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21ST CENTURY NOMADS - THE ADVENTURES OF THE RUM BUM
By William Kearney
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As 17th Century as it sounds, my assignment was to track
down a nomadic vessel know as the Rum Bum. Despite all
modern technology, my editors didn’t seem to know where the
boat was or how I might reach its captain. We did know, however,
that she would be showing up in the Bahamas in May to fish the
Bertram-Hatteras Shootout Tournament. I planned to intersect her
there.
From the windows of the prop plane, the northeast elbow of
the Bahamas is a broad limestone plateau eroded into a maze of
bonefish flats. On the eastern edge it drops off to the depths of
the Atlantic. The Rum Bum was down there on the blue water
somewhere, looking for marlin.
Who among us hasn’t fantasized about a life at sea unfettered
by the demands of the daily grind? What would it be like to live
catching marlin? There are still concerns; you buy groceries
a month at a time, you calculate gas mileage at 27 knots
vs. 30 in order to not get stranded at sea, oil pumps break,
reels malfunction, and weather turns bad. Regardless of the
demands, or perhaps because of them, it’s a rare way to live.
The Rum Bum, as its self-deprecating name would
suggest, is owned by Luis Bacardi of the Bacardi Rum
empire. His family has created the most recognizable rum
brand in the United States if not the world. Rum, the elixir
of pirates and sailors in the colonial New World, is a fitting
legacy for a vessel that sails the Caribbean for months at a
time, chasing some of the hemisphere’s most awe-inspiring
animals.
Luis Bacardi did not grow up in an offshore fishing
tradition. He had to find it. Though he sailed often with his
father, his fishing consisted of hanging out with buddies
along the canals around Miami. That all changed in 1988
when he decided to try his hand in the Bacardi Billfish
tournament. “I got third place for that one and never looked
back,” he says. That experience started an obsession not only
with catching billfish, but also with supporting research and
preservation. Luis is currently on the board of directors of the
Billfish Foundation.
A year in the life of the Rum Bum is very much dictated
by the habits of marlin, which tend to show up at different
spots during different months. Starting in May the Rum Bum
is on the water four to five days a week for three months or
more. During that span Luis and the crew hit anywhere from
nine to 12 tournaments, traveling to the Bahamas through
June, out to Bermuda in July, then south to various ports in
the Caribbean, and eventually St. Thomas in the early fall. As
autumn progresses, the boat and crew head west to Mexico
and possibly Costa Rica. Winter months are slower but still
offer sailfish tournaments in Florida before spring gets things
going again. Last year the Rum Bum logged more miles than
any other boat in the World Billfish Series. Every year is
different, but all told the boat lands between 30 and 40 marlin
annually.
Running a 54-foot boat 365 days a year is a little like
running a household, except the household has to handle open sea
navigation, the possibility of 30-foot waves and the possibility of
a 1,000-pound-plus marlin. The man who keeps the Rum Bum on
point is Captain Jim O’Neill, a.k.a. “Jimbo.” He’s stout, agile and
grey haired. His father, a charter boat captain out of Key Biscayne
in the 1950s and ’60s, brought him to work at age five as a way to
keep an eye on him. The boat became his neighborhood. The Rum
Bum’s mates, Andre Pepin and Sean Williams, bring a confident
intensity to the game as well. Williams, with a wife and daughter
in the Keys, turned down a volleyball scholarship to stay on the
water. Pipin’s been mating since his early teens and has spent time
on boats in Miami and Hawaii.
The years on the boat have been peppered with tournament
wins. The 2001 Paradise Island Tournament was the boat and
crew’s first Bahamas Billfish Championship win together. They
won the Treasure Key Tournament 2003 with a 657-pound blue
marlin. They also won the Caribbean leg of the World Billfish
Series Championship twice. But beyond the tournament numbers
is something else. Luis and the crew are a laconic bunch, but ask
them what they’ve witnessed via life at sea and they light up:
killer whales playing with teasers, sharks harassing and killing
hooked billfish, porpoises stealing bait but never getting hooked.
There were also nights with 30-foot seas, and nights on shore with
too much rum.
Then there was The Grander, meaning the blue marlin
topping 1,000-pounds, which they lost last year. Though Luis
has fought five others, this one was special. “For three hours we
fought him,” says Luis.
Jimbo jumps in, “I saw it perfectly underneath the short
rigger. It was probably 1,400-pounds-plus … I have seen 1,200-
pounders and they weren’t even close to what we saw … these
big fish are hard to get. You know, it takes everybody to do it and
we had some problems. It didn’t go off right in the beginning,
and, [expletive] happens. I lost my mind when I saw that fish …
I was like, ‘holy [expletive], did you see that thing?’ I froze for
30 seconds. I was like, ‘I can’t believe I just saw that!’”
“How did you lose him?” I ask. “Spooled us,” says Luis.
I try to imagine 1,000 yards of drag being pulled off a massive
big game reel. “Just took off too fast. Hauling ass. We couldn’t
keep up. I told Jimbo, ‘We got three-quarters (of a spool), half,
a quarter, I see gold.’ He (the fish) just popped it off.” Luis and
the crew can almost laugh about it now. The fish may still be
out there. Which may be part of why the men live the life they
live. Their boat travels on something unattainable.
Landing or losing a fish, braving rough seas, the hours of
monotony on a three-day run: these are the moments that pull
a crew together in a familiar way. Or break them. Crews can
bicker like family, and this boat does. They warn you about
it as you step on board. But as they tell stories together they
seem glad to have witnessed the sea together. The greatest
danger out here, aside from making a mistake regarding the
weather, is getting your hands wrapped in a leader and being
pulled overboard by a fish. They all seem to know someone
who has died at sea. “The thing about it is,” adds Williams,
“Fishermen are some of the few people in the world who
love their jobs. I know people who hate their desk jobs. It
ain’t like that out here.”
I ask Jimbo if he sees himself doing this in 10 years.
“I hope I’m doing this in 10 years. I plan on it. It’s a tough,
physically challenging thing. You’re on your feet all day
long.” He pauses. Certainly there have been compromises in
living this nomadic life, and further compromises lie ahead.
What is life on the Rum Bum about?
“Catchin’ blue marlin,” says Jimbo.
“Peace and tranquility,” Luis adds. “Coming out on the
ocean, it’s nice being out here. There’s the fishing, but there’s
also the other stuff – the marine life at night. You’ll get to
see stuff you’d never see. We turn on the underwater lights
and watch the food chain instead of TV.”
What will Luis be doing 10 years from now? “Same
thing, just more mellow. We’ll be out here on the water, but
just for fun ... My quest is just the endless pursuit of billfish,”
says Luis, “and preserving the future of these fish for our
children.”
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;)
