TV Times
Whenever I go on vacation, one of my first tasks is to check out the sports scene in the destination my wife and I have chosen for a week of rest and relaxation.
This usually involves reading several newspapers to gauge what sporting events receive the most coverage. It also provides a different perspective on national issues and the opportunity to steal design ideas for the TV Times.
But on a recent trip to Hilton Head, S.C., I became an active participant in two sports I knew little about. Both involved boats, water, frustration and, in one case, near frostbite.
I emerged from both experiences bewildered and asking: "Is that all there is?"
The week started with a relatively tame activity -- a bus tour of Savannah, Ga., which is located an hour to the south.
When the summer Olympic Games were held in Atlanta in 1996, Savannah hosted all of the sailing events. Along the riverfront stands a statue with a large torch that was lit during the games but has now been extinguished.
But Savannah's real claim to fame is not the Olympic Games or even the legacy of General William Tecumseh Sherman, whose Union troops occupied the city for more than a month during the dying days of the Civil War.
No, Savannah is best known for the John Berendt novel Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil. During our tour we got a close look at Mercer House, where Jim Williams shot and killed Danny Hansford in May of 1981, and the sites frequented by Joe Odom, Mandy, Luther Driggers and the Lady Chablis.
It seemed strange that on a tour of one of the south's most beautiful and historic cities, all anyone on the bus cared about was where Mandy and Joe Odom held their wild, all-night parties. I felt guilty for sharing those same feelings.
Our tour guide was a woman named Donna, who proved that although the Civil War ended more than a hundred years ago, certain attitudes haven't changed. By referring to every northerner as a "Yankee" and finding it necessary to point out the ethnic background of every person she spoke about, Donna showed that old habits die hard.
And if cattiness were a sport, the South would be a hotbed of talent. Every compliment Donna paid someone was tempered by a nasty comment usually muttered under her breath. After a while, her nastiness became entertaining. The next day, it was time for some real sporting excitement.
The Sea Pines complex at the tip of Hilton Head Island is home to the MCI Classic Heritage of Golf and the Family Circle tennis tournament. But our instincts took us to the Harbour Town marina, where the racing yacht Stars and Stripes was docked.
Piloted by Dennis Connor in the 1983 America's Cup trials, Stars and Stripes has been reconfigured for passenger tours. We took a ride hoping for a taste of the wind-through-the-hair, salt-spray-in-the-face speed experienced by Connor and his crew.
Bob, our captain and tour guide, steered the boat into Calibouge Sound and killed the engine, which was not an original feature on the boat. The main sail was hoisted, another sail at the front of the boat was unfurled, and it was time for a romp on the water.
Only nothing happened.
There was little wind on this day and the boat was left to drift aimlessly for an hour and a half. No salt spray, no waves crashing over the bow, no wind through the hair. One of Bob's assistants, a person called Big John, laid down on the deck in an apparent attempt to shake off the effects of the previous evening.
Meanwhile, passengers were left to admire the dolphins leaping out of the water near the boat and the huge waterfront mansions on nearby Daufuskie Island.
The only speed came when Bob cranked up the engine to take us back to the marina. This prompted one of our fellow passengers to stand at the bow of the yacht with her arms stretched out like Kate Winslet in Titanic.
The following day, I planned to go fishing with my father-in-law on a party boat but the trip was postponed because of choppy seas and unusually high tides. We both remarked how those conditions would be perfect for a Stars and Stripes sail.
By Friday morning, the seas had calmed and we were braving the frigid temperatures on a boat ride through the sound and into the Atlantic Ocean. We stopped about a mile offshore, baited our hooks and waited for a bite.
But none came.
Three times the captain moved the boat closer to shore but there were no fish to be found.
After one of these moves, I dropped my line to the bottom and immediately hooked something big. My pole bent over as I frantically reeled in what surely was a giant, ill-tempered sea bass.
As my hook got near the surface, I admired my catch -- the line of a fellow fisherman stationed on the other side of the boat. The rest of the morning I caught nothing but a runny nose and some numb fingers. The morning's catch for the 10 people on the boat consisted of three small whiting. The crew kept two for bait.
After returning to our villa for lunch and a hot shower, I settled in to a comfortable chair with the sports section of the Atlanta Constitution. Within minutes I was asleep.
I never knew not catching fish was such hard work.
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