We know legends die hard but where are they born? All legends, no matter how big they get, start with a hero and a good story.
These stories start out as ordinary feats of greatness. The good stories get retold. They get embellished. They get blended with other stories, other myths. Those stories get told some more. Good stories get better with every telling because we know them by heart.
As Hunter S. Thompson said of those legends in his anthology “The Great Shark Hunt”: We love them for the extra dimension they provide, the illusion of near-infinite possibility to erase the narrow confines of most men’s reality. Weird heroes and mould-breaking champions exist as living proof to those who need it that the tyranny of ‘the rat race’ is not yet final.
This is the story of the legend of Johnny B. It is a fishtale in its purest sense.
For the better part of a decade, I’ve taken my dad, John Butherus, out shark fishing right around his birthday, which, by chance just happens to be a few days before my birthday as well. Each year we join up with Captain John Brossard of Shark Chaser Charters in Naples to fish for the biggest sharks we can find off the coast of the Ten Thousand Islands. Over the years we have tagged and released dozens of big sharks, everything from tigers to lemons to bulls. It was Captain John that got me interested in the NOAA Apex Predator program. The three of us had become quite adept at catching, tagging and safely releasing sharks that easily outweighed any of us. It had become a tradition. It was always one of my dad’s favorite fishing adventures every year, even if his back ached and his arms burned for days after fighting the massive beasts.
There was no reason why this year would have been any different. That is, until an aneurysm took my dad suddenly in April. He was 62.
I owe much of who I am today to my father. He loved to fish, even if he wasn’t necessarily the best at it. He was a born storyteller, even if he embellished the payoff for comedic effect. He loved the outdoors and always treated it with reverence. He never said no to a good adventure.
His funeral was fittingly held on the shores of Charlotte Harbor, birthplace of the legend of Old Hitler the Hammerhead Shark. He told me stories of that shark since I was a little kid. He always loved a good fishtale. Florida is known for fishtales. Making up outlandish stories of our fishing adventures is woven into every Florida anglers’ DNA. During my dad’s funeral, Captain John offered to take me out to for a day on the water to help forget my grief, if only for a day. It was the sort of adventure my dad would have loved to take. We made plans for the weekend closest to my father’s birthday and joked how this would be the time we finally caught Old Hitler, even though, despite catching dozens and dozens of sharks, we had never actually caught a hammerhead during one of our trips. Sometimes we hunt for legends just to prove they exist.
For this mission, I brought along my dad’s longtime fishing buddy, Gary, who was also the repair man for my dad’s jewelry store. I also brought along his nephew –and my cousin –Nate, who I figured would come in handy at some point should pesky blacktips and spinners decide to distract us from our primary goal of catching a beast. Better to let him blow out his biceps tugging on those piddly five-footers than us. I couldn’t say why exactly, but I felt they were the ones that deserved to be a part of whatever was about to happen.
I pulled into Sarasota to pick up Gary just before the 5:00 p.m. traffic jams. I had a stomach full of shrimp washed down with a couple of rum and cokes and salty sea breeze from a beachfront bar from earlier in the day. Tom Petty came on the radio as I hit the offramp. We pulled into the gas station in Port Charlotte about an hour later to refuel and pick up Nate. Gary threw me a $20 to help pay for gas. I bought two tallboys of Yeungling and a scratch-off ticket for each of us with it.
Two of those three lottery tickets were winners — one for $50 and another for $10. The universe, or something, was on our side for this mission. We pulled into the Port-of-the-Islands Near Everglades City shortly before sundown. We cracked open the bottle of Crown Royal — my dad’s favorite whiskey — and took a shot while the Tampa Bay Bucs squandered an early lead on the hotel television in the background. Gary thanked me for including him on this adventure. I told him it was destiny that he catch the biggest hammerhead in the morning, the one I’ve been saving my last research tag for.
We all took a trip down to the hotel bar. The guitarist on the tiny stage surrounded by taxidermied trophies played a passable cover of Sublime as we ordered fried gator and tuna nachos. We drank our beer and sung along. When the bill came, it was $50.00 on the dot. I left $10 as the tip.
We were gliding through the glassy water of Gullivan Bay long before the sun breached the horizon the next morning. We started off in the “G-Spot,” a place where my dad had caught many of his most memorable fish over the years. It didn’t take long before the angry buzzing of drag signaled our first major hookup. Gary grabbed the rod. The initial run nearly spooled the medium tackle. It was definitely not the ideal setup for the fish on the other end of the line.
It would be nearly half an hour before we gained enough line back to get the shark into sight. It finally appeared on the surface showing us its dark olive-colored skin and telltale dorsal fin. It was a hammerhead shark. From about 20 yards out, it poked its head out from the surface and gave us a good look. The shark must not have been impressed by what he saw. It ran off another 200 yards almost instantly.
Closing in on an hour and a half and over a mile from where the fight started, we finally managed to get the approximately nine-foot shark close enough to the boat for a few pictures and videos. As we were preparing the equipment for tagging the shark, it finally chewed its way through the heavy mono leader and broke free. It was more of a relief than a disappointment. Hammerheads will fight themselves to the death and we didn’t want to overstress the fish, even if it meant missing out on the chance to tag a once-in-a-lifetime-sized shark.
It definitely wouldn’t be the last big shark of the day. As the morning rolled on, a steady stream of 3- to 5-foot blacktips kept the rods bent. On Gary’s next turn in the rotation, he again hooked into a monster, this time an 8 1/2 foot lemon. It was a big female, her skin was extra thick in anticipation of mating season. We were able to insert a tag and let the big girl go unharmed. We all took a shot of Crown in celebration. I made sure to pour one overboard as a thank you.
We were far from done, however. We couldn’t even stop for a quick lunch break. As soon as I opened the hatch to grab snacks for everyone, two of the reels exploded into life. I grabbed the heavier one with the 125-lb tackle and the wire leader. When I finally was able to wench the fish up, it wasn’t a shark at all but a 225-pound Goliath grouper. I’m pretty sure it gave me a hernia trying to haul it in.
We were just about ready to switch our fishing spots when that familiar singing of drag started from the rear of the boat again. It was Nathan’s turn even though his middle finger was bleeding profusely from an ill-advised attempt at grabbing the aforementioned Goliath by its jaw. (Editor’s note: Dumbass) The initial reaction after the shark’s first run was that it was another of the blacktips that we had encountered steadily throughout the day. Imagine our surprise when we saw that we had caught our second great hammerhead of the day.
Although, I don’t think we were too surprised. Not after the way this trip had unfolded. There was no such thing as coincidences that day. Exactly three years earlier, my dad had caught a nearly 10-foot tiger shark in that exact spot. The year before that, on this exact day, my story about the legendary Old Hitler was the cover story for the newspaper I worked for. They made special banners to promote it on the outside of the newspaper box next to the marina. On this same day, seven years earlier, my dad, Captain John and I went fishing together for the first time.
The official measurement was 49 inches overall with a fork length of exactly three feet. We inserted the tag, No 395374, and fully removed the hook. We dubbed the shark “Johnny B” in honor of my father as it swam away into the green depths. The shark was about the age when it leaves the protection of the estuaries of the Ten Thousand Islands to begin its annual trek up the Gulf Coast of Florida. Eventually, this shark will get so big — great hammerheads can reach up to 20 feet in length — that it will stake out a claim to its own part of the Gulf. Generations of Floridians will hopefully tell fishtales of its legend as it devours giant tarpon and spools less than worthy anglers trying to tame it.
I didn’t talk much on the trip back to port. I couldn’t. I had to keep my sunglasses pulled tight because my eyes were welling up with tears underneath. I couldn’t have scripted a more perfect day on the water. We had gone out in search of a legend. We found one. Even if we had to start it ourselves. It’s a story of a hero I will always know by heart. Most of all, it’s a story that deserves to be retold and maybe even exaggerated a little.
After all, Pops always did love a good fishtale.