The two-decade journey to catch all nine billfish species is complete. Along the way, many of these catch-and-releases were shared with my dad and close friends—memories forged on the water, now etched in time.
The adventure was capped off last week with the elusive Shortbill Spearfish, the final checkmark in this long, winding pursuit. The “box score” of this journey:
- Atlantic Sailfish – Key West, FL (2006)
- Pacific Sailfish – Golfito, CRI (2008)
- Swordfish – Singer Island, FL (2012)
- White Marlin – Ocean City, MD (2013)
- Atlantic Blue Marlin – Ocean City, MD (2013)
- Pacific Blue Marlin – Galápagos, ECU (2019)
- Striped Marlin – Galápagos, ECU (2019)
- Black Marlin – Cairns, AUS (2024)
- Shortbill Spearfish – Kona, HI (2025)
The Mission Became Personal
There were challenges, setbacks, and those “moments” that test your resolve.
Finishing this off became more than just a fishing goal—it was a personal mission.
My dad, an avid fisherman and rum-and-Diet-Coke aficionado, passed from cancer in 2023. I was his sole caregiver in those final months, witnessing his strength and dignity firsthand. Fishing stories, laughter, and our own “old sea” tales gave us both a sense of peace.
The Royal Grand Slam had been simmering on the back burner of my life for years.
Then, in one of our last conversations, he gave me a nudge…“Finish it.”
At the time, I brushed it off with a casual, “Sure, sure, Dad. I’ll do it.” After he passed, it just drifted back onto the B-list—one of those things we tell ourselves we’ll get to... someday.
Then I got my own cancer diagnosis.
And that changed everything.
The Final Chase
If I was ever going to do this, I needed to get moving.
I booked five straight days with Capt. Mike and the team on the Maggie Joe out of Kona, Hawaii to maximize my chances of catching the final fish.
I was pumped. Ready for the challenge. Prepped for the “oops” moments that come with big game fishing.
Or so I thought.
On Day Two, something completely unexpected happened— the younger volcano on the island, Kīlauea, erupted.
Though the volcano was on the other side of the island, it released sulfur dioxide gas, known as “vog” (volcanic smog), which burns your throat and lungs. It settled over the water like a heavy fog—eerie, almost like the opening scene of a Stephen King novel.
Worse, it slightly altered the chemistry of the water. Small fish left. And when the baitfish disappear, the big fish that hunt them follow.
We fished on four of the next six days, without a single bite.
The thriving waters off of the Kona Coast—one of the best fisheries in the world—had fallen silent.
Still, Capt. Mike and the crew remained optimistic. Every morning started the same: “This is it. We’re going to get it today.”
On Day Seven, we were back at it. The waters starting to regain life. The volcano had erupted again that morning, but less severely. Time was running out, and we all felt the weight of reality. Conditions had changed. Our odds were slim. A couple of tuna bites, but the day mostly dragged on like all the others.
Then, at 5 PM, as the last hour of daylight was upon us, we saw a ripple behind the dredge line.
A flash of movement. A hit on the back left short line.
The captain and mates knew instantly what it was, but they kept quiet—superstition.
Noah, the first mate, stayed on me: “Reel faster.” “Stay tight.” “You got this, Mike. Reel, reel, reel.”
I cranked evenly, strong and steady. Shortbill Spearfish have soft mouths—you can lose them in a heartbeat.
Then, Noah reached out, grabbed the leader,and shouted:
“IT’S A SPEAR!”
The boat erupted louder than the volcano.
The chase was over. After twenty years, nine species, and thousands of hours on the water, we had done it.
More Than Just Numbers
As we logged the catch, something eerie—or spiritual, depending on how you look at it—emerged.
Fish #9 to complete the Royal Grand Slam:
- Caught on the 7th day of fishing
- In the 70th hour of fishing
- On the 700-fathom drop
- At 1700 hours
Dad, were you watching?
That night, I took the crew out to celebrate.
And what did the old salt, Capt. Mike, order for himself?
A rum and Diet Coke.
Just like my dad.
As we had done at my father’s funeral, as my new friends on the Maggie Joe did when they heard the full story, we raised our glasses.
- A toast to the journey.
- A toast to those who push us forward.
- A toast to those who never allow us to let things drift into the abyss of “I’ll get to it someday.”
