I am hanging on for dear life. My hands squeeze a wooden handle at the back of the very forward cockpit of a Potimarara, a boat built for harpooning Mahi Mahi (dolphin fish). The boat is some 24 feet in length, and equipped with a deep-V bottom and a 200hp Yanmar inboard/outboard diesel. It is leaping off a six foot wave to catch the next one. Water sprays outward in an impressive fan, but the boat has proven remarkably dry inside so far. Driving the boat in the peculiar stand-up steering well at the bow of the boat is Eric, a very deeply tanned muscular fellow looking very much the part of a Mahi-harpooning Tahitian boat captain. I have yet to really understand what Mahi Mahi harpooning really means, in practice, but by the whistle of the turbocharged engine growing more urgent and the boat positively jumping forward in hard acceleration, I have a feeling I’ll soon find out.
Some two hours earlier, around six o’clock, I boarded the boat at the local marina where the fisherman’s co-op has an ice-making plant and fueling station. Eric’s Potimarara is basically an open boat with the engine compartment aft and a large built-in ice box midships. The steering station is all the way forward, with a throttle next to the well and an eight-foot long fiberglass harpoon mounted on brackets on the forward deck. Steering takes place using an athwartships (left-right) lever instead of a wheel. Brilliant orange and yellow in color, the boat is in a good shape and very clean. Billabong surfing stickers adorn the sides and some other surfaces, overall the impression is of a hard used but well cared-for and loved tough piece of sea-going equipment.
After taking in some 60 gallons of diesel and four large sacks of ice stowed in the icebox, we proceeded down the channel inside the reef toward Eric’s house to drop off his wife. They live past Teahupoo in an area of Tahiti Iti with no road access. Some twenty homes dot the shoreline, connected to schools, shopping, etc by boats only. This looks like a very, very nice place to live. The mountains begin pretty much on the back stairs of the houses, the front yard is the lagoon behind the reef and the white picket fence is the surf beating on the reef some 200 meters distant.
We arrive at Eric’s house and dock by the gazebo at the head of his long, narrow dock. His son helps me hold the boat as Eric walks to the house with the shopping bags. The boy is some 8-9 years old, and we entertain ourselves wordlessly by showing each other knots we know; it appears that the bowline knot is pretty universally known. Eventually Eric re-appears and we dash off making well over 20 knots through the channel, coral boulders flashing by on both sides. A bit further we round the reef and stop. It is time for the prayer and over the low purr of the diesel I hear Eric say some quiet words. And then we are out of the pass and head toward the open, brilliant blue South Pacific Ocean.
Eric’s number one asset for fishing, his fish-finder as it were, are the seabirds. He follows the birds closely, occasionally stopping the boat and scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars. We proceed this way at a leisurely pace for about three quarters of an hour, until he sees something promising. “Mahi Mahi” he exclaims and points at a group of birds maybe a half-mile away – and we’re off!
And so I find myself hanging on as we quickly approach the group of birds. When we get close he slows the boat down some and seems to be intently scanning the water. Apparently he spots something as the throttle opens again and we careen forward amidst the waves, banking hard from left to right and back again. Eventually looking forward I get a glance of the fish he is following with the boat. The bright yellow pectoral fins of the Mahi stand out against the deep blue of the ocean, and the big dorsal fin ripples the surface as the fish gracefully speeds just below the surface. At this point I sense that things are about to get busy, and so move back in the boat to avoid accidentally receiving a mouthful of the back end of the long harpoon. Bracing myself between the icebox and the side of the boat, I manage to get out the camera and proceed to try to get some photos of the chase.
A few more turns, a few more decelerations and rapid take-offs, and Eric’s hand goes to the harpoon. He steers with his left hand; works the throttle with the harpoon in his right hand and then… the throw is so quick I simply miss it. A thick nylon monofilament attached to the harpoon trails over the side, and he stops the boat. It seems so improbable that one could possibly hit a fish so quick with that thing, the boat bouncing in the waves and all, that I don’t immediately comprehend that there indeed is a fish at the pointy end of the harpoon. It is only when Eric leaps from the cockpit, motions toward the gaff at the back of the boat and starts heaving on the line that I get it. I pass the gaff to him and proceed to take in the events through the viewfinder of my camera. The view that unfolds is simply amazing. The fish puts up a fight, but once the gaff is in the fight is over. Eric hoists the fish up and I get a simply astonishing view of the big brilliant yellow fish. Once on deck, the fish goes into the reflexive escape swimming motion that looks more like a very rapid tremor than anything else. Eric reaches down and with a quick motion of his knife severs the artery leading to the gills. The fish stops, relaxes, and it is over.
Eric’s number one asset for fishing, his fish-finder as it were, are the seabirds. He follows the birds closely, occasionally stopping the boat and scanning the horizon with a pair of binoculars. We proceed this way at a leisurely pace for about three quarters of an hour, until he sees something promising. “Mahi Mahi” he exclaims and points at a group of birds maybe a half-mile away – and we’re off!
And so I find myself hanging on as we quickly approach the group of birds. When we get close he slows the boat down some and seems to be intently scanning the water. Apparently he spots something as the throttle opens again and we careen forward amidst the waves, banking hard from left to right and back again. Eventually looking forward I get a glance of the fish he is following with the boat. The bright yellow pectoral fins of the Mahi stand out against the deep blue of the ocean, and the big dorsal fin ripples the surface as the fish gracefully speeds just below the surface. At this point I sense that things are about to get busy, and so move back in the boat to avoid accidentally receiving a mouthful of the back end of the long harpoon. Bracing myself between the icebox and the side of the boat, I manage to get out the camera and proceed to try to get some photos of the chase.
A few more turns, a few more decelerations and rapid take-offs, and Eric’s hand goes to the harpoon. He steers with his left hand; works the throttle with the harpoon in his right hand and then… the throw is so quick I simply miss it. A thick nylon monofilament attached to the harpoon trails over the side, and he stops the boat. It seems so improbable that one could possibly hit a fish so quick with that thing, the boat bouncing in the waves and all, that I don’t immediately comprehend that there indeed is a fish at the pointy end of the harpoon. It is only when Eric leaps from the cockpit, motions toward the gaff at the back of the boat and starts heaving on the line that I get it. I pass the gaff to him and proceed to take in the events through the viewfinder of my camera. The view that unfolds is simply amazing. The fish puts up a fight, but once the gaff is in the fight is over. Eric hoists the fish up and I get a simply astonishing view of the big brilliant yellow fish. Once on deck, the fish goes into the reflexive escape swimming motion that looks more like a very rapid tremor than anything else. Eric reaches down and with a quick motion of his knife severs the artery leading to the gills. The fish stops, relaxes, and it is over.
Eric hoists it over the side and makes one incision in the belly of the fish. Through the gill operculum he reaches two fingers around the gills and twists them out along with some parts of the innards. Holding the fish through the operculum, he then thrusts a hand in the belly and neatly pulls out the rest of the organs and tosses them in to the boat. A couple of rinses and he lifts the fish into the icebox, spreading ice over it. He then sorts through the innards, keeping the liver and the two intact small fish in its stomach. A few buckets of seawater over the deck and the boat is ready for the next one. I am looking on, somewhat stunned at the speed and efficiency of the whole operation. I don’t know why I’m surprised, this is his profession after all, but the consummate skill that went into this performance is very impressive. We pause for a drink, and then it is off to find the next one.
Except there is no next one. The sun rises higher in the sky and Eric is clearly growing a bit frustrated. We cruise, stop, he scans the horizon. An hour, two pass like this, at times he curses “Aita manu”, no birds. And there aren’t any birds. Or there are some, a distant fairy tern, a few brown boobies and shearwaters, but not the flock he is looking for and not in the combination he is looking for. I later quiz him for what exactly does he look, but the language barrier allows me only to understand he’s looking for a combination of a white bird and a black bird.
One o’clock, and we are still at it, when he sees something promising. After the leisurely cruising pace he opens up the throttle and we take off, the turbocharged engine whistling at the back. He points to the horizon, explaining “Bonitiere”. Indeed I see another boat in the distance, our paths converging on a particularly large flock of birds. All stops come off and we bounce through the waves at what must be around 28 knots. The bonitiere beats us by a little; some 32 feet long and resembling a 1960’s east coast cabin cruisers, it still seems pretty fast. With several lines trolling behind, there appear to be about five people on board working the back deck.
We slow down on a parallel track and both follow a very large feeding flock of birds. Boobies, noddies, terns, shearwaters and petrels are all present in the mixed flock, each engaged in their own peculiar feeding behaviors. The boobies dive spectacularly head-long into the water, first gathering altitude, then folding their wings all the way back and plunging into the sea like a sliver of an arrow. The shearwaters plunge in with much less grace, while the terns dip down to pick at the surface while in flight.
Every so often there is a very concentrated spot of bird activity, the water is positively beaten into a froth by them. It is for these spots that both the bonitiere and we race, occasionally in pretty competitive fashion in close quarters. Eventually we end further apart and Eric whips the boat to one of these spots. We scare the birds out of the water, arriving almost on the top of them. Eric slams the boat into reverse and motions in the water. I don’t understand what he is saying, but there is this floating branch about 8 feet in length in the water and it seems like he wants me to grab it. So I do, and lift it in the boat while he leaps out of the cockpit and races to the back of the boat. Now he is peering behind the boat, then turns and, speaking rapidly, motions me to go to the controls and drive the boat slowly forward. At this point I am truly at a loss, but clearly want to help and so hop into the cockpit.
It is at that moment I learn where his muscles come from. The steering lever requires significant effort to move and it takes me a couple of moments to get the hang of the feel of the boat. I do manage, though, all the while looking at what Eric is planning to do with his damn stick. Except he isn’t paying the stick any attention at all, instead he has in his hand one of the six or so bamboo fishing rods from the back of the boat. The rod, about 7 feet in length, has about 6 feet of nylon monofilament line and a lure, and he is making the lure swim side to side behind the boat his gaze intently on the water. And then he jerks the rod back and flying through the air is a two-foot long skipjack tuna that lands in the boat with a resounding thud. He jerks the rod back and the lure flies out of the fish and back into the water. Maybe 15 seconds later another comes flying into the boat. And another. And another! And now I can see them, the fish darting behind the boat silhouetted against the curtain of bubbles thrown by our propeller.
Except there is no next one. The sun rises higher in the sky and Eric is clearly growing a bit frustrated. We cruise, stop, he scans the horizon. An hour, two pass like this, at times he curses “Aita manu”, no birds. And there aren’t any birds. Or there are some, a distant fairy tern, a few brown boobies and shearwaters, but not the flock he is looking for and not in the combination he is looking for. I later quiz him for what exactly does he look, but the language barrier allows me only to understand he’s looking for a combination of a white bird and a black bird.
One o’clock, and we are still at it, when he sees something promising. After the leisurely cruising pace he opens up the throttle and we take off, the turbocharged engine whistling at the back. He points to the horizon, explaining “Bonitiere”. Indeed I see another boat in the distance, our paths converging on a particularly large flock of birds. All stops come off and we bounce through the waves at what must be around 28 knots. The bonitiere beats us by a little; some 32 feet long and resembling a 1960’s east coast cabin cruisers, it still seems pretty fast. With several lines trolling behind, there appear to be about five people on board working the back deck.
We slow down on a parallel track and both follow a very large feeding flock of birds. Boobies, noddies, terns, shearwaters and petrels are all present in the mixed flock, each engaged in their own peculiar feeding behaviors. The boobies dive spectacularly head-long into the water, first gathering altitude, then folding their wings all the way back and plunging into the sea like a sliver of an arrow. The shearwaters plunge in with much less grace, while the terns dip down to pick at the surface while in flight.
Every so often there is a very concentrated spot of bird activity, the water is positively beaten into a froth by them. It is for these spots that both the bonitiere and we race, occasionally in pretty competitive fashion in close quarters. Eventually we end further apart and Eric whips the boat to one of these spots. We scare the birds out of the water, arriving almost on the top of them. Eric slams the boat into reverse and motions in the water. I don’t understand what he is saying, but there is this floating branch about 8 feet in length in the water and it seems like he wants me to grab it. So I do, and lift it in the boat while he leaps out of the cockpit and races to the back of the boat. Now he is peering behind the boat, then turns and, speaking rapidly, motions me to go to the controls and drive the boat slowly forward. At this point I am truly at a loss, but clearly want to help and so hop into the cockpit.
It is at that moment I learn where his muscles come from. The steering lever requires significant effort to move and it takes me a couple of moments to get the hang of the feel of the boat. I do manage, though, all the while looking at what Eric is planning to do with his damn stick. Except he isn’t paying the stick any attention at all, instead he has in his hand one of the six or so bamboo fishing rods from the back of the boat. The rod, about 7 feet in length, has about 6 feet of nylon monofilament line and a lure, and he is making the lure swim side to side behind the boat his gaze intently on the water. And then he jerks the rod back and flying through the air is a two-foot long skipjack tuna that lands in the boat with a resounding thud. He jerks the rod back and the lure flies out of the fish and back into the water. Maybe 15 seconds later another comes flying into the boat. And another. And another! And now I can see them, the fish darting behind the boat silhouetted against the curtain of bubbles thrown by our propeller.
There is a lull in the rain of fish. Eric quickly grabs another rod and proceeds to land a couple more. Then another rod and another couple of fish. On deck the dying skipjack go into the same escape swimming tremor, flapping and vibrating furiously, the deck covering with bloody froth as they bash themselves against the hard fiberglass. Eric pulls on a pair of wetsuit booties to protect his ankles from the beating, convulsing fish. And then, as quickly as it started, it is over. The feeding frenzy on the small fish that were trying to find refuge by our boat is done and the skipjack depart. There are well over a dozen skipjack between 20 and 30 inches in length on the deck, blood spattered everywhere and one by one the fish fall quiet. Eric catches his breath, and the proceeds to clean the fish with the same astonishing speed as the Mahi Mahi; a quick cut to the belly, two fingers around the gills, a twist, another hand in the belly, a pull and the fish is gutted and ready for the ice box. He hands me the fish, I stack them in the box, done. He then proceeds to clean the boat thoroughly, and together we finish the task in some ten minutes.And with that, the catching is over. We continue tracking a large flock of birds for a while, but the birds themselves are looking. Gliding along the surface, there is an occasional fracas, but nothing much is happening and the birds keep moving further offshore. At around 1530 Eric turns the boat around and proceeds toward Tahiti Iti, now distant in the horizon. An hour and 20 minutes of cruising at about 20 knots gets us close to home. Near the reef we see another group of birds and detour to investigate. We get there, but to Eric’s dismay driving the small fish to the surface is not tuna but dolphins. We see them below us darting back and forth, occasionally breaking the surface for a breath. With this sight he quickly turns the boat toward the pass and home.
We arrive at the dock around five in the afternoon. Estellio is there to greet us with a couple of beers. The next day there is surf in the forecast, and Eric has some surfers chartering him and the boat for a day at the pass. With a good Tahitian handshake I say mauruuru, thanks, and head home my head still spinning from it all.
No comments:
Post a Comment