PINKS All Out

This blog has absolutely nothing to do with the outdoors, except to the extent that my favorite television shows, PINKS and PINKS All Out (SPEED ch. 40 on Comcast) are conducted outdoors.

For those who don't watch the SPEED channel,  PINKS and PINKS All Out are reality shows about amateur drag racing.  In PINKS, creator/host Rich Christensen finds racers willing to put up their titles, or pink slips, in a best three-out-of-five series. They negotiate for  car lengths, use of nitrous oxide, and lanes.   In PINKS All Out, an off-shoot of PINKS, as many as 400 amateur drag racers show up at a track like Moroso or County Line for a chance to make it to the  final 16 and ultimately win $10,000 and  NAPA tool chest. There's no negotiation and no one has to put up his/her title.  Christensen does an arm-drop to start them; his two technical advisors, brothers Nate and Adam Pritchett, group the cars by 1/4-mile times, and then decide which group is likely to have the tightest racing in the finals.    They don't necessarily pick the fastest cars.  At last weekend's taping at Gainesville Raceway, the 11.5 group got picked.  They all blushed, stammered, and stuttered like stunned Miss America contestants.  It was fun to watch.

For those who DO enjoy the shows, I hereby offer answers to frequently-asked questions.

Q. Does Rich Christensen know anything about race cars, or even cars?

A. No, and he freely admits it.  That's why he has a battery of technical advisors consisting of racers and high-performance car shop guys to help him. Rich created PINKS because he thought it would make compelling television, and encourage racers to stay off the streets and compete on the country's small drag strips, some of which are closing for lack of interest.

Q.  How come SPEED keeps running the same PINKS episodes over and over?

A. Because they don't have any more new episodes to air.  Christensen said it is very difficult anymore to find racers willing to actually put up their titles in a drag race.  Some try to cut private deals with their opponents or intimidate the PINKS cast into agreeing to let them off the hook -- which Christensen adamantly refuses to do.  In Kansas City recently, Christensen said he felt he was "disrespected" by some prospective PINKS racers pressuring him to bend his rules.  Things got ugly, and as he put it, "my guys started taking off their watches; we thought we were going to throw it down."   Fortunately, violence was averted.  The good news is,  nine new PINKS All Out episodes are being shot this year, including last weekend's in Gainesville.

Q. Who  won?

A.  Wouldn't you like to know?

Q. Does the PINKS All Out crew pre-select the group of cars that make the final 16?

A.  Not that I could see.  At Gainesville, it took them over six hours to run two time trials for all 400 and some cars that showed up.  Nate and Adam were observing and keeping notes the whole time.  They chose the 11.5 group because the 16 racers posted the second-closest time spread in All Out history.

Q.  How do the Pritchetts know whether somebody is  sandbagging?

A. Easy....if the racer's second time trial is not within a pre-determined margin of his first pass, then he's out.  Period.  Same thing for the final 16.  If any of them run too fast based on their previous test runs,  they are gone.

Q. Does SPEED really give the All Out winner $10,000 in cash?

A. Yes.

Q. Is Rich Christensen really lIke that, or is it just for show?

A.  He's really like that.....very tightly-wound, hyper, and impatient, both on and off the camera.  And you would not want to challenge him to a bench-press competition.

Q. When will the Gainesville episode be broadcast?

A. SPEED anticipates August.

Why there are still animals to hunt

Sometimes I think animal right activists underestimate the skill, cunning and what some would call "genetic intelligence" of the supposedly dumb creatures they are trying so hard to protect from humans.

What prompts this observation is a hunting trip I took last week to a private lease in Okeechobee County with some acquaintances.  One was determined to shoot a hog with bow-and-arrow and a wild turkey with a shotgun; the other bow-hunted for turkey, which is one of the most difficult things in the world to do.

Neither was successful.

The would-be hog killer and I sat quietly in a tree-stand for nearly three hours in late afternoon, hoping a wild hog would be drawn in by the corn scattered by a mechanical feeder.  Just before dusk, a sow approached from an open field, accompanied by three piglets.  But they didn't come rushing in all pig-like to scarf up the corn.  Instead, they circled around behind our tree-stand, stayed close to the safety of the palmettos directly behind us and looked around.

The piglets could clearly see (and smell) the corn on the ground directly in front of them, and started to move toward it.  But the sow grunted at them and they stayed put, warily circling the clearing and using the cabbage trees for cover.

My hunting buddy could see that these supposedly dumb wild pigs were not about to just run out into the open.  So he stood up, drew back his bow, and let an arrow fly at the sow standing under a cabbage tree. 

She oinked in a panic, jumped, and kicked up a dirt cloud in her haste to get away.  It was a clean miss.  The arrow was embedded low on the tree trunk where it had passed under the sow's belly.

The next morning before dawn, my friend and I concealed ourselves in a camouflage tent blind at a crossroads where several gobblers had been spotted milling and scratching the previous afternoon.  My friend made some good imitation gobbler and hen calls with his wooden box call and even got a gobbler to answer him more than a half-dozen times.  He readied his shotgun for the approaching bird.

But the alpha-male turkey never came close to shooting range.  In between the human-turkey dialogue, I heard the unmistakable cluck of a hen.  After that, we never heard the gobbler again, despite repeated calling.  Small wonder.  He was obviously getting busy with the real thing.

On the other side of the lease, my other friend had somewhat better luck.  He managed to call a gobbler to within 15 feet of his blind -- easy shooting range for a bow. But when he shot, the arrow whistled between the strutting bird's puffed-up feathers, scattering a few of them, then embedded itself harmlessly in the ground.  The gobbler quickly escaped.

If hunting were the massacre animal rights activists claim, this lease would be littered with the bodies of turkey and hog. 

Thank goodness we provisioned ourselves from Costco before the hunt.

Fishing "barguments"

A colleague of mine in the business department at the Miami Herald recently wrote a book on "Barguments" -- seemingly unwinnable debates over sometimes trivial issues that consume hours spent in bars.  An example of a "bargument" would be whether sailing is more of a sport than auto racing.  Debaters on both sides are likely to be equally passionate, but probably could never convince their opponent of their "rightness".

That got me to thinking about unwinnable fishing arguments, especially those pertaining to our diverse South Florida fisheries.  So I will now put forth my examples of fishing barguments.  You are free to add yours, which likely will be more original and thought-provoking than mine, since I may be a little too close to the issue:

1) Who is the better South Florida sailfisherman -- captain Ray Rosher or captain John "Louie" Dudas?

2) Which takes more skill, preparation and local knowledge:  kite fishing for sails or flats fishing for tarpon?

3) Should the harvest of goliath grouper be re-opened to recreational anglers?

4) Which is the smartest fish in the ocean -- examples:  gray snapper, snook, tarpon?  Which is the dumbest -- examples:  dolphin, cobia, jack crevalle?

5) And probably the most contentious of all -- overall, are men better anglers than women?

Please submit your comments and add barguments of your own.

What an outdoors writer does on vacation

Even though you could make the very convincing argument that my entire occupation is a vacation, I still need to get away once in a while and do something without writing about it:  an activity done for pure pleasure and no justification.

So that's what I've been up to in the middle of this month.  I took a vacation far, far from South Florida that would be suitably outdoorsy for a person who dislikes museums and shopping.  A severe climate change completed the 180-degree detour from work.

So, what did I do?  I went skiing for a week in Colorado. 

Turns out, I couldn't have chosen a better time to go.  Record snowfalls in the Rockies earlier this winter combined with continuing cold temperatures pushed back the usual mid-March onset of what they politely call "spring skiing" but which would more appropriately be dubbed "attempting to break your neck and knees on ice and slush."  Instead, the wide steep slopes around Aspen were covered with a thick base of soft, dry, powdery snow.

Powder, for those who are unfamiliar, is the best type of snow.  Easily navigated by even the most novice skiier, it breaks your falls, does not melt before you can brush it  away from your boot tops, and allows the construction of elaborate snowmen and other sculptures.  One year at Aspen, somebody recreated a full-size BMW.  (Figures in Aspen, right?)

Skiing at Aspen Highlands, Snowmass, and nearby Sunlight in Glenwood Springs, I was delighted by  constant powder  reinforced by a couple of small-scale snowfalls sprinkled throughout the week.  Even the ski instructors and patrol guys said it was the best winter they could remember.

What fun for someone who has spent nearly 30 years in and around the sub-tropical ocean to stand at the top of a snow-covered,10,000-foot peak, gaze at icicle-draped rooftops and evergreens, and then glide for 20 minutes down through a feather-light, diamond-spangled carpet.  And I even managed not to fall.

If you've never tried it, you should.  Lessons help.  There's nothing more terrifying than putting on downhill skis for the first time at the top of a mountain with no idea of how you are going to make it to the bottom.  Once you learn how to snowplow and make rounded, unhurried turns, you'll think you're the next Bode Miller, or something.

But after a week in wintry Wonderland, I'm ready to tackle warm fish once again.  That's what vacations are for.

Fly fishing, not catching

I headed up to one of my favorite places in the world to go fly fishing last weekend-- Mosquito Lagoon near Titusville.  Guide Nick Sassic had warned me that the south wind wasn't the best for locating redfish, indicative as it is of impending low pressure and also recognized for clouding up the east-central Florida skies.  Also, he couldn't stay out the whole day because he had a family commitment.  But I would not be deterred.

We departed from Beacon 42 boat ramp in the Merritt Island National Wildlife Refuge in his skiff, my 9-weight rigged with a small tan and white Clouser.

Of course the moment he started poling across the flats, the south wind began to puff up, along with the clouds.  We startled a hidden school of reds, which promptly vanished off the face of the earth, and later we drifted too close to a few barely-visible singles.

But then, the Grail....a tailing redfish with the telltale electric-periwinkle spot near its butt that marks it as a REALLY hungry fish.  Although nosing around no more than 20 feet from the skiff, the fish miraculously did not spook as I made my backcast.

The fly landed right next to the redfish, but instead of acting frightened, the fish turned frantically back and forth, looking for the fly.  What a miracle.  See how many times that happens to you!

At Sassic's urging, I made a couple of strips, and felt a bump -- woo-wee! I made a quick strip-strike and......nothing.  The fish swam off.

Huh?

I stripped the line in and examined the fly only to find -- with great disappointment -- that a wind knot had wrapped the tippet around the hook, greatly interfering with its appearance and presentation.

"The fly was probably swimming backwards," Sassic offered.

As I sputtered and fumed, he added, "That's fly fishing."

We didn't see too many more reds after that.  I did manage to bean one of a pair on the head with the fly, something I could NEVER accomplish if I were actually aiming for it.  Of course, both fish fled in terror.

The winds and clouds increased, and too soon, it was time to go back to the boat ramp.

What sets fly fishing apart from bait fishing is that you appreciate every single encounter, no matter how disappointing or infrequent, that involves trying to convey a silly little concoction of fur and feathers to a fish.  When you actually manage to catch a fish, you never, ever forget it and you savor it like other Big Firsts in your life.

If it were easy, I think most of us would lose interest.  Since it's not, it often becomes a lifelong pursuit.

If you are ever up in central Florida and want to take a shot at the big reds, call Sassic -- 386-479-3429.

Smashing stereotypes and discomfitude

As much as I would like to present myself as enlightened and altruistic, I sometimes experience a level of discomfort and unease when in the company of disabled people.  I have always enjoyed near-perfect health and have stuck to a rigorous fitness program  -- running a distance of five miles four times per week -- for more than 20 years.  When I encounter someone who can't possibly do anything like that, a tinge of pity and sadness creeps in. 

Without falling too deeply into psycho-babble, I think my discomfort arises from shame at taking my physical abilities (clumsy as they are) for granted.  In other words, you feel pretty stupid when you complain about how your feet hurt to someone who has no feet, or who can't use them.

On top of that, I worry about being insensitive when interacting with the disabled person:  should I pretend not to notice that he or she is in a wheelchair?  Will the person be upset if I ask how he/she got there? 

I discovered that the best remedy for my discomfiture is to have a chat with the disabled sailors who hang out at Shake-A-Leg Miami.   I recently got to meet the best of the best -- sailors from numerous countries who will compete in the Paralympics this summer in China.  They were participating in the 2008 Rolex Miami Olympic (and Paralympic) Classes Regatta on Biscayne Bay.

While hanging out with them, their wheelchair/cane/leg braces/missing limbs actually manage to slip out of my consciousness.  Not at first, of course.   Determined to try to deal with my own prejudicial demons, I asked these sailors up front how they got that way.

They treated the question as if I had just asked them the time of day.   They answered me matter-of-factly, then began talking very animatedly about what they're REALLY interested in -- sailing.  The conversation was very much like those I've had with able-bodied Olympic sailors Paul Cayard or Mark Reynolds or Magnus Liljedahl.  After a while, my discomfort simply dissipated and I forgot where it went.

Walking away after these interviews, I wondered if I could deal with a life reversal the way these Paralympic sailors have done.  I hope I never have to find out.  But if it ever came to that, at least I know I'd be in really, really good company.

The importance of current

A couple days ago I went fishing with a light-tackle guide in southwest Florida's Estero Bay near Fort Myers.  It was the only day that both of us were free, and the blustery weather of the previous few days had calmed down to manageable proportions.  It was foggy when we set out, but the vaporous skies were pretty much irrelevant because we weren't planning to sight-fish anyway.  The idea was to target shorelines, channels, sandy troughs, and oyster bars with live shrimp, pilchards (white bait, on the west coast), and threadfin herring.  The only caveat was that tide charts showed only a very slight variation -- a matter of a few inches -- between the high and low that day -- "a one-tide day", as the guide put it.   

That one-tide day proceeded to wreck our fishing.  It didn't matter what location we chose -- moving water was nowhere to be found.  For most of the day, all we managed to catch was a very small snook, a couple ladyfish, and about a half-dozen catfish. Not even a jack, which as we all know, is really weird.

Finally in late afternoon, we stopped at a dock near Fort Myers Beach where you could actually detect minute ripples wrapping around the pilings.  Eureka!  Current, at last!  Casting threadfins underneath a large yacht, we got cut off probably a half-dozen times -- most likely by big snook.

When the tide began to slow, the monstrous snook refused to abuse us anymore so we went to a small mangrove island with a trace of tide sweeping through the sandy trough surrounding it.  Here, I actually caught and released a slot-sized snook.

And that was it for the day.  No more runs, hits, nor errors.

It's true what they say on television that the best day to go fishing is any day you can.  So keeping that in mind, you can  at least learn something from not catching any fish.

Really huge wahoo.......story by Tony Albelo

New

Bahamas

Tournament Record Wahoo

January 20, 2008, West End,

Grand Bahama

,

Bahamas

– “Karma.”  That was the word of the week at the second installment of the Bahamas Wahoo Challenge at

Old

Bahama

Bay

. It seems that this tournament is susceptible to karma… good karma in particular.  See, last year the tournament committee needed a ride to

West End

due to a boat issue.  They also needed a boat to help transport all the t-shirts and bags over.  “Nothin’s Wild” volunteered to shuttle the committee to

West End

and “Wake Up Call” agreed to transport the shirts. What were the results?  Well, “Nothin’s Wild” weighed in a 95-pound behemoth and won the tournament plus $48,000 dollars and “Wake Up Call” took home second place and $18,000.  There is that good karma we are talking about.  But that was last year.

This year, karma reared its beautiful head once again.  On day one, the team “Triple Chief” was headed for the docks with some nice fish when – silence hit them.  Their motors shut off and they realized that their sled was out of fuel.  The call for help was received at the docks while the weigh-ins were in full swing.  “Zephyros” heard the call and volunteered to take the stranded team some fuel and help their fellow anglers.  This deed would not go unpaid.  The teams that did make it to the docks on time weighed in some impressive fish including a 52, 57, and 60 pounders by “Savanna Lynn.”  This was good enough for them to take the lead after day one.  Right on their tail was “Ocean Alley” followed by “Knot Guilty.” 

Day two saw brisk winds and choppy seas, but the teams would not be deterred by the conditions.  All the teams headed out for a difficult day of fishing.  Slowly, but surely, the teams returned to the docks; each one of them a little earlier than they hoped.  Although early arrivals usually mark slow fishing, this was not the case.  The teams coming in were weighing some monster wahoo.  First to hit the scales was “Ocean Alley” with a pair of nice fish at 35 and 49 pounds.  This helped propel them into second place. Leg one’s winners “Top Vee” dragged up two giants at 48 and 69 pounds. That’s two tournaments in a row with 69-pound wahoo for the “Top Vee” crew.  But there was quite a rumble down the docks.  Things looked very active over by “Zephyros.” That’s right, the gas-toting heroes from day one had something nice in the boat; something really nice.  When this beast was lifted onto the docks, the crowd gave a collective gasp.  This fish looked as if was missing some sort of Naval markings.  This fish was huge. As it was dragged up to the weigh-station, everyone knew it would be special.  It was heaved onto the scales and it tipped it at 104.75 pounds!  This is the largest wahoo taken in any Bahamian tournament ever!  Just as if were written by a striking screenwriter, the heroes from day one were rewarded with a record-setting fish and $17,000.00.  Although this was the fish of a lifetime, it did not help the team in the “Overall” category.

The Overall Winner was “Savanna Lynn” who kept their first day total of 201.19 pounds with only four fish.  That’s an impressive average of over 50 pounds per fish!  Second place went to “Ocean Alley” with 198.30 pounds; just three pounds shy of first place.  And “Svengali” took home third place with 166.51 pounds.  Overall the tournament paid out over $70,000 in prizes.

The series is led by “Top Vee” with 222.27 pounds and followed by “Savanna Lynn” with 204.03 pounds.  The series champion is tallied by taking the teams heaviest two fish from each event and totaling the six-fish weight. 

Swordfish....we can take more than we think, but should probably stifle ourselves.

Imagine my embarrassment yesterday when I received a phone call from Islamorada daytime swordfish pioneer Vic Gaspeny informing me that my swordfish story that appeared in the Sunday Jan. 6 Miami Herald sports section incorrectly stated the recreational bag limit.  I had written in my article that recreational swordfishers are allowed to take 1 per person up to three per boat.  Vic said he was pretty sure that regulation had been recently changed, and asked me to double-check. 

My embarrassment turned to shock today when I reached NOAA public affairs specialist Monica Allen, who informed me that the bag limit changed as of July 2007 to one fish per person per day, up to a maximum of four per boat for recreational anglers; a maximum of six per boat for charterboats; and a maximum of 15 fish on headboats.

Allen  said that no news release was ever issued announcing the regulations change.  Indeed, when I Googled "swordfish recreational bag limit", all that came up were the old regs.  It wasn't till I searched the hmspermits.gov site that the new rules came up.

I don't know about you, but that seems like an awful lot of swordfish to be taken daily by supposedly recreational anglers.  Too many, it sounds to me.

Yes, yes, I've heard every tired argument about how the U.S. hasn't fulfilled its ICCAT quota since the mid 90s and if we don't catch it, it will go to other countries whose longliners and netters don't follow the same environmentally-responsible practices mandated here, such as circle hooks, live release of marlin and sailfish, etc.

But let's get real.  As Key West captain Kenny Harris put it:  "If not fulfilling the quota means less dead swordfish, then don't fill the quota."

I think we all know what happens in the case of a 28-foot open-fisherman that manages to bring in four 200-pound swordfish.  For one thing, there isn't enough ice or cooler space on board to keep the core in edible condition.  For another thing, do they  really know enough people (friends or enemies) to which to donate all that meat?  Of course not:  most if not all of that fish is being sold illegally.

And, even worse,  these outlaw 28-foot sportfishing guys  are not even contributing to fulfilling the U.S. quota because they are not reporting their landings to NOAA as required.   So, even though the fish is sold for consumption, it has lost most of  its value.   It's still dead; still removed from the gene pool; still counting little toward the economic value of South Florida's booming recreational fishery.

So don't be a bit surprised when the two-boat longlining study in the closed areas of the Straits off St. Augustine and the Charleston Bump concludes next year, and the longliners start clamoring to get back in.  At least they  honestly admit they are commercial fishermen.

No cave country for old men

As I was driving up to North Florida last Friday to cover a potential world record cave dive, I discussed it with a friend on cell phone.  He seemed to think that Jarrod Jablonski and Casey McKinlay were out of their minds to dive 300 feet deep in a cave for 20 hours in order to prove there was a direct physical connection between a remote sink hole and a pristine, first-magnitude spring seven miles downstream.

"That's crazy," my friend said.  "I would NEVER do anything like that.  If I were going to do something just for the thrill, I'd go sky-diving."

I just shook my head as I pressed down on the gas pedal.  He didn't get it, nor apparently, do many other people.

What Jarrod and Casey accomplished Sunday was way beyond thrilling.  It actually was akin to walking on the moon. 

By way of explanation, the two veteran Gainesville cave divers set a world record for the longest underwater traverse between two cave openings.  The dive had been ten years in the making, with several preliminary explorations last summer setting the stage for the final push.  It took a small platoon of volunteers, none paid, some coming from as far away as Sweden, the UK and Singapore to assist with set-up dives and shore logistics. And each one had to shell out thousands for airline tickets, lodging, dive equipment, and gas fills.

Every detail had been worked out well in advance, from how many scooters and spare tanks would be staged in the underwater cave, to each diver's individual bottom time and decompression, to who would deliver snacks to the explorers during their long decompression in a semi-dry underwater habitat.  Observing all this was a lot like watching an elite commando unit preparing to assault an enemy beachhead.  The mission was every bit as life threatening as battle, but the participants remained calm -- even nonchalant -- joking among themselves right up to the start of the dive.

There was about a five-hour time frame when Casey and Jarrod were to pass through the "point of no return" in the middle of traverse where no one would be able to save them if something went wrong.  Those hours must have been very tense for the shore crew and support divers, although they were careful not to show it. 

When Casey and Jarrod finally made it to their first decompression stop near the end of the historic traverse Saturday night, I could just feel the relief washing over the gathering. 

The message, "They're back!" was relayed by cell phone from one shore crew to the other and by Trio to a host of fellow cave divers anxiously awaiting news from around the globe.

As I stood  clad in a slicker in the rain watching support divers heading down to meet the explorers, someone asked me why there weren't more news media on hand to cover what is actually the equivalent of a space walk below the surface of the earth.

I told him, "Over the years, you apparently have made it look too easy.  You are the victims of your own success.  People don't realize how dangerous this really is.  If they did, maybe more news media would show up."

It's a shame that it takes death or destruction to draw publicity for an exploration of one of Earth's last real frontiers.   Expanding knowledge and awareness of a hidden, underground environment where Florida's lifeblood -- fresh water -- flows makes a lot more sense to me than jumping out of an airplane just for a thrill.