Yankee luck
By Bryan Lewis

Yankees can’t fish. Yet, for a Yankee who never fished off-shore, my buddy Jason, a Pittsburgh transplant to Charleston, sure helped four of us born-and-raised southerners haul in a massive catch in May 2008.  Jason is a true transplant to the South since he moved here due to his health. Born with Cystic Fibrosis, an incurable genetic disease that affects his lungs, Jason spends extra time finding the closest parking spots to shorten his walks, sleeps with an oxygen mask, consistently coughs up blood and takes endless amounts of medicine just to do the everyday passive things I do. So, to load up for a full day in search of mahi-mahi and wahoo off the coast of Charleston was like me completing a triathlon followed by a marathon. At the time of this trip, “J’s” lungs were functioning at approximately 18 percent, and within weeks of our fishing adventure his doctors would inform him he needed a lung transplant to survive. We heard nothing of this as we loaded up at Ripley Light Marina for our 14-hour trip on a 32’ Pursuit. Now 70 miles from the Battery we trolled and trolled and trolled … In the first hour or so, we hauled in a nice, 40-pound mahi-mahi, followed by a 50-pound wahoo snagged on the downrigger.  Hours would follow before we saw anymore action, but the time that passed would seem like moments when the spin of the reels kicked in. We were running four lines, three on top and one on the downrigger. J and I were looking back, when J said, “Do you see those fins?” I looked intently and saw two fins about 60 yards off the stern spin around and head toward our rigs. One reel began letting out that wonderful clicking sound that every angler loves to hear. This was followed by a second then a third reel. Within seconds every harness had a rod in it. The next 40 minutes were chaos. Pulling in three mahi-mahi at once is no small task. Somehow, we avoided crossing lines and losing our catches. J, soaking up every second, grabbed a camcorder to capture the moment. By the time we gaffed and hauled in the last fish, we all dropped to a cushion to catch our breath, much like J does after climbing just one flight of stairs. During the action my harness broke and J had to help me hold the rod. I know it had to be hard on him, but without his help we’d have one less fish to claim.

It was a great day, and each of us informed J multiple times that trips don’t usually turn out like this. Somehow, J was fortunate enough to be there for the greatest fishing trip I’d ever had – four 40-plus pound mahi-mahi and two 50-pound wahoo. Seven months later, J got the ultimate catch in Pittsburgh – a new set of lungs. He’d spend months in the hospital trying to keep them “on the line.” By the grace of God he did. “Damn Yankee’s two for two,” I thought.
This October, back home in Charleston, he was asked to speak at the Lowcountry Red Fish Redbone Celebrity Tournament Series here since it is an annual fundraiser for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation. He said, “Last year during this fishing trip I was unable to fight the fish because my lungs would not allow me to battle the beasts of the sea.  For those of you who have gone offshore you know that is a real physical battle to land those fish and quite the workout.  Bringing in those fish though was not a big deal to me.  You see, not being to climb up a flight of stairs, kick the soccer ball with my daughter, go on vacations or take my family for a walk is a big deal to me.” J was sponsored for this inshore tourney, and I told him to remember that not all fishing trips are as successful as the one he went on last spring.

Well, J ended up winning “runner-up Grand Champion” for the tournament, in which he caught more than 100 redfish and trout … Damn Yankee’s three for three.