Zac von Kampen
The Big Blue Highway
Everyone has an object that they hold near and dear to their heart, some objects small and
personal while other objects much bigger and mean a lot not only to them but to others as well.
For me the object meaning something to someone else and not just me is the case. In many of my
previous writings I have discussed my love and passion for fishing, and the object that I hold so
near and dear to my heart is the reason that all of this is possible. For starters I will give you the
technical terms that you most likely will be baffled by. This object that I am talking about is a
35-foot downeast tuna boat designed by Duffy and custom-finished by my father in our own
barn. If most of that or all of that went over your head, do not worry, you probably are not alone.
The reason that I hold our boat so near and dear to my heart is because of all the time and effort
my father has put into it, and he has passed down the responsibility to me. Our boat is not just
simply an object that you can go buy at the store or even through a boat dealership; it is
something hand crafted and designed exactly how we wanted it. From what my father has told
me he spent many a day and into the night and early morning painstakingly working on the boat.
I was very young at the time when it was finally finished, but from what he has told me and the
amount of time I have spent fishing on it, I can tell that it is a true fruit of his labor and
something that I benefit from as well. This boat has carried us safely to all over the North
Atlantic without even a second guess, from New York City to the Canada-US line to go tuna
fishing. Not even once did either my father or I second-guess the ability of the vessel to go about
doing this.
Thursday six pm. We walk down the dock, backpacks with the essentials needed for our
trip: extra t shirts, long-sleeve t shirts, pants, some extra socks, and some other items slung over
our shoulders. We approach the slip where the boat is sitting low in the water after being loaded
down all day with 1500 pounds of ice, groceries for four guys, 370 gallons of diesel, and endless
amounts of fishing tackle. Even though she is sitting lower in the water, she takes it like a
champ. Everyone hops on, throws their stuff up forward in one of the bunks that they will call
their home for the next few days. Two of the guys in the bunks furthest up in the bow, one guy
up in the wheelhouse, and I take my bunk downstairs off to the starboard side right as you get
down the stairs. I fire up the electrical breaker and the whole boat comes alive: radios squawk
and the GPS, radar, and fish finder light up. On come the running lights, green on the starboard
and red on the port, then comes the all-around white mast head light. Then comes the engine, a
430-horsepower diesel-powered Volvo Penta that lives under the main deck of the wheelhouse. I
crank over the key and it roars to life, the first moments of a stretch of running that will last 60
hours. I settle into my captain’s chair nestled behind the glowing screens of the electronics, then
slide open my window to my starboard to get a nice breeze going through the wheel house. The
crew gets to where they need to be in order for this voyage to get started. One guy stations
himself on the bow to undo the bow line, one guy goes to the stern for the stern line. As for the
other crew member, he has done this many times and has the luxury of sitting back on the day
bunk to my port and doing the easy work; this man, my father, is happily passing on the years
and years of knowledge to myself and my young crew. We cast off from the dock, I reach to my
right for the throttle, pushing forward on the black gear shift knob and the boat lurches forward.
Everyone walks back in through the door located in the middle of the wheel house. We all find
our spots and get comfortable; knowing that the upcoming trip to the fishing grounds is going to
be a long one.
One guy decides to claim his stake on the floor above the engine, where it’s stable and
warm. He lies down positioned between a big grey fish box loaded with 300 pounds of ice and
the day bunk, just enough space on the floor to wedge in and be comfortable. The other two
position themselves on opposing ends of the day bunk. One leans against the back window
overlooking the back deck, using a pillow as a cushion. My father faces the stern of the boat,
using the bulkhead that divides the wheel house from the downstairs as his back rest. The boat
idles through the water, its dark blue bottom paint pushing through the water. We approach Brant
Point light house and the main channel; this is where we finally can begin our twelve-hour steam
to the fishing grounds. I push the throttle forward; the rpms climb to 1700 rpms and we’re
making eleven knots. We look out the two windows on the starboard and see the east jetty
protruding from the water, then we glance out the two windows on the port side, where we spot
the west jetties. You can tell that we are running heavy in the stern; even with the trim tabs down
the bow is still pointed towards the sky at an unusual angle, though what you would expect with
1500 pounds of ice and 370 gallons of fuel though. But even though she is heavy she still glides
through the water effortlessly. These hulls were designed for this and it is like she feels
completely at home.
We finally make it through the jetties and I turn the steering wheel to the port and bring
us around to the west. I lean forward out of my chair and turn on the autopilot, now we are on
our way. I put my feet up on the dash in front of me and lean back in my helm chair. It is a
crystal-clear night with little wind, not that it would matter, because we all knew that even in the
roughest sea we would feel just as comfortable in the boat no matter what. The radar is spinning,
the GPS is tracking, the fish finder reading the depth, and the autopilot doing the tedious task of
keeping us on track. Next stop is Hudson Canyon, 150 miles away, until we are in what has
become known as some of the best fishing in the northeast throughout the summer. We are all
comfortable in our respective spots for the time being, we will take watches while the other guys
get some well-needed shut eye either down below in the bunks or up top in the wheelhouse.
Sometime later in the night one of us will have the job of firing up the generator and microwave
and making everyone a quick meal, because out on the sea there is nothing quite like a warm
meal.
One can see why I hold the boat so near and dear to my heart: it has been a vessel of great
travels and experiences for me. With this vessel also comes things that are irreplaceable. It does
not mean so much to me because of its physical value or what it is capable of, but rather because
of what it means to my father. Through the years I have slowly gained more appreciation for the
work that he put into something of this magnitude and what could possibly be a once in a
lifetime project. My father is not one who will come out and brag directly about how he
accomplished this and how well he did, but will do it through subtle hints. You can tell the time,
effort, and dedication he put into building the boat whenever you ask him a question. If you ask
him any specific about the boat, he will have the answer. He is the owner’s manual for
something that does not come with an owner’s manual. One thing that he always says to me is “It
would be hard to replace this boat,” which coming from him is a very powerful statement.
Knowing that the man I look up to put so much time, effort, and compassion into my object gives
it such a greater meaning. He has told me there were countless times where he would sit there in
our barn in the early hours of the morning, the boat hardly a speck of what it is today, and
wonder what he had got himself into and if it were the right choice. But as you are aware of now,
it did turn out to be the right choice, as seventeen years later both he and I are happily enjoying
what he painstakingly accomplished, and I hope that this will continue on for years to come.
Because there is nowhere I would rather be then behind the helm of our 35 foot tuna boat with
the electronics glowing and the radios squawking, about to set out our lines in the North Atlantic
ocean for tuna.