By Hayden Dobbins
Robbie screamed at the top of his lungs for 15 minutes straight while handling his boat in sea conditions most other captains wouldn’t dare fare. His mostly unintelligible words conveyed the mindset of a madman hell-bent on breaking a fish’s will.
We didn’t start our early September morning in the Cape with quite that fury. But who expects to be fishing in the worst weather of the season with a maniac? Should’ve known better than to set foot on Captain Robbie Taylor’s boat with that attitude. The dense fog had already set in by the time our alarms started buzzing at 4:00 a.m. As we walked down the dock to an old Downeaster named Reel EZ, it hadn’t quite set in that this day would be anything but.
Stepping along the gangway, I was greeted by the saltiest of New England’s offshore captains. As burly and rough as he looked sauntering across the dock in well-worn bibs and knee-high rubber deck boots, his smile beamed through the thickest of beards to greet us with his rich New England accent. If I were to line up every single captain or angler, I’ve ever shared a boat with and were to judge solely off their appearance who I would entrust to put me on fish, it’d be Robbie Taylor. When your mind is focused solely on tuna fishing, you may forget to shave or get a haircut for a few years, but who can blame you when you are one of the best?
He explained that this September stretch is the only time of the year he targets the giant bluefin: “If I tried to do it any longer than that, I’d probably go insane.” We had no idea what a real possibility that was. With that, we boarded his tried-and-true Downeast and started our hunt for bait. Once we pushed off the dock, Robbie was in a t-shirt standing off the transom with a cast net before I had time to set down my gear. Back to his usual routine, he was throwing the net under moored sailboats, looking for bunker to fill the livewells.
The Addiction
He pulled in a quick haul, and we started our run out into Cape Cod Bay. It didn’t take more than a few minutes to realize we were in for a rough one. A standard for the Northeast in the fall, the north winds blew down and had the waves standing up in the bay. As we sped away from the harbor, I became eerily aware that no other boats were headed out with us.
At the helm, Captain Robbie spoke eloquently about his passion for giant bluefin, wholly unfazed by the conditions and practically screaming over the howling winds, “It’s the biggest, baddest fish in the ocean. They can generate upwards of 90 horsepower and turn at 3Gs. I mean, it’s one of those things where you do it once, and you’re addicted. And that’s it. Your life is just messed up. ‘Hey, look at me, kids. Be careful with the bluefin. You might end up like me.’”
The Atlantic bluefin tuna. It really needs no introduction. Tales of people chasing the largest and most powerful fish in the sea go back centuries. The tuna is an eating machine. Summer in Cape Cod brings in the fish for one reason: food. The estuary thrives with biodiversity, and tuna of that size need to eat.
This was far from my first rodeo chasing bluefin, but I’d never done it on the East Coast or quite like this. Folks pursue them different ways all over, but today we were using live bait and fishing gunnel rods. Over the years, he’s learned that fighting them while standing on the deck in water this deep leads to more rods being handed over to him two hours into the fight than he cares to deal with.
The Mad Scientist
For someone with such a brawny appearance and chaotic approach to fishing, Capt. Robbie is meticulous with the bluefin. Something like a mad scientist, overtraining on the details to land giants.
“What happens when you go after the biggest, baddest fish in the ocean is they break stuff. We break rods. We break reels. We break the boat. That’s the one thing about targeting bluefin; as far as an adversary, they’re going to find that little kink in the armor, that one flaw, that crimp that’s just not crimped right. They’re going to find it, and you’re going to break them off. Or that little leader that just has that tiny nick that you were like, ‘Oh, should I change it?’ They are going to exploit all of that. That’s why it’s all about perfection. You have to have everything perfect. The wind, the weather, your rigging. You got to check all of the boxes constantly.”
His words, not mine.
You spend all day chasing bluefin for one bite. We made it to the fishing grounds, and he set up the gear for our drift. His fishing kit is custom-built and ready for battle. The highest quality, reinforced arsenal constructed to go toe-to-toe with 900+ pound giants. He grabbed a bluefish from the livewell, the size of my arm, and started rigging the rod. All I could think is that the bluefish itself would have been a fun catch, but what we sought that day went beyond mere leisure. We set about conquering the ocean’s best. I noticed one rod holder completely reinforced and welded to the boat. When asked why, Robbie simply responded: “They like to break my shit.”
The clouds hung low all day as the hours droned on, almost mirroring the rhythm of the merciless tossing of the boat as we watched the bend of the rod tip ebb and flow, hoping or just wishing for something more than a dip with each passing wave.
The seasickness set in and hit hard as we continued our drift completely alone, an uncommon experience for the Cape fishing grounds. These conditions were enough to keep anyone in their right mind on land, but not Robbie.
The Maniac
After a few hours, in the distance, we saw a singular lobster boat headed our way. As he pulled up port-side, he shouted over the sound of the waves, “Are you broke down or are you insane?”
Just as the words left his mouth, Capt. Robbie peeked out from behind the wheelhouse with a slight grin. The lobsterman recognized him immediately and had his answer. He gave a knowing nod, and a slight smile crossed his face as he headed back to the harbor.
Unbeknownst to me at the time, the tuna quota for the season was already full. Capt. Robbie and the lobstermen were fully aware. There were no paychecks to be had on this wild and unrelenting day for the Captain, only the thrill of the fight that comes courtesy of an encounter with the mighty bluefin.
Despite the miserable conditions, we stayed entertained with Robbie’s optimistic tales of beasts caught in seasons past. “So, I guess bluefin’s personality would be a mix between like a UFC fighter, a long-distance runner, Usain Bolt as a sprinter, the biggest linebacker you could think of, and Tom Brady’s precision when it comes to hunting stuff down and killing it,” he offered.
With every passing minute, the suspense builds along with the looming dread of walking back to the dock empty-handed. We asked him why he does it, especially on days like this, as it seems like such an impossible challenge. He had an answer for that, too, of course.
“The reason why someone would want to be attached to a fish like that is just to feel that raw power. I mean, watching the hit, and seeing that rod fold over and the line leave at such a rapid pace that you don’t know whether to go to the reel and start reeling or run inside and hide– it’s insane. And when you’re attached to that, just to feel when you’re next to that rod, having it move this boat, which is not very small, and just literally spin this boat around like a top, like it’s nothing. I mean, they’ll tow it backwards at three knots sometimes.”
As the hours went by, the idea of seeing that kind of power in person kept me going. And then, the bite.
Fury & Monsters
The sound of the drag screaming echoes like an alarm on a battleship. Everyone assumes their positions. Robbie jumps to the helm in the cockpit and howls like a wild banshee at Earl, his angler for the trip. The only thing we can make out in the whirlwind of sounds coming from his throat is the words, “Pop ‘em or stop ‘em!” They carried across the water and circled back to our boat.
At this point, the rod is locked tight, immovable in its holder. The tip is bent so intensely that it’s nearly grazing the water with every wave. As if it wasn’t already clear, I couldn’t resist asking the captain if this was the one we were after. He relented just for a moment from his impassioned focus to say, “Oh, yeah. This one’s the giant.”
And just like that, he was locked in again. I’ve never seen anyone so determined and filled with an unrelenting rage at a fish. His intensity was uncontainable.
After being on the other side of these fish so many times, he knows that one lapse in focus gives your opponent the ultimate upper hand.
Earl was fighting the fish for a better part of a half hour while being doggedly berated by Robbie’s orders, “Reel! Reel! Reel!” Unfortunately for Earl, Robbie was unimpressed by his fight that day. Before I could comprehend what was happening, Robbie had already jumped out from the wheelhouse, leaving the boat unmanned. Taking the rod, he started reeling with an inexplicable fury, a determination that could only be compared to the unyielding fire of the bluefin’s fight. In a rhythm all their own, Robbie and the fish went to war.
In an instant, he shouted, “Color! Color!” And just like that, the fish was boatside. The thrill of the moment vanished in an instant as the fish took another run, diving deep and hard. Over 900 pounds of brute force matched by a single man’s intense drive to overcome. Just as the fish became visible again, shining a few feet beneath the water’s surface, it made a last, almost unbelievable gasp, and popped the line. The boat fell silent.
Mechanically and in the most notable state of calm I’d seen all day, Robbie started putting out another line. Still reeling inside from the adrenaline rush, I was unable to return to the same state of calm he seemed to fall into naturally. Years of experience, I’d imagine, allows that perspective. We didn’t catch a bluefin that day. And that’s the insanity in it all. The gamble every angler takes, the thrill of the one moment of color, the fury at the helm, the screaming of the reel. The feeling of it all. You give ‘em hell. Fate decides the rest.
