Notes About The Poem
A tribute to deep-sea big-game angling, skillfully weaving together high-octane physical battles with quiet moments of solitary reflection.
Chasing Ocean Greyhounds
The dawn breaks in hues of pale amber
and as the diesel engines thrum,
a low vibration rolls through the soles of my salt-crusted boots.
Leaving the harbor walls behind,
the wide horizon opens up;
that endless expanse where land dissolves
and only the deep remains.
To run out into the open sea is to breathe pure light,
to feel the heavy weight of the world drop off the stern
and trade it for the electric promise of the blue.
Five ocean greyhounds await beneath the swells.
Out on the sapphire drop-off of the Keys,
a live goggle-eye dances beneath a kite,
skittering along the translucent surface.
Then the water explodes—a blue-purple sail cuts the air,
the line snaps clear of the release clip, and the reel screams.
I sweep the rod tip back, driving the circle hook firm into the jaw’s edge.
The sailfish dances across the waves, a blue-gray bill tearing through spray,
flying in frantic, beautiful leaps until at last,
guided alongside the gunwale, it’s a young female,
its sail billows wide in blue-purple brilliance
before we release it back to the blue.
Deep offshore, over the underwater seamounts,
we throw handfuls of chunked butterfish into the wake.
A sleek, yellow-finned torpedo rises from the cobalt gloom,
swallowing a drift-rigged hook masked in fish flesh.
The line tightens violently—no hesitation, just raw speed.
The hook sets hard into solid muscle, sending a hard shudder up the blank.
It digs deep, plunging into a tight, relentless pinwheel beneath the boat
until little-by-little, line is won back.
The golden fin breaks the surface, gaffed cleanly and hauled over the side,
thumping the deck in a flurry of ocean-born power.
Trolling high-speed at fifteen knots along the reef edge,
a heavy purple-and-black jet head lure smokes through the wake.
A striped lightning bolt strikes—a flash of zebra-blue
razor-sharp teeth snatching the bait on the run.
The strike is instant and vicious; I slam the drag lever forward,
feeling the hook anchor against bone.
It runs with terrifying velocity, peeling line in seconds,
before we crank it steady, leading the razor-toothed missile into the box,
its barred flanks shimmering with electric silver.
In the midnight dark of the Gulf Stream, a rigged squid
drifts deep beneath a glow stick into the pitch-black abyss.
The tip of the heavy rod dips once, twice, then folds completely.
I strike, driving the steel hook into the massive shadow rising from the deep.
A broadbill rises, thrashing its lethal sword against the night sea.
We double-team the harness, pumping and winding against brute force,
guiding the obsidian hunter toward the transom lights
until the broad bill is seized, bringing the ruler of the dark current aboard.
Then, offshore, a massive live skipjack tuna drags heavy on the outrigger.
The water erupts in a massive geyser—
the grander black marlin engulfs the bait and tears into the late afternoon.
I drive the hook home, and the grueling battle begins.
The fish dumps half the spool in seconds, and the
harness bites into my shoulders, my back bends like a bow.
Every pump of the rod is a war against gravity and sheer mass.
My thighs ache, forearm muscles burn with lactic fire,
sweat stinging salt into my eyes as breath comes in ragged gasps.
Exhaustion settles deep into the marrow of my bones,
an agony of endurance, pulling inch by agonizing inch
until my arms tremble uncontrollably.
After two grueling hours, the massive bill is subdued at hands-length,
a titan of the Pacific, spent and magnificent,
before being gaffed and slipped into the boat.
The long run home is bathed in the golden wash of an ending sunset.
The wake behind us churns with white foam against dark ocean,
and the salt air feels cool against sun-warmed skin.
A profound elation washes over the crew;
the undeniable satisfaction of a perfect day
where strategy, luck, and muscle aligned upon the water.
The next evening, the smell of seared marlin steak fills the patio,
marinated in herbs and grilled over red-hot coals.
Friends gather around the long wooden table, laughter ringing out
as tales of the strikes, the runs, and the sore muscles are retold.
Glasses are raised high in a loud, grateful toast
to the salt, the sea, and the ocean's fastest spirits.
Eventually, the stories wind down, goodbyes are spoken,
and the last car pulls away into the quiet night.
I sit alone by the edge of the illuminated pool,
watching the light ripple softly across the still blue water.
The house is silent, the body still holds the ache of the fight,
and as I lean back, eyes fixed on the stars above,
I am still out there,
riding the swell, feeling the strike, and chasing the deep.
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