My Education

My Education John Anderson

It’s a beautiful Saturday at the back of the Hen. Everything is perfect: no swell, no wind Oh, and no mask.

That’s why I’m sitting in the back of the boat admiring the perfection of the day rather than stalking around in the shallows hunting snapper. In fairness, that’s also partly due to my dislike for sneaking around in the shallows hunting snapper. It bores me; I never see anything. Usually after a suitable period of time, say between one and, oh, two minutes I concede defeat and content myself with catching crays. As a result, in two years of trying, I’ve thinned the snapper populace by a number that could be counted on the fingers of one hand, even if that hand had two fingers removed. On the upside, I’ve got my share of crays.

Anyway, on our last trip out I had been privileged to follow the big D around for an hour or so and now, armed with what I had learned, I was itching to get in the water, that is until the dive bag fairies removed my mask from my dive bag and thus relegated me to boat boy for the day.

As the boys returned to the boat, the quality of their catches bought home to me just what a major mistake I had made. Paul had a couple of beauties while Darren (being Darren) had cleaned up.

Then it started;

First Paul “ Man, What a day to leave your mask at home”

                 “So I’ve noticed”

                 “ ‘cause, I mean, I’ve never seen so many big fish”

                 “Righto”

                 “See, you can’t shoot fish without a mask”

                  “No” (I was getting pretty short by this stage: Paul was loving it)

                  “So, I guess you’re feeling pretty stupid right now?”

Then Darren

                  “ Do you think it fell out at the ramp?”

                   “Absolutely” I lied “No ways did I leave it at home!”

                   “Yep, a lot of fish out there today”

Paul Parkinson, having shot nothing, remained silent.

Darren decided he’d enough fish for the day and opted for a snooze. I gratefully accepted his mask and was finally away. And man, did I see some fish!! All big, 4 to 7 kgs. And man, did I miss some shots. And man, did I feel stink when I finally hauled myself over the side of the boat and deposited myself, a dejected heap, on the floor.

I knew it was coming; there was no avoiding it; best to take it like a man.

“So John, get any fish?”

“Wow, I saw some big fish!”

“Yeah mate, but did you shoot any?” said Darren, dangling my empty float line in front of my face like a hang mans’ noose.

“No, I um, I um, I missed them” I replied sheepishly, twiddling my toes on the checker plate floor.

“Missed them, eh?”

Then Paul Parkinson spoke up “So anyway mate, these fish you saw….”

A huge wave of relief swept over me as I realized at least someone believed me “..were they Wahoo or Yellow fin?”

BUMMED OUT!

REDEMPTION DAY

A few days later and we’re back at the Hen (I know…Life sucks). A slight swell is coming in where the wind isn’t so the snapper will be more active, making them more difficult to hunt. Still, I’m full of confidence and self-belief, I know now I can approach a snapper unseen and feel I have ironed out my aiming problems. I assure myself that behind the next rock will be The One. But he isn’t. Nor is he behind the next rock. Or in the next gut. I start thinking about crayfish-not a good sign. The swell has forced me to work a lot deeper than normal so I’m beginning to tire. Finally, after a fruitless hour I spot a snapper, his 8-inch body glistening in the sun. Though most definitely in no danger from me, he still eyes me suspiciously and I freeze, so as to cause him no alarm. Men who know more than I ever will have told me that where there’s one there’s often two. I wait until he grows accustomed to my presence and finally sculls lazily over the edge of a ledge and away. I follow.

As I peer through a curtain of Ecklonia stems that grip the edge of the drop-off, I make out a large shape just below me and to my left. As my view is quite obstructed, all I can see is scales, huge ten cent coin size scales on a matt brown canvas. And then a tail, the bottom leading edge almost white. It’s a snapper, the Mother of all Snapper, The Snapper That Time Forgot. The One.

Instantly, my self-belief disappears. “YOU’RE GONNA MISS HIM” screams Mr. Negative.

“Oh, rubbish!” counters Mr. Positive “Just line him up and fire. He’s only a metre or so from your spear tip”

“YOU CAN’T HIT A BARN DOOR WITH THAT THING LOSER BOY”

I line up his head and fire. As he bolts from behind the Ecklonia I realize with horror that he’s gut shot and although I have to put as little strain on my gear as possible, I’ll still have to keep him out of the weed. If he tangles my gear and has something solid to pull against, he’ll tear off for sure. Dilemmas. Dilemmas.

I give him as much bungee as I dare but I can see the flopper just holding under his skin. I dive on him, down the float line, hand over hand, down the gun bungee, then gun and finally shooting line. I can see now the flopper is completely out of the body cavity, connected to the fish by only a loop of entrails.

Thankfully the by now groggy snapper holes up in a dead-end cave and I get a hand to his tail wrist and quickly clear my ears for the first time since my descent. The relief is considerable to put it mildly but I can taste blood in my mouth and realize I have blown a gasket somewhere in my sinuses. Luckily my ears are O.K (Trust me folks, don’t try this at home)

As I ascend I notice the spear has fallen free so waste no time knifing him and stringing him up. He later weighs in at 9.6kg; my first ‘20lber’.