ishing Sunday Favorites: Fishing at End of The World

Charter guests display a weary excitement and pose with their fish pegged to a board specifically for photo ops.

VENICE, La. – Just two hours south of New Orleans, down Grand River Road, is a place nicknamed ”The End of the World.“ It’s the most southern community down the Mississippi River that is still accessible by car and located on the delta. Here life consists of two very basic industries – fishing and oil.  

The community has undergone two major disasters in the last seven years and signs of the apocalypse are obvious at the end of the world. Foliage has overtaken abandoned homes and caved in roofs litter the parish, which is situated between two levies. It was almost completely washed away during Hurricane Katrina. A concrete slab marks the spot where old homes rested and newly-painted modular houses stand beside it. There is no grocery store for 40 miles – the old one was washed away in the storm and was never replaced.

A railroad track runs through the front yard of most resident properties; the train transports oil from a giant pumping station that used to be owned by BP, but after the Deepwater Horizon spill they had to relinquish control to another corporation. Hundreds of miles of pipeline extend from the station into the Gulf leading to several giant offshore rigs -- they are our fishing destination.

There is no visible sign of the 4.9 million barrels of oil released into the murky waters. Instead, wildlife abounds. Otters play in the marsh while birds dive for fish, who for their part, are bigger than ever. It’s as if the area’s wildlife wasn’t devastated by the spill less than two years ago.

We leave at dawn to go fishing. The channels are so foggy it’s almost scary. 

”I can’t see where the water ends and the sky begins,“ Captain Jason says. 

I feel like we are sure to get lost the fog is so dense, but just when I think we’ve gotten off course, a red or green channel marker appears out of nowhere. The last piece of land gets smaller and smaller in the distance and suddenly I’m filled with fear. Something the Cajun dockmaster said yesterday is making me nervous.

”You two goin’ outta he’a alone?“

”Yes,“ we answer.

”Well that sho’ is brave of ya,“ he replies.

He was joking of course. He was insinuating that a couple could get into a fight and when only one returned – no one would know what really happened.  I’m not worried about Jason throwing me overboard, but what if something did happen? Is the boat really big enough? Is there emergency gear? Would we have enough to eat if there was a mechanical failure? 

The open fisherman is only 24 feet long. Our gear isn’t exactly as organized as I’d like and Jason only brought water, crawfish and bread– we don’t even have any beer. 

As we get farther out the water gets rougher. We’re searching for blue water, but the weather has allowed the murkiness of the Mississippi to pollute the Gulf even 40 miles offshore. The natural embankment that Jason had hoped to fish is covered with a cloudy residue. 

A few more miles and we finally reach blue water at a depth of 2,000 feet. Jason wants me to catch a yellowfin tuna. We cast our lines and begin jigging, the fish start to hit almost immediately.  Jason hooks a tuna; I try to clear the area so he can fight it. It’s s such a struggle I have to start the engines so it doesn’t take all his line. Just when he gets the monster to the gunwale, the fish cuts the leader. We manage to land two bonita and a couple kingfish. We keep the kingfish, gaff them and then pound them as the flail around – Jason has a gash on his foot from his last kingfish catch. Then they stop biting; just like that.

We travel farther offshore until we see a floating mass of seagrass and jelly fish.  Casting right next to, but not inside the formation, our jigs attract a school of mahi congregating underneath. We’re only there about 15 minutes when Jason decides to relocate. He wants to get out to the oilrig before it’s too late in the day.

The rig is 70 miles out. Its size doesn’t compare the dozens of others we passed along the way.  This rig is different; it’s actually floating. Huge chains anchor it to the bottom and a steel cylinder 550 feet long floats the rest of the structure. We start to troll around it. Its massiveness is intimidating. I am instructed to drive as close as possible to the rig, and I'm scared to death a line is going to snag on one of the giant chain links.  We don’t catch anything and head for home. 

By the time we make it back it’s 7:00 p.m. We pull into the dock and head straight down to Venice Marina where we get to see the entire fishing fleet bring in their catches of the day. Charter guests display a weary excitement and pose with their fish pegged to a board specifically for photo ops. Over the board a sign says ”Venice: Fishing Capital of the World,“ and after seeing today’s catch, I don’t’ doubt the validity of the statement. This picture, along with any others they took offshore, will be the only evidence of their successful expedition, which cost tourists thousands of dollars.  

Huge tuna, grouper and snapper yield hundreds of pounds of fillets. Charter guests are given the opportunity to take what they want, but many are leaving town the next day. The majority of the meat goes into the ship’s freezer. Captains have so much fresh fish – they could never eat it all.  Fishing regulations prohibit the sale of the fish because by the captains only  possess a recreational license, therefore pounds and pounds of fish will most likely go to waste.

Fish this size can’t be caught and released. These fish are huge – getting them into the boat is dangerous for the angler and potentially fatal for the fish.  After all, the charter guests need a souvenir to validate the exorbitant amount of money they’ve spent on this trip. How else would they chronicle their adventure and show their friends?  As the fish population depletes and gas prices increase, the price of a daily fishing trip will only become more legendary and increasingly expensive. 

We get back to the boat with every intention of cleaning the kingfish, but we are both worn out.

”I’ll clean them first thing tomorrow,“ Jason says. ”I can cut them up and use them for bait.“

Morning comes and after cleaning the boat we decide we are running out of time before we have to go back to New Orleans.  Jason has several pounds of fresh tuna in the fridge and frankly, he’s sick of eating fish all the time. He doesn’t want to take the time to clean the fish just for bait, besides, he likes to fish with lures. 

We take the boat out and I pose for a picture with my big catch. Then, we throw them overboard.

”Is this illegal?“ I ask Jason.

”No, but it’s definitely frowned upon,“ he says.