Last month I went to Georgetown to shoot a blue marlin fishing tournament for the Department of Natural Resources. I drove up on a Friday, just in time to see all the fishermen coming in from the high seas, towing their loot and hearty grins. Only two crew caught marlin that day and all the other fishermen came in and weighed their plunder. Due to rain, the two-day tournament turned into a one-day tournament and an awards banquet the next night.
I arrived with very little idea of what to expect. I'd met the DNR folks before with the Bill-fishing awards I tag along with Dave for each year but this they told me was different, much more hectic and unorganized. I was told simply to capture the madness and make sure I was at the weigh station when the marlins came in. I actually missed the first marlin. Now let me explain.
Fish and fishing is not my world. While I knew the group of Good Ol' Boys present were lifelong fishing, drinking, cussin' buddies, I didn't realize the thrill they get when observing other people's catches. I also didn't realize this life of hours spent bobbing at sea had oozed into the lives of their wives and daughters and small children too young to support a fishing rod. So when the first marlin arrived, imagine my surprise as a group of two hundred people rushed towards the dock, pushing and shoving, and showing little regard for blocking people's views. I was pushed to the back of the mob before the boat even docked and I had to climb on the roof of a nearby convince store to get a shot of the fish. It was like a stamped of women on the opening day of a new department store.
And I would take a shot of the fish, the sad, lifeless beauty that once roamed the seas, fierce with agility and knowledge.
"Did ya get a good picher of that there fish?" the fishermen would ask me.
"I did." I assured them. "It's a nice fish."
"A nice fish?" they'd repeat with outrage. "That one's a record breaker. Take another damn photo." and to appease them, I'd bring my camera to my eye and push the button.
When the second marlin came in I stood ready. I'd pushed past the crowd saying, "Excuse me, I'm with DNR. I need to get to the front." in a way that felt overly firm to me so I'd stop to thank them one by one with a sincere look in the face. I'd gotten a fella named Jerry to let me stand on the other side of the barricade. "Come on Jerry! I've got to get the shot!"
On the other side of the barricade, I stood in the best spot. A spot so good only one person could stand in it. And it was me. As the boat pulled in and the crew tossed the line to the deckhands, I heard a shrill female voice say, "Honey, I need to get there. I'm with the newspaper."
I turned slightly to see a short, heavy set woman with two cameras and a camera bag and a big name tag that only said 'PRESS'. The way she approached me rubbed me the wrong way and knowing I was being paid to take this picture I said very harshly, "I'm not moving. I'm with DNR." and she said, "Oh!" in a way that suggested she thought the DNR was a higher power than the small-town newspaper she writes for. Then she and I had a stare off. I knew that the space I was standing in, the perfect space for the perfect picture was much too narrow for her to stand in. Giving up my spot would result in both of us taking subpar pictures. I told her to squeeze in with me, knowing full well she could get only half a thigh passed the barricade. That little munchkin sashayed one of her hips with such force that it crushed me into a tiny slot between a piling and gasoline pump. I was stunned by the force and her oblivion to personal space and I now know how those Japanese subway riders must feel at rush hour twice a day. She hemmed and hawed and changed cameras often, knocking my elbows and shoulders and jarring me around, making it difficult for me to time my shots.
It takes six to eight guys to lift a marlin out of a boat, up the ramp, and down the dock to the weigh station. During this time, DNR reps desperately try to part the crowd to make way for the deckhands carrying this tremendous load. Both marlin were well over four hundred pounds. This time, I slipped through the crack between the piling and the gas pump and I ran up the ramp in front of the guys, pushed passed a mob of drunkards, and planted myself front and center in front of the weigh station. I wasn't going to miss this marlin. They strung up the seven foot marlin, hoisted her into the air, and locked the chain. While the anglers and crew gathered around for photos, I stepped slightly to the side for the angler's wife to take a photo and just as she finished and lowered her arms, the midget reporter came swinging into the spot, knocking me with her camera bag. I know she knocked me on purpose. I jerked back and looked at her and she ignored me. So I did what any normal person would do. I stood so close to her that I nearly sat upon her saddlebag. She glanced at me as I shimmied up to her side. She wouldn't budge. She was hogging the center of the deck, taking up the space for two people. If she was polite and normal sized, we both could have had centered shots. But no. Her, with her homemade PRESS badge shining in the evening sun wouldn't move an inch. I looked back at her after she glanced my way and she pretended to ignore me.
"I'm not trying to invade your space." I told her, "There's just quite a crowd here." Luckily there was. All the overzealous, loot-less fishermen had crammed so tightly into the space, hers wasn't the only saddlebag helping to prop me up.
"Oh no problem." she told me in such a way that I knew she and I were in a duel. As the younger one of the two, I'd say this middle aged woman was setting a poor example for the next generation. Not only, did she never move even slightly to the left so that I could have a centered shot but she also harassed the crowd, insisting all of them take their 'cell phone photos' first so that there would be no raised arms or shadows in her picture. "Come on folks! I'm with the newspaper!" she shouted every minute or so. What started as a wild affair of excitement and congratulations eventually fell silent as she hushed the crowed, directed the anglers, and stated her title once more. When a tall man tried to pass by her while she was shooting she said, "Sir you need to move. I'm with the newspaper." He looked down at that dumpy halfling and said, "Well I'm with the crew!" and then he laughed, as though titles are important in this place. The dumpling woman made a "Pffffftttttt!" sound at him and went on assaulting passersby.
Luckily, as the official event photographer, I was the only one present to shoot the awards ceremony the next night and stood bashfully at the front of a makeshift stage area taking photos of the winners. While I did my best to act professionally, I spent most of the time wondering what my behind looked like as I was in an awkward half crouch for most of the shots.
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