CityView Magazine

10 | March/April 2018 M C F A D Y E N ' S M U S I N G S I Thought We Came to Fish BY BILL MCFADYEN B ack in the days before sloshing across the deep blue sea in large boats made me turn various colors and then vomit, I fished about once a year with Watson Caviness and his dad, Dr. Bob Caviness. I would contribute a share toward entry fees and expenses in small tournaments that took place mainly out of Morehead City during the summers. ere would be seven or eight of us on the boat. Always Watson was at the helm, making the decisions of where the boat would go and at what speed it would travel. Page Robertson and Chris Cates were the deckhands. ey were a legendary duo on the docks. It appeared to me that Chris was primarily in charge of what the fish would (hopefully) eat while Page was in charge of what the humans would (certainly) eat. ere were usually two or three others like me, people who primarily just got in the way in high-stress moments and who reeled in the fish that had no bearing on the tournament's outcome, but who made the entry fees less painful to the people who knew what they were doing. It was usually a bargain-priced weekend of living life in the big time. Still, fishing with Caviness and crew on board their boat, "Salty Fare," gave you a plausible chance of getting back some of that entry fee in prize money. If you won, then it was enough to merit a 1099 form from tournament headquarters. On every trip was Dr. Bob Caviness, the extractor of many an impacted wisdom tooth during his 40 working years as an oral surgeon. Doc was always the keeper of the kitty. e kitty was a drawer in the salon where everybody who was being charged to participate put their prescribed knot of cash when first they stepped on board. From that cash, Bob paid for entry fees and purchased the baits and the provisions and paid the fuel bills. Beyond that, his primary role seemed to be that of Captain Emeritus and chief inventory-taker of Miller Lite bottles, both opened and unopened. He had his one place where he sat in the salon when we were steaming and he had his one place he sat in the cockpit when we were fishing. From both, he either observed or pontificated. Everyone loved Doc. He was your swell pal, your adopted dad, your role model and your bartender all at the same time. He was the one who started the whole Fayetteville- based blue marlin thing in the '70s and he was the one who inspired all of us dit-dotters to try to battle a marlin before life and ability le us. I probably fished without throwing up for ten years or so on "Salty Fare." In all that time, I won only one tournament, the Band the Billfish Ducks Unlimited tournament in 2001. All billfish were released and you got points for each fish depending on the species. Size, for once, did not matter. Perhaps it sounds cocky to you for me to say that "I won it." But read this again: I won it. It was August and it was hot and it was past the peak blue marlin season. e more plentiful sailfish and white marlin were worth tournament points but only about a third as many as the scarcer blue marlin. We le before daybreak aer I watched Watson the night before pore over enough satellite and barometric pressure and water temperature maps to make Jim Cantore jealous. "Salty Fare" was a sleek beast with two giant diesel engines and perfectly tuned propellers that sent us across the ocean faster than about any other boat. On

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