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C lose to four hours and 12 miles into what had become a major campaign, Stanczyk was neither gaining nor losing ground. By all appearances they were in a standoff. He simply could not turn the fish. During this moment of realization, the question of the day was finally raised among the friends: Was it time to cut the line while they could still make it to their formal engagement? With so much time, effort, blood and sweat invested in this fish – potentially the fish of a lifetime! – all on board agreed to give it a little while longer. Hopefully they'd be able to subdue the fish and only be "a little late" for the festivities. The clock was ticking, the pressure was on. Two o'clock came and went, and the fish began changing speeds. Then suddenly, the line rose once more from the depths and the magnificent blue marlin broke the surface in a whitewater explosion, shaking and churning in a deliberate, slow-motion, semi-circle behind the boat. The boys watched in awe and admiration, their mutually observed silence understood by all. There was no further mention of quitting. Six hours into the fight, the experience was transitioning from a test of physical endurance into something more akin to torture. Stanczyk's fingers were literally locked around the rod, while racking waves of pain conspired against him. The scorching sun continued to beat down, burning his exposed skin to a bright, angry red. They had no sunscreen, so Jeff provided help and support where he could. One idea was to spread peanut butter over Stanczyk's exposed skin to help protect him from the sun's blistering rays. Stanczyk, with peanut butter smeared over his face, nose, lips and ears, was fighting fatigue, pain, guilt and now a new emotion: doubt. Eighteen miles into the ordeal and he just couldn't gain any advantage at all. The fish was outlasting him and he knew it. Then another thought crossed his mind: What were they going to do if they actually got the fish to the boat? They had no gaff, no winch, and this was the largest living creature the boys had ever seen. Their only hope was that the marlin would just up and die of exhaustion right there alongside the boat. Then they could simply tie it up with the anchor rope and triumphantly motor to shore, much like Santiago, the old man in Hemingway's novel, but without the voracious, marauding sharks. sledgehammer in the stomach: What about the fuel? Did they have enough gas left to get home? The short answer was no. In all the excitement, they had neglected to keep an eye on the gas gauge. The situation was serious. If they cut their losses now, maybe they could avoid drifting off to Carolina or Europe and make it back into shore. Out of drinking water and short on fuel, it was time to force an end. W ell into the seventh hour, searing heat, pain and absolute exhaustion were rolling over Stanczyk in heavy, debilitating waves. Then Tom brought up a vital, burning question that hit like him a crashing the surface and soaring 15 feet into the air. It was the last time the boys would ever see the fish. With that final, defiant leap, the line parted. The fish was gone, its freedom well-earned. Exhausted and dehydrated, Stanczyk felt as if he had been watching it all in a dream. He collapsed into the lawn chair and reflected in silence. Time and perception slowed to a dreamy crawl. Minutes passed. When he finally came out of his trance, he attempted to give reason to the day's events, promising his friends it would be different next time: There was still another monster out there, one even bigger. They would find it and they would come out on top! Stanczyk likened his exhausting duel to what Captain Ahab might have felt for the big white whale in Herman Melville's seafaring classic Moby Dick. ith an end to all the excitement came the emotional crash of reality. Fuel was low and the entire night's social calendar had been sacrificed hours ago. They had no radio and the concept of cell phones was the stuff of science fiction back then. Their location was somewhere north of Fort Lauderdale, more than 30 miles from where the battle began. Luckily they were just six or seven miles offshore. They began motoring in toward land, and once they got close enough, they turned southward toward home. Their hope was to find a inlet or harbor, maybe around Pompano Beach. To the boys' credit and good fortune they found an inlet as the sun was beginning to set. Slowly they motored into the Bay, and just as darkness fell the motor began shifting and stuttering, then finally quit for good. Adrift and out of fuel, at least they were within the safety of the bay. Stanczyk, drained far beyond his physical, emotional and spiritual limit, simply closed his eyes. With visions of the great blue marlin replaying in his mind, he began to doze. Stanczyk was awakened by a light bumping sound coming from W Stanczyk grabbed a pair of pliers and began to apply steady pressure to the drag, clamping it down as tight as he could. He could only hope the fish was exhausted enough to succumb. Little by little the line stretched, then stopped going out altogether. Encouraged, Stanczyk began regaining line. After about 50 feet the champion blue marlin bolted skyward once more, the bow. The boys had drifted up against a seawall within the bay, right in front of a large oceanfront home. Help was now a mere phone call away. Concerned about the owner's likely reaction to a beaten- down, ragged-looking refugee covered in peanut butter walking up to his back porch, Jeff pulled the assignment of first contact. When told of the boys' amazing story, the homeowner was enthralled. Stanczyk made the phone call home to his father, who told the boys that he'd pick them up and take them home. With that, the boys gave the homeowner the mahi-mahi they'd caught earlier as thanks and said their goodbyes. During the ride home, Stanczyk considered what to say to his date. After careful consideration he decided to go with the truth – well, a version of it anyway: The boys had run out of gas and drifted in the Atlantic until they were finally rescued. In the end, they missed the dance, and all the formal dress, photos, and fuss that came with it. But they still made it to the after-party at the Fontainebleau Hotel. No mention was ever made of the great marlin. Why ruin a good thing? Note: Richard Stanczyk continues to chase marlin and other giants of the deep as a charter captain and owner-operator of Bud & Mary's Marina in Islamorada. SPOR TIN G CL ASSICS 144