Ling Finally Arrive

In Texas, cobia (called ling) arrive in April and they’re hungry. Encounters with these fish are memorable, too. Why? This is an oddball fish unlike any other. Perhaps its most unique habit (mostly early in the season) is its habit of circling the boat, curious as a child. Or a friendly porch dog, anyway. (I’ve even hand-fed a ribbonfish to a 40-pounder). And what other fish, brimming with energy and strength, will allow itself to be pulled alongside the boat in under a minute, even with light tackle, when the fight hasn’t even begun?

These odd habits contrast with normal fish behavior, and it has made fools of many anglers. Ready for a fight, ling have ruined landing nets and either bent or stolen gaffs. Landed “green,” cobia have trashed the cockpits of boats, and slapped people around with their broad tails. The last time we caught one from a small boat, that fish went crazy on deck and we all sought refuge wherever possible. I was snagged on the back of my shirt by a big trolling plug at the center console’s rod holder, and had to stand there until the fish was subdued. Most lip-hooked fish fight as far from the boat as they can manage until worn out, but not Mr. Ling.

Some of my earliest memories of this fish involve long, painful fights. And then, botched landings with poor results. As they say, mistakes were made. The ling I remember most was a long, prolonged fight on a glassy, terribly hot summer day off Port Arthur. We were not rookies, but made key errors that prolonged the fight. Our tackle wasn’t exactly top-notch, either. We were in my 15-foot boat, with precious little extra space, unless we left a 6-gallon gas tank at home, which wasn’t often. The motor ran faithfully enough, and we were young and tough enough to withstand 25 miles of short whitecaps. Glassy calm days were such a bonus.

On this day the lack of shade was wearing on us, and the heat stunning. When it became intolerable, we jumped overboard and snorkeled inside several offshore platforms. Finally, we stopped at a small red platform and four big ling cruised over and began to circle the boat. It was game time.

The biggest fish, likely a female, slurped up a belly strip we’d cut from a bluefish. The 8/0 hook, without a leader, was slyly hidden at one end of the bait. I set the hook and hung on, anticipating a typical fight. However, since our tackle was a little light (only 30-pound line), our 3-foot gaff was modest, and we weren’t carrying a pistol on the boat, our trial had barely begun.

Initially we fought a double-header because my partner had hooked a modest 40-pounder. We drifted in the slow current, safely away from structure, but one fish headed east and the other west. My reel was three-quarters empty, and my partner muttered that his line was almost gone. So, I cranked the engine and headed towards his fish, while my own reel gave up precious line until the spool was showing.

A precarious balance was struck. The stalemate held for about 10 minutes, with both reels almost bare. Something had to give, very likely a “pop” leaving one of us spooled. Then, abruptly and for no reason, the smaller ling simply spit the hook out and escaped. That line was reeled in and we quickly followed the bigger fish. What followed was what felt like two hours of frustration.

Lesson One: Never poke, startle or agitate a ling until you’re ready to snatch it into the boat. Early in the fight, when the ling passed close by, my partner took a few Roger Maris swings with a Louisville Slugger bat. His crazed swings were more a threat to me and the boat than the fish. It greatly alarmed the fish, which promptly cruised off 20 yards and stayed there. It became cautious and took a special interest in keeping just out of range of bat or gaff. Where’s a Luger when you need it?

For so very long that fish circled us warily. We passed the rod back and forth several times, straining, sweating, gaining line only to watch it melt away. Its dorsal fin cut the glassy Gulf. ‘Round and ‘round she went for what seemed like 40 times. Saving her strength while we wilted in the sun. Sweat poured off us like we were trapped in a sauna. Heat stroke threatened at any moment and both of us felt sick.

An experienced captain would have cranked the engine and charged after that fish, trying to confuse it and break it from its holding pattern. Then the ling changed tactics and stayed under the boat where the water was cooler. By pulling just hard enough, we coaxed it into making several close passes, but it seemed to know exactly how far our gaff would reach. We were too stubborn to quit, up against the most stubborn fish of all.

Lesson Two: We were not prepared to battle big fish in the cruel sun for long. We wore miserably thin t-shirts and my buddy didn’t wear a hat. We had no Gatorade or even water, just the usual liter of Pepsi on block ice. (It was 1978).

Our strength was waning and again the rod changed hands while the ling circled patiently in cool shadows down below. Finally, I coaxed it closer. My friend waited, waited like a bullfighter for just the right moment, then stuck that fish with the gaff. The water exploded in our faces and then he stood up suddenly with an empty gaff partially straightened. The ling dove deep, peeling line from the reel again, while I hung on and blinked water and sweat from my eyes.

Would this ever end? Any semblance of fishing fun was now long gone. However, a few minutes later, we actually gaffed that fish again. This time the gaff held, or the fish was finally exhausted, laying on its side in the water. I dropped the rod and hung onto the gaff while my buddy pounded away with the bat, hoping to quiet the big fish before dragging it into the boat. One of his crazed swings grazed the top of my hand, nearly breaking it. A string of curses hung in the air. Smack! Smack! “Oh, you want some more of this?” Smack! Splash! Thud!

Then, amazingly, the fish splashed us and was gone again. I grabbed the rod in the nick of time just before it could flash overboard.

The afternoon had turned into this grim ordeal and we both wished mightily that we’d never seen this ling. But the pounding must have had some effect, because on the next pass I led it more easily and it plodded around one more time. This time the monster was gaffed in the throat. We both gave a mighty heave, and it thumped on deck.

Trouble was, neither of us felt like celebrating. I just wanted to clutch my battered hand up on the bow, and maybe retch a little. My buddy’s face was an angry red and he appeared ready to pass out. We finally cranked up my faithful 70-horse Johnson, and drove a mile back to the platform where we’d first hooked the fish. I quickly jumped overboard and lay in the water in a dead man’s float, breathing through the snorkel and watching countless fish below as the slime, blood, sweat and pain were washed away.

After a 30 mile boat ride on a slick, calm Gulf back to Sabine Pass, the stiff, dried-out ling that wouldn’t fit in the fish box weighed 68 pounds. Never before or since have we seen a fish fight that hard, pound for pound. Anglers around the world have reported similar experiences with tarpon, tuna and certainly blue marlin. Ours was a classic battle with a ling.

Since that painful day the years have ebbed away, along with many offshore seasons. And many more ling have passed beneath our gaff. We kept plenty of them, but also began to tag and release them later in the 1980s when that sort of activity was sometimes regarded as questionable.

Vivid memories of that day remain. It was an awesome fish worthy of respect. If we’d been better anglers back then, I like to think the fight wouldn’t have lasted so long. Since then we’ve caught 70-pounders and released them. Over on Florida’s Atlantic coast, I hooked a big ling that after less than five minutes, passed close by the boat to see who or what was tugging on its lip. The guy with me had commercially caught and gaffed big wahoo down in the southern Bahamas, knew timing and how to use a gaff. Even though our gaff that day was small, with a green squeeze plastic handle, he nailed that fish near the base of the pectoral fin, apparently hitting its heart, and the monster went limp. Both of us strained and heaved it aboard. Back at the marina, our boat tied up to a finger pier, two deckhands tried to lift that fish up to the dock, but couldn’t handle it. The huge ling slipped and fell overboard with a big splash, disappearing into black water. Gone! After a minute I jumped in wearing shoes, groped around the bottom in pitch darkness, found and grabbed its tail and barely surfaced, thrashing with one hand. Where waited longer gaffs from a bigger boat. On the marina scales that ling weighed 80 pounds with the tips of its tail still touching the ground.