THE ANATOMY OF A WIREMAN

IT WAS 2004, and my first year marlin fishing as a mate. I wasn’t just new; I was brand-new. Capt. George Beck was on the wheel of the 58-foot Viking Freebie, and Capt. David Withers was guiding me in the pit. I was looking forward to learning from them. What could possibly go wrong? I asked myself. I was in good hands.

We were fishing the famed North Drop in the Virgin Islands when I got the call to put on the bigboy gloves. Everything was going great that season, and I was ready to wire my 10th-ever blue marlin. It was a graceful, solid fish, doing everything it was supposed to do; Beck called her 450. I had a double wrap in my back hand and a single wrap in the front. As I peered over the rail, I saw that the hook was lodged in her top jaw. I remember thinking: I could take two more wraps with my front hand and then dump my back hand, leaving one hand free to get the hook out. It’s a no-brainer, and I’ll be a superstar. I was wrong.

As I went for the additional two wraps with my front hand, the fish turned on me. A couple of aggressive swipes of that 4-foot tail, and suddenly, my feet were lifted off the deck. The Mustad 7731 10/0 straightened out like an arrow, and I found myself flat on my back, handcuffed in leader material. My heart was in my throat, and I was shaking uncontrollably: I asked Withers to cut me out, but