UNDER a high overcast 80 miles southwest of San Diego, Capt. Tommy Holland shouts "throw bait, throw bait" as he pulls back the throttle and the Gallilean drifts to a stop. The black screen of the fathometer above him is bright with a flurry of green and orange flecks -- a school of albacore, a very big school.
Deckhand David Grudzien climbs the bait tanks at the stern and tosses nets full of writhing sardines into the calm blue ocean, hoping to entice the thick-bodied tuna to surface.
On benches in the galley and on bunk beds below deck, catnapping fishermen bolt upright at the change in tempo of the Gallilean's twin 350s.
First on his feet is Ken Watson of Los Alamitos, his white-whiskered face afire. "Man your battle stations!" he hollers as he darts from the galley to the stern. At the tanks, he and 17 other anglers bait hooks and cast them into the ocean as fast as they can.
Albacore, perhaps the region's premier sport fish, are like few other fish that swim off the coast of Southern California; fishermen would have it no other way. This migratory species runs in huge schools, puts up ferocious fights and bites in packs, pulling fishermen frantically from bow to stern, tangling lines and fueling an instant addiction that makes up for the hours of boredom that comes with the search.
And albacore are the bread and butter of San Diego's 50 sportfishing boats, the Gallilean among them. When the bite is on, business is so brisk that customers, some of whom have driven across the country to be here, are turned away. Without albacore, the boats would sink financially.
During a two-night trip last month, a crew of 24 headed out on the Gallilean, a 60-footer from Fisherman's Landing, in search of albies -- as they are popularly known -- and the incomparable madness these fish inspire.
It was a date the albies would keep, but only on their terms. As exciting as the catching is, the fishing is always difficult. Albacore are a capricious fish -- here today, gone tomorrow, tracking the patches of cold water, avoiding currents warmer than 70 degrees. This often brings them north during the summer, but that's no guarantee.
An hour before the Gallilean pushed off, it had just finished an overnighter. The 17 fishermen leaving the boat had caught only three albies among them.
"The fish were there," a man said as he walked past the newcomers, "they just weren't biting."
It's not the best news to hear before heading out, but no one's dissuaded. Once aboard, the new customers select bunks slightly larger than coffins, and minutes later are in the galley peppering Grudzien with questions. The crew saw fish that were 20 to 38 pounds, he says in response to a question, quickly adding, "38 being the biggest of the three." Chuckles all around.
Behind him the wiry, tattooed cook, Greg "Willow" Vanderlinden, decides now's the time to interrupt the small talk with a piece of business that's clearly important to him. He looks up from a counter he's been scrubbing feverishly. "Throw up on deck, don't lean over the rail," he orders. "Don't throw up in the restroom or you'll start a chain reaction."
As he speaks, the lights of downtown San Diego fade into blackness as 2nd Capt. Lance Davis steers the Gallilean out to sea.
The briefing ends with anglers retreating to their bunks, where a deep hum from the engines drowns out the ocean sounds and lulls them to sleep. In the darkness lay sons and dads, a Hollywood big shot, his significant other. Buddies. A couple of loners. Each paid $265 for a spot on a boat named reverentially after the inhabitants of Galilee.
At 5 a.m., Holland relieves Davis at the helm. "In the summertime, I come down here and drive the boat to put a few extra bucks in my pocket," Holland says, his eyes rarely leaving the ocean or two sonar screens. "The money's nothing. To me, it's the chase."
Out here, the Pacific is an endless expanse of blue. Other boats dot the horizon, and a few brown patches of kelp drift by.
Holland, a 48-year-old commercial fisherman from Oxnard, is usually alone in the wheelhouse, his only company the equipment that surrounds him. The fathometer shrieks when the boat cruises over a school, and a side-scanning sonar clacks every second, loudly when the sonar detects hard targets like albacore and faintly when it senses soft targets such as squid.
And there's always human noise, thanks to a two-way radio and the Sisters, a clique of skippers out of San Diego, who work together identifying albacore schools for their customers and one another. Their nickname, an obvious pejorative given by rivals, is a point of pride.
Once at sea, Holland points toward two white specks on the horizon dead ahead -- boats skippered by other Sisters.
