Chapter 1: An Introduction to Big Game Theory
The night was frigid. It was one of those bone-chilling, late-season evenings in Great Bay, New Jersey, that dared only the most determined fishermen to stay out on the water. But there we were: my dad, Uncle Rocco, my brother, and me. I must have been about ten years old, and my brother just eight at the time, but that night on my dad’s 23-foot Formula boat, we were half of the mighty crew setting out to catch striped bass.
Great Bay is a sprawling, shallow estuary that opens into Little Egg Harbor, a quaint little township filled with pines and silence. That harbor eventually feeds into the Atlantic Ocean. On transforming its surface into a chaotic mess of whitecaps. While we were only on the bay, it might as well have been the mighty Atlantic. I wasn’t sure if my dad’s boat was cut out for this and looked to him for indications that we would or wouldn’t be okay. He was stoic, though, when it came to boating and life. Fortunately, my young and inexperienced mind didn’t know that our vessel was not designed for overnight trips, nor the cold temperatures we were facing.
The Formula had a bimini top, an open-front canvas structure that is great for providing protection from the sun or light rains. It would be about as effective as wearing a raincoat in the Arctic when it came to shielding us from the cold. My brother and I didn’t care. We were young and not accustomed to a life of luxury. For us, boating was about stepping out of everyday life and getting some quality time with our dad as he did what he loved– fishing. There were never any bribes needed to lure us onto the trips. We both loved the salty air and the sense of adventure and surprise that happened each time we went out on the unpredictable water.
That night, we watched the sun setting over the horizon and felt the cold seep into our bones. My dad and Uncle Rocco created a crude, tent-like structure with a tarp over the bimini top to try and insulate us a bit more. We huddled around a Coleman heater for warmth, but in truth, the whole setup probably only kept us a few degrees away from hypothermia. I remember my hand touching the metal of the boat and that it felt like I was holding on to ice. Even our seats seemed to be covered in a layer of frost.
Aside from shivering closely next to my brother to conserve warmth, I remained somewhat distracted from the cold by the anticipatory thrill of waiting for our first catch. I hoped that at any moment, a striped bass would bite and that the night would come alive with action, further distracting our awareness of the natural elements we were battling. Occasionally, we would pull up the line to see if our bait was still there.
That night, our bait was live eels. If you’ve never fished with them, imagine wrestling a
handful of oily, writhing spaghetti. These creatures are slimy—so slimy that it feels like they
produce their own grease. Just grabbing one is an exercise in patience and dexterity. Without a
trick or tool, they slip through your fingers faster than you can blink.
My father was full of secret tips and tricks when it came to boating and fishing. He was always looking for a better way to do things. His results weren’t often fancy, expensive, or complicated. He was full of simple but innovative ways to lessen the struggle in life and produce more effective results, thanks to a willingness to learn. Much of his knowledge came from family members and experienced anglers who came before him—tried-and-true techniques that didn’t call for reinvention.
He handed my brother and me a simple square of old burlap from a bag he had cut up. When you wrap the eel in the burlap, suddenly, you have a grip. The burlap absorbs the slime, giving you just enough traction to handle the wriggling, twisting creature without it slipping away. We were following in the footsteps of generations of anglers—using simple, effective, and essential tools to maintain our sanity.
Even with the burlap, though, threading the hook through the eel’s head or tail is no easy task. You have to work quickly yet carefully, ensuring you don’t lose your grip or stab your own
finger in the process. By the time you’ve got the bait rigged and ready, you’re already exhausted—and that’s before you’ve even made your first cast. But eels are worth the effort. Their natural, sinuous movement in the water is irresistible to striped bass. That night, we cast them into the inky blackness, letting them swim freely near the bottom, hoping to entice a bite.
We waited.
The hours dragged on. Fishing at night in near-freezing temperatures was a test of endurance, but the anticipation of what could happen kept us going. Suddenly, Uncle Rocco’s rod bent toward the water, giving us a much-needed jolt of excitement. This was it! We finally got one. Based on the curve of the rod, it seemed like it was going to be huge. Uncle Rocco cranked the reel slowly, steadily, while we all gathered around, eager to see what he’d hooked.
There was something different about this catch, though. Whatever it was, it wasn’t fighting like a fish normally would. The line didn’t dart in different directions or tremble like it was being wrestled on the other end. And it was heavy—too heavy to be just a tangle of seaweed or debris caught on the hook. It felt alive, yet strange. This was like something we had never hooked before. For what felt like forever, we worked to bring it up, pulling against its heavy weight. With no warning the line went slack. The hook had pulled free. Whatever it was, it was gone, leaving us with only questions and frustration.
We joked that Uncle Rocco had hooked the bottom of the bay itself and shrugged it off. Water holds many secrets and so we chalked the experience up to the mysteries of the bay. While we fished for the rest of the night, our rods stayed stubbornly still. We would have no big catch to share stories with our family when we got home, and certainly no cooler of fish to enjoy for future meals. Freezing cold and empty-handed, I still didn’t regret a minute of being out there on the water with my dad.
When dawn broke, we prepared to pull anchor and head in. The wind had picked up overnight, and the bay was turning even more rough. Even though we were still in sheltered waters, the waves slapped against the hull of the boat with a force that made everything feel that much more precarious. My dad started the engine, and we turned toward the Great Bay Marina. A small johnboat was moving slowly in the distance; the men aboard were frantically waving their arms to call us over. We approached cautiously, not knowing what their sense of urgency or distress seemed to be. As we drew closer, the reason became clear. A grim trophy trailed behind their boat. They were towing a human body.
The sight was shocking, and my young mind struggled to process what was in front of me. My brother and I stared in silence, too horrified to speak. While we had known people who had died, we had never really seen death before– not in that way. This wasn’t the death of funeral homes, all tidy and with a slight tint added to the cheeks to give the illusion that life was still there. This body was bloated, pale, and haunting. This was a pivotal moment for me on the water. Boating, up until that point, was where I was happiest and most carefree. This terrifying moment would now be a dark and vivid addition to my collection of memories on the water.
When we reached the marina, we learned the story. About a week earlier in the area, another boat had faced a quick change in the weather and sank. The fishermen aboard had made a fatal mistake: they had anchored from the stern, the back end of the boat near the motor. The stern is often the lowest point on the boat, making it easier for water to enter. When the weather turned, and the waves grew, the stern of the boat remained fixed in position by the anchor, unable to bob with the waves. Water flooded over the low transom, quickly filling the cabin. The men had no chance. In water that cold, hypothermia would have set in within minutes. Neither survived.
It wasn’t until later, after the adrenaline wore off and the shock subsided, that we began to connect the dots between the story of the sunken boat and our fishing experience. The water had been searched immediately after the accident, with no bodies discovered floating in the water. This recovered body must have been resting on the bottom, held down by its own weight, or caught in debris. It was a sobering realization that Uncle Rocco’s midnight catch, the heavy, lifeless weight he’d fought to bring up, might have been that body. The hook could have snagged the deceased’s clothing or gear, dislodging the body just enough for it to finally float to the surface hours later. All memories of our night on the boat now felt haunting.
That experience forever changed fishing for my brother and me. My brother never enjoyed fishing again and often opted out of boating experiences. I couldn’t blame him. But I felt a different reaction. I loved the water too much to ever think of leaving her. Instead, I developed a healthy respect for what she was capable of. That night was an education that would shape my approach to boating, fishing, and life. That lesson, burned into my memory, was a grim reminder of the stakes every time you step onto a boat. It shaped my views on preparation, safety, education, and decision-making. It comes as no surprise when I tell you that I’ve never anchored a boat from the stern and never will.
Big Game Fishing and Business
Fishing stories have long been a part of our culture and a way for us to learn more about life. They often serve as allegories for significant experiences. Ernest Hemingway's The Old Man and the Sea is often seen as an allegory for the struggle between man and nature and the perseverance of the human spirit. Herman Melvill’s Moby-Dick may be read as an allegory for humans' search for meaning, or man's desire to master nature. Even if the movie Jaws did not hold a deeper philosophical meaning for you, chances are it made you look twice the next time you waded into an open body of water.
I was fortunate to grow up in a family where I was steeped in stories and experiences from both boating and the world of business. Our family business traced back to my great grandfather, when he first set up a gas station in a remote but well traveled road in rural Blue Anchor, New Jersey. Over the decades, that initial endeavor eventually grew into Garvey Corporation, a manufacturing company that specialized in creating conveyors and accumulation systems for various industries.
Before I had even reached an age where my feet could touch the floor underneath our dinner table, I remember the adults in my family talking business. Conversations often revolved around challenges in the company—decisions about new markets, managing employees, or navigating financial setbacks. Business didn’t seem easy, but it did seem interesting. There were always problems to solve and pieces to figure out. Rather than turning off my young ears, I soaked up their words. Business was becoming a game of strategy to me and I wanted to learn more.
As I grew, I began to notice how the world of boating seemed to align naturally with the world of business. There are inherent challenges in both pursuits. In business, you deal with competition, shifting markets, and unforeseen risks. On the water, you face unpredictable weather, equipment failures, and the constant battle of man versus nature. Both environments reward those who prepare, adapt, and execute with precision.
Our harrowing night on Great Bay was one example. The concept of anchoring applies not just to boating but to business. Just like a boat needs to anchor securely to stay stable in rough waters, a business needs to establish a solid foundation to weather challenges. And just as anchoring from the wrong position can capsize a boat, anchoring your business in the wrong strategy, principle, or decision can have devastating consequences.
We can also learn from the fishermen who anchored from the stern. They likely didn’t think twice about their decision. Maybe it was more convenient, or maybe they’d done it before without incident. But what they didn’t account for was the unpredictability of their environment—the shifting winds and the rising waves. In business, we often make decisions based on what seems easy or what has worked in the past, forgetting to consider changing conditions or unforeseen risks. Those are the moments when complacency becomes dangerous. As a leader, you need to anchor your business from the bow—with intention, knowledge, and a focus on stability. That means understanding your environment, weighing risks, and ensuring your decisions align with the long-term safety and success of your venture.
It came as no surprise to me when I learned that some of the most accomplished anglers in my region were also highly successful business leaders. Their ability to strategize, adapt, and execute is evident both on the water and in their professional lives. The connection between sportfishing and business is undeniable, and it’s no coincidence that those who excel in one often excel in the other.
But there was another curious connection as well. Owning and operating a large sportfishing yacht is an achievement that requires significant financial resources and equally significant skills. I’ve watched countless boaters progress from modest twenty-footers to multimillion-dollar yachts. Each step demands not only improved piloting abilities but also a level of business acumen to sustain their lifestyle. While analogies between sports and business are nothing new, few sports demand the level of commitment, capital, and discipline required by big game fishing. The investment in a fully equipped sportfishing yacht rivals that of a small business, and the lessons learned while piloting such a vessel are just as valuable in the office as they are on the ocean.
My Big Game Theory
Whether you have big game aspirations or not, this book is about more than fishing or boating—it’s about understanding how the challenges and triumphs of life on the water can translate into practical lessons for business success. My Big Game Theory is simple: sportfishing is an incredibly expensive and demanding pursuit that inherently teaches you the skills to afford it. Fishing, at its core, teaches patience—waiting for the right opportunity and recognizing it when it comes. It hones your focus, requiring you to monitor every movement on the water for subtle signs that others might miss. It demands resourcefulness, as conditions on the water can change in an instant. Only those who can adapt will prevail.
Similarly, in business, you don’t succeed by chance; you succeed by preparation and execution. Whether it’s the patience of waiting for a strike, the precision of navigating open waters, or the resourcefulness to respond quickly to changing conditions, the skills you develop while fishing for marlin, tuna, and other game fish mirror the very traits needed to thrive in the business world. Over time, I’ve realized that every boating adventure brings with it a new lesson. Each day on the water forces me to think critically, make decisions, and reflect on the outcomes.
I attended a seminar once where the speaker referred to the often used analogy of an airplane– that if an airplane changed its course by only 1% it would end up in an entirely different destination. That may be a great inspiration for someone who does not like the current direction that their life is taking them. This speaker, however, flipped the analogy on its head to think about how we view a business plan in which we have a specific goal or desired outcome. He explained that an airplane is almost never perfectly on course to its destination. Instead, it reaches its goal through constant adjustments and corrections along the way.
The philosophy of this airplane analogy really struck a chord for me. My ex sister-in-law is a pilot and she and I would often trade stories on the many things that happen during a journey, whether in the air or on that water, that require preparation and constant vigilance. Flying the plane, driving the boat, or running the business involve self awareness in the present and clarity on where you’re headed. It is constant course correction to get to where you want to be.
An action plan, training, and education, though, are not the only things needed. There is also a mindset to each. There is often a strong “why” behind each goal or desired outcome. Business, boating, and life aren’t simply about the things we do, but more about the way we do them. By the time I earned my MBA, every lecture I heard from my professors seemed to connect with a lesson I’d already encountered firsthand in life. I learned their business theories and could apply my own real-world examples to solidify my understanding. I realized that this gave me an advantage over some of my classmates. In all of those dinner table conversations from my youth, there was never a specific playbook that said, “if X happens in your business, then do Y.” Business isn’t something that can be summed up in an instruction guide. Success is a mindset, and it’s one that has guided me in all aspects of my life.
In my experience, the best way that I have learned the principles that guide me through the unpredictable, high-stakes worlds of big game fishing and business are through hearing real stories. It’s the tough lessons—those that shake you to your core—that are often the ones that make you a better leader on the bridge or in the boardroom.
To this day, I double-check every anchor point before dropping it, not just on the water but in life. Whether it’s a decision about hiring, strategy, or investment, I ask myself: “Am I anchoring from the bow? Or am I making this choice out of convenience or habit?” It’s a question worth asking because the wrong anchor point can change everything. And for those of us willing to learn, even the roughest waters can become part of the adventure.
Even if boating is not a significant part of your life (yet), that doesn’t mean the stories or lessons from this book aren’t applicable to you. Instead, you’ll get to experience looking at life from a new vantage point. You get to enter a new world that is both exhilarating and frustrating, calming and dangerous, predictable and unpredictable— all from the comfort and dryness of wherever you are reading this book.
If you are an avid boater or love chasing big game fish, you may find yourself making fresh connections between the way you boat and the way you live other areas of your life. You may discover new ways of doing things or uncover greater insight into why you’ve experienced past boating challenges. Like a lighthouse on the shore, this may shine a light on the slight course correction you need to help guide you to your desired destination.
American author and avid fisherman, Harry Middleton once said, “Fishing is not an escape from life, but often a deeper immersion into it.” I’ve come to believe there’s no stronger motivation to excel in business than the dream of spending your summers chasing marlin and tuna aboard your dream boat. Big Game Theory will teach you big business growth —through story, strategy, and heart. After all, success in any pursuit—whether it’s running a company or landing a trophy fish—depends on your ability to stay the course, make the right adjustments, and seize opportunities when they arise. By the end of this book, you’ll have a collection of actionable strategies and tactics, made memorable through the lens of fishing and boating. After all, the best lessons are the ones you carry with you long after the story ends.
