Armageddon '22

Story Submission by @TeamFiasqo

This is a subscriber story submission by Team Fiasqo (@TeamFiasqo), a Northeast based angling team. It’s a tale of friendship, morale, sweet redemption and the tides of life. If you are interested in submitting a story to be published, reply to the Weekly Salvage or message us @Blowin_We_Goin .

There was a time, before time. A time when weeks were spent gathering bait, tackle, and fare money, weekends spent on the Yankee Capts Tortugas Headboat. And then everyone would read about it on Monday.

It was a time before braided line. A time when the Florida Sportsman Forum was the best game in town. Fuel was cheap, bait was easy to procure, and sharks were but an infrequent drive-by.  

Trips came and went. Team Fiasqo was still a thing, but the tsunami of life just kept coming. The trips became less frequent, not for a lack of trying, but that’s the thing about life - it just keeps going. Save for a brief slack tide like a Keys causeway bridge, the current of life kept screaming.

Seeking to maximize the experience with our fishiest friends, the Armageddon series of trips was born. The first Armageddon was a gathering of the best bottom fishermen we knew, thinly veiled as a bachelor party. It proved a resounding success, fraught with its own misadventures, so the tide kept rolling.   

“You guys should do another Armageddon, we miss reading those Yankee reports.” The calls would come every few months. Then for years. Again, not for a lack of trying. But that current of life, she’s a bitch.

Armageddon 2 eventually came to fruition a few years later. A tough trip with tougher conditions, but the dysfunctional talent on board kept the boxes full.  

Then there was a lull. Unfishable current, metaphorically speaking, of family and careers. Spending three days on ‘the bus’ seemed like nothing more than a distant dream. 

“You guys are due for a trip. Make it happen, I’m not getting any younger,” came the words from Capt. Greg. With us since the “formative years” of Toyota Cressida’s and reggae mixtapes at the dock, we knew it was the absolute least we could do after all he’d done for us.

But to plan a trip, what kind of trip...? 

The recent years have brought a new customer to the Florida long-range fishery. Armed with high-tech tackle, ultra-thin lines, and cameras strapped to their foreheads, many come seeking deeper, more distant grounds such as Pulley Ridge and beyond. 

“What do you guys wanna do?” was the ask.

“Just a classic Tortugas trip. Nothing fancy, just a good bare-knuckle brawl with some fish hopefully.”

“It’s not like it used to be, like you guys remember it.”

“Greg, at this point I’m happy just to go, any fish are a bonus.”

“Alright then, pray for weather.”

Famous words could not have rang truer as the dates were set…six months until launch. Tick Tock.

As we came closer to the trip, the usual calls were made. Spots filled up quickly. But some anglers couldn’t make for one reason or another. Some had squandered their savings in bungled exotic-cat purchases, while others faced true life-altering situations. That current of life, she gets us all.

Jon Henry had just taken delivery of a beautiful little boy. He was on Cloud 9.  Accordingly, I also figured he was out for the trip.

“Y’all still got room for me on the trip?” he messaged. Arguably the boldest and most impressive DM I have ever received.  

Jon grew up stomping the piers with us, true trench-warfare fishing. We never forget our brothers. “Always room for you. See you at the rail” was the reply.

After a few revisions, the roster was full. To make things interesting I decided raffling off one spot would give anyone a chance to fish with us (apologies in advance) and raise some money for a notable charity. After raising nearly $2000 for Capt. Greg’s charity of choice, St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, Adolfo got a call and a spot at the rail.

Weather was the only box that remained unchecked. In classic fashion, a tropical system that would later become Hurricane Ian threatened our trip.

The destruction and devastation left behind needs no explanation. One good friend Jason in particular, a firefighter in Southwest Florida, was facing a life turned upside down, and had to bow out gracefully. Understandably, a fishing trip (yes, even Armageddon) was the least of his concerns. We kept him and his family in our thoughts, and rest assured he is the first call I will make on all future adventures.

Ian came and went. And despite thinking about cancelling, Greg said he had our back, “watch the weather, we may actually have a window.”  The trip left Monday, in the wake of a massive hurricane, it returned Wednesday, with a front passing through on Thursday.   

I tried not to think about it, for fear of the jinx. But we all thought about it. A post-hurricane bite coupled with good weather and a pre-front bite. My mind was racing and I let it run. Could this be the ultimate trip, a true Armageddon? 

“I want bagels, pizza, and some of Mama Qs home cooking.” A sobering demand from the bus driver who rarely asks for anything. Add in a loin from a recently-caught bluefin and I was packing more food than clothes.

The brothers were quick to scoop me up from the airport as we headed down. Just like old times. The tuna was still cold and the bagels were complaining about the humidity (truly authentic). It still didn’t seem real.   

After a quick meat-up with Freddie David we headed south, running into the Po Boys (like the sandwich) sending it down the Turnpike as best as their Duramax could.  

Next stop was Jon Henry’s to grab some bait.  The Po Boys were in hot pursuit and arrived shortly as well (Cummins FTW). Ironically, the new dad was making better time than us and was already near the boat.  

Soon enough we were at the bus in all her glory. A moment of rapture was broken by, “Get your shit on here, let’s go.” Ah, it was good to be back in surreality.

Once the gear was stashed a quick walk around the boat made it really hit home. Old friends, new friends, the brothers. All here. Rick Valdes was due for a trip, and he needed this one. Dan, fresh off a fitness competition, was ready to crush snapper and carbs. Eric looked forward to asserting some brotherly dominance over Alex who may or may not have been AWOL at the time. Johnny eagerly sought the respite a few days off the grid could provide (his problems would continue). Rob Murphy, a stalwart who predated even us made the trip, with the hopes of showing us he still had game.   

With 96% of our gear on the boat, we shoved and headed west on a trajectory that was long overdue. The bus steamed on, and with her exact destination unknown, the mind wandered.   

So many questions.  Were the fish going to bite amid this meteorological blessing?  Did the water settle down enough after the recent thrashing from Ian? Did my tuna make it on the boat or was it baking inside Maaz’s truck? The answers would all come in time.

Greg put it bluntly, as he has a knack for doing. “Well, they’re either going to bite or they’re not. We’ll know soon enough.” 

The anticipation never gets easier. It was still hard to sleep on the way out, even on two hours of shuteye. But we tried. And then came that familiar noise, or lack thereof. The rumble down of the diesels, the clang of the anchor chain. Then the waiting game, everyone chomping at the bit to fire a bait down.

“175 feet” came the call, and down went the lines. They didn’t stay down for long., screaming away at a sixty degree, which meant only one thing - current and LOTS of it. That current of life I mentioned earlier? Well here it was, in my face, cranking at over two knots. About at poetic as it gets.  

Morale took a quick downturn as thoughts of un-fishable conditions started to cloud my judgment. The bus driver certainly wasn’t helping things …“I’ve never seen it this bad in this area. Oh Boy.”

A serious tackle and technique adjustment was required to make this work. LEAD was the answer…2-4 POUNDS during different parts of the trip and lots of leader (50’). It wasn’t ideal, it wasn’t glamorous, in fact it wasn’t anything like the Yankee trips we had normally done. But…this was too long in the making, and dammit I brought bagels and cheesecake from New York.   

As if on cue, the #MoraleMaster himself came tight. Lo and behold, a fat mutton.   Things were happening. Between respiratory treatments Rick muttered some expletives from the stern, consistent with a lost fish or three.  

Shakedown complete, the driver announced to no one in particular that he had a plan: “I have an idea what’s going on, I’m gonna make a few adjustments to try and get out of the current, but we may end up having to fish through it.”

I ran up to the War Room for some loose and fast ‘strategery’. I passed by young Sandy (the canine mascot of the Yankee Capts) as she devoured one of the baguettes Johnny had (poorly) packed for sustenance. We decided to keep hitting the deeper water and doing the best we could, as at least there were some quality fish to be had. 

During the steam we finally sat down in the galley to process the plan. It also allowed time to tend to disasters. Johnny (yes it’s a pattern) was nursing a bait knife wound from a few days earlier. I had been alerted days earlier by Nick (unable to attend due to aforementioned exotic cat debacle) to “bring medical supplies for Johnny lol.” So I did one of the things I do. It wasn’t the first time and definitely not the last. The wound was cleaned up and re-dressed as best I could given circumstances.   

Time for those NY bagels I guess. One was shuttled up to the War Room as others partook. Post-competition Dan made quick work of the carbie delights, and he couldn’t have been happier. “Bro I was so hungry after the show, I ate a box of Pop Tarts in the shower.”  I’ve heard of many things happening in the shower, that was an impressive first.

The engines rumbled down once, for one of the last times that trip. The reckoning was upon us.

“Well, let’s see what happens, if they bite here it could be good. If not, at least the bagels were good.” Time to find out. And find out we did.

If there was a time to have a talented cast of characters/anglers, it was now. The current was unrelenting, the required weights still big, and leaders still long. But in a beautiful symphony, “the rotation” was in full effect. Tangles were minimal. No catty arguments with chicken-riggers. No egos. Just crush. As soon as we started to get a decent soak, fish started coming up.    

And they didn’t stop. Someone was always on. It was happening! Good sized muttons were the baseline to a properly presented bait. Rick was able to shake off some early whiffs, settling into a groove, and made sure everyone knew about it. 

Jon Henry channeled his new-dad “I need this” mojo as best as one possibly could. If he wasn’t tight, he was in the process of doing so. Again and again and…..again. Rick V was figuring things out, it had been a while. But it would come back just when it needed to.   

Danny continued to take it all in, literally and figuratively. He kept his pace as he put together a nice cooler. An extra sporty runoff culminated in a beautiful African Pompano for him that also benefited from professional posing skills. 

A shift was made for prepare for Sunset City. While I’m not usually one to leave fish to find fish, you also don’t question the bus driver about the two “Fs”- food and fishing.    That being said, I readied my bait. Hello darkness, my old friend.

Minutes later, Eric was reeling frantically. His efforts were met with line peeling off his reel. “This one’s different”, he said, his fish fighting angrily all the way to the top, and different it was.

Shouts of “Cubera!” came from the corner as Eric’s first Yankee cubera hit the deck. The steady pick of muttons continued as the feed remained in session. A swing and SLIGHT reduction in the current (think 32 vs 48oz) also let the guys space out some.  

Rob Murphy was glistening (or sweating bullets) and realized he had some work to do, and work he did. For the next several hours, a look in his direction usually showed him tight on a fish.

Our raffle winner, Adolfo, had a perma-grin from the moment he stepped foot on the boat. Not just a pretty face, Adolfo had big plans, which showed themselves over the course of the evening as he held down the front of the boat and put a nice cooler together.

Meanwhile, “El Otro Po” (brother Alex) wisely abandoned slow pitch jig aspirations and settled into the grind. His efforts would soon be rewarded, specifically as I fished next to him as he professed his love for the military.   

Another aggressive bite, another aggressive fight, all the way to the top. Could it be?

El Otro Po was out of gas, but luckily so was the fish. Luke dropped the gaff and El Otro Cubera hit the deck. Two brothers, two beautiful Cuberas.  Back home, father Claudio smiled (“get some pictures of the boys”). He would soon see why.  

Sunset City was supposed to be a happy hour soirée. She didn’t get the memo, and instead it became an all-night rave. Rick kept talking and the bite kept going. Revelers from the reef were coming to join the party, and they were all welcome.

Jimmy quietly cozied up to the rail for the evening with the same cool intensity that made him a champion sailfish angler.  The only time he stood back was to pull one of his many fish aboard.

It was a surreal atmosphere. The hands of time had not only stopped, they were going in reverse, and there was zero interest in winding the clock back up.

The Fiasqo brothers did our thing. We always bring something to the party. Usually at least one of us in on fire, which keeps the coolers full. Leaving a full cooler of life back home, Marsad needed a good mutton therapy session and got his. 

“I need more tags. I’m out of tags”.  The old tag re-up is a telltale sign of a strong performance. And he let us know. I’ve been on both sides of that. Because that’s what brothers do. Maaz aka “the other one” is good for an exotic fish and/or the pool winner usually. Catching an epic Yellowmouth Grouper, it was no exception.  

Me? I conducted the symphony, which often involves loose organization, dirty work, heavy lifting, and a nearly-missed flight. I do it happily and will continue to as long as I can - all while fishing.  

The mutton rave settled into a blur. No one left the rail except for extreme physiological situations (read: bladder about to burst). The FOMM (fear of missing muttons) was very real.

The rave was still going strong as grey light crept over the horizon. Rick V was still waiting. He didn’t come this far after this long to not get the right one. He also knew the hands of time would be in fast forward when he got back.

I looked over a few minutes later and saw a lot of commotion in Rick Vs corner. A slightly uncomfortable amount of commotion but it culminated with a thud of a fat mutton joining the crew. The sigh of relief never sounded so good.  

With the grace of a cup of black coffee poured down a shirt, Greg emerged. Not one for morning pleasantries and pillow talk, the bus driver was hungry. 

“Bring me one of those bagels, and some tuna sashimi.”

I expected him to at least ask about the Muttanza (“matanza” is Spanish for slaughter, just go with it). But if you know Greg, he is never impressed.

“I saw the screen, I know who is on board. Have you guys had enough? We got a long steam home.”

There she was, lady time. Calling the shots again. 

“But I can’t NOT fish my bait, right?” Greg rifled off some expletives from the wheelhouse and a mutton took mercy on me. The last fish was in. All debts of morale had been settled. Time to go home.

After what seemed like a quick blink we were tying up to the slip and unloading the catch. It hit home. We had caught some fish.  

If I didn’t know any better I’d swear I saw Greg smile. It was an impressive pile for an equally impressive group of anglers that I’m happy to call family. And as the anglers embarked on their respective journeys home, the clock that stood still for a magical time was spinning unforgivingly, once again.    

That same clock taught me that it’s about more than fishing, it’s about life. Those Saturday mornings watching my heroes like Flip, Lefty, and Jose savor each trophy never made much sense, until I found myself in that position.  

Time.  Take it. Make it. Till the next one. 

Thanks for reading and helping keep Team Fiasqo dysfunctionally productive.

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