Cast Of Thousands...Literally

The marina the Betty Jane calls home hosts a big fishing tournament every July and BIG ain't the half of it. This year there was concern about whether America's faltering economy would cut the number of entries, whether going to a catch-and-release format would diminish the enthusiasm of local anglers, and whether folks from far away would spend the gas money to turn out in droves, droves, and more droves as of yore.

So much for all the concern. This year's four-day 25th Annual Bay Point Invitational Billfish Tournament seemed to cruise along just about as lavishly as any of the others my wife and I've attended in recent memory. Saturday night's when the big weigh-in takes place (complete with giant TV screen and a couple of rock bands) and my wife and I typically hang in there until 11 o'clock or thereabouts, sampling the food, T-shirt, marine art, and other concession stands, talking with friends, and just generally blending into the event. Then we head for Betty, draw the curtains, crank up the two air-conditioning units onboard, and settle in for a serious snooze after checking in on the final results of the tournament via our TV.

This year's festivities were as long-lasting as ever, I'm happy to report. In fact, upon arising from the berth in Betty's forward cabin to hit the facilities a few hours after retiring, I noticed that the dock immediately behind the transom was still groaning under hordes of strolling, dock-lit ladies dressed to the nines, gents dressed to the nines, and casually-attired children staying up way past when they would normally have been tucked into their berths. "Wow," I marvelled to my semi-sleeping wife, "It's two o'clock in the morning and I just saw a woman in a designer dress go by pushing a baby carriage. I think the kid was trollin' for grouper with an Ugly Stick and a Penn Senator!"

Sunday was a quiet day, comparatively. So off we went for a little spin in the Betty Jane. The weather was spectacular. And the water in the shallows was some aquamarine, some yellow, some blue. I let the autopilot drive for the most part. On the way back we eased on past a 110-foot Broward dallying in Grand Lagoon, not far from Bay Point. When I called the skipper on my trusty VHF, he said he was waiting to pick somebody up from our marina. The channel into the docks was just a tad too shallow for the big Broward to get into the transient dock.

As we continued on our merry way, my wife and I began speculating on who the somebody might be. Hmmmmm. The owner of one of the big battlewagons that had participated in the tournament, perhaps? A guy with a tower-accoutered 70-some-footer? Or a tower-accoutered 80-some-footer? Whose other boat is a 110-foot Broward?

As we toodled past the fuel dock, a big ol' Jupiter center-console sped by with 350 Yamahas screamin'. Two guys were onboard, a youngster drivin', an olderster not. The Jupe was headed for the Broward, it looked like.

Sheeeeeeeesh!