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Anticipation-Where The Legacy Never Ends

Twenty five years later I can still smell the ocean air of that Friday night in August 1981 when sitting atop the flying bridge of the 1966 twin diesel 44 foot Pacemaker Sportfisherman Anticipation (f/k/a "Jersey Lightning"), approximately ten miles due east of Manasquan Inlet, my cousin Captain Frank Marchell turned to me and said "Summer nights don't get better than this. The forecast calls for a perfect weekend, the sky is so clear that you can see every star and the sea is as smooth as a baby's bottom. We'll reach the Canyon by dawn and I guarantee this will be a fishing trip you'll never forget". Little did he know how true his words would be, in more ways than one. Frank had a genius IQ, a flare for life, a thirst for knowledge, lived life with passion, and man, he knew how to find fish. He used to say that the reason that he was so lucky catching fish is that he painted a girl fish on the hull.

Cruising at a comfortable 15 knots I told Frank to go below and get some sleep while I maintained a steady coarse of 75 degrees for the next several hours. As the sun peeked above the horizon to splash warmth and light upon the sea ahead I turned to see our First Mate, Frank's son Michael, placing the rods in their holders and running the line up the outriggers as he signaled me to drop down to trolling speed. Yes, it would be a most memorable trip.  

It wasn't long before we found our first school of Yellow Fin and heard the reels begin to scream as the Tuna ripped line from the Penn Internationals. My party took turns in the fighting chairs that day and our arms began to ache while Frank reveled with excitement as he, Michael and his partner, Captain Henry Wright gaffed and hauled to the deck over 1,000 pounds of tuna. The seas smiled on us that day and even gave up an 83 pound White Marlin to one of our lines, but that was an anchovy compared to the one that got away. Believe me,  you will never see anyone get as upset and excited the way Frank did when I lost that big Marlin. I thought he was going to have a heart attack right there and then.

As afternoon passed and the sun reached to find the western horizon it was time to shut down and break out dinner. Although I do not remember what I ate, I do remember that I drank a 12 ounce can of cold, sweet, red Hawaiian Punch just about the time that a stiff, cool breeze blew up from the south causing the sea to roll a bit along with the punch in my stomach. Suddenly one of my guests began to turn a whiter shade of pale, and then chartreuse as he assumed "the position" portside. I thought to myself.. poor chap, I hear its terrible to be seasick as I smiled at the idea that I have never had that unpleasant experience. Some say its fear that turns the stomach inside out. I always respected but never feared the sea, so maybe that's why I never became sick. Frank was the best Captain I knew and therefore there was no reason to be afraid. But the rollers grew, both in size and frequency and soon the Anticipation was rolling port to starboard relentlessly without reprise. I heard the dishes in the galley crash just about the same time that I clutched the starboard freeboard and learned a lesson as to exactly how sick being seasick was. Never since have I been able to even look at a can of Hawaiian Punch without remembering that night. What I would not have given just to have the boat steady again, if only for five minutes, but that was not meant to be. Ten foot rollers pounded our port steadily as everything that was not secured was thrown off counters and shelves. I cursed as I wished that Frank had not forgotten the drift anchor. Henry came to me and said, "Don't worry, the boat won't breach and capsize so long as we don't take three consecutive broadside hits".  I found little comfort in that thought as I sat on the cockpit deck, clutching the bridge ladder as I counted each time we leaned more than 45 degrees, watching the outriggers reach down for the water; one....two...pause. Then it began to rain.

But a little weather wouldn't stop Capt. Frank, no not Frank. Soon he was on deck with an empty gallon jug to serve as a bobber and said "this can't last forever, let's get us a swordfish" as he began to rig a pole. So I sat out there in the rain waiting for a run off and wouldn't ya' know, the reel started to click, slowly at first and then it screamed. An hour later Frank was standing on the rolling transom with his 38 caliber putting three slugs in a 142 pound Mako while I prayed that one did not find the hull. It took a while but we finally got a line around the tail and decided to let the monster remain tied off the stern until morning.

Exhausted and confident that we were safe, everyone bunked for the night...except me that is. I sat at the cabin door for the remainder of the evening watching twenty foot rollers approach against the lightning lit sky, while the lights of boats in the distance vanished and reappeared every 30 seconds as we rose and fell with the waves. Every so often the sea water would breach the transom and I couldn't help but wonder why those scuppers were not made larger so the water could run out instead of filling the cockpit like a swimming pool. If I survived, I thought, I would definitely write to Pacemaker about that (I never did). I was never one to say formal prayers, but as I sat there for the remainder of the night, sick from the diesel fumes running the electrical generator which allowed the bilge pumps to keep the water from weighing us down, I recited every prayer I could remember being taught as a child. Twice I woke Frank to ask if I should power up and head west, only to be calmly told that we were safe and not to worry. As usual, Frank was right.

Eventually, the lightning, thunder and rain left, the wind died down and the sun appeared on the horizon. But water in motion tends to stay in motion, and the waves continued as we rode the following seas back to port. The LORAN had failed during the storm putting us some twenty miles off course, and by the time we reached Manasquan Inlet the sky was colored by a golden hue from the setting sun reflecting off the storm front now far to the east.

The 44' Pacemaker Anticipation was a sound, seaworthy craft and sustained only minor structural damage. Once inland at Hoffman's Marina in Brielle, everyone forgot the storm and faces smiled for pictures taken with the Mako and the Marlin hanging from the scale. On the way back a "lottery" was started to see who could guess the weight of the shark. I guessed right on the money..143 pounds. We were all happy to be back, safe and sound, especially Frank and I who were grateful for the following seas pushing us home as we realized when we refueled that we only had about ten gallons remaining in the tank. But like Popeye says, "All's well that ends well!"  Frank promised me that I would not forget that trip for a long time, and I have not.

That was my last trip to the Canyon, and the last for my beloved cousin as well. Shortly thereafter Frank suffered a fatal heart attack and left us to fish the big blue sea in the sky, looking for the big Marlin that I let get away. I will never forget that trip, nor will I ever forget Frank, and in his memory there is tied at Island Boat Club in City Island, N.Y. a 32 foot Trojan Sportfisherman named Anticipation. 

So the next time your facing foul weather waiting to cast off from the Jersey Shore, wait it out with a few cold ones at Bar Anticipation in Lake Como where Frank's legacy lives on at the place where Summer Never Ends. While there ask Reggie or Dick why this really hot club is also named Anticipation.

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