First Fish
Posted By Perry Gladstone on 1 February 2001
I relaxed my body and took three deep breaths, on the fourth I bent forward, lifted one leg up into the air and let my body sink below the water's surface. At ten feet, the temperature dropped five to ten degrees from the 80+ surface temp and I remembered to clear my ears. I leveled out at twenty and cleared twice more for good measure. In front of me was a long finger of reef, brown and yellow and green. Visibility was at least 40 meters and I could see fish of every shape and color swimming in and out of thousands of holes and crevices in a perpetual dance with the living rock.
Looking down I saw a large red and yellow fish between two outcroppings no more than 15 feet from the tip of my speargun. Slowly I sank another five feet while lowering the tip of my spear and, anticipating the rocking motion of the fish, took aim and fired! My arms re-coiled as the rubber bands thrust the steel spear along its track and sent it rushing forward. It missed its target going high over the back of the fish and with a loud 'clink' bit into the reef covered ocean floor.
Pulling on the line that connected the shaft to my gun, I could feel a slight give in the line but the shaft's breakaway tip remained fast. After two or three more tugs, I had no choice but to let go and swam towards the surface for air.
Floating on the surface of the ocean, I focused on the small island a mile to the south, which was my home for the next week. Palm trees sprung picture perfect from its sandy soil like a vase bursting with fresh flowers. The only thing missing was the word paradise written in large pink and yellow letters. This was Tavarua Island, a surfer's paradise with empty beaches and perfect waves off the west coast of Viti Levu, Fiji. Even with the recent Coup only weeks past the Island was booked full. The trip had come about when a good friend from San Diego had called with an opening in her group. So here I was in paradise, bobbing alone in the open ocean while my wife Robin and a fresh pina colada sat by the pool and my friend Ben and our boat were somewhere else.
From the surface I could clearly see my buoyant gun twenty-five feet below me, the line stretching down another ten feet to the shaft, and its wire cable attached to the slip-tip buried in the soft rock. At that moment it seemed hopeless, I had never gone that deep before and there was no one else around to help. Frustrated with thoughts of having to abandon my brand new spear, I dove down again to pull and jerk on the handle and almost instantly was out of air and had to let go for the surface.
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