The anchorage at Ilha do Fogo (Fire Island) should be used as a last resort only. In short, it was terrible. The waves wrapped around the tiny island and the 7 boats at anchor were bobbing up and down like three-year-olds in a bouncy castle. Never before have I had to take seasickness pills at an anchorage. Due to the conditions, we did not manage to go ashore and explore the island, but from the boat, it looks like sand, sand and sand, with some trees on top. We had been hoping for some lovely choral and a few days of snorkeling and spearfishing.
…Speaking of fishing, during a sunny calm day of our first leg, fishing rod 1 all of a sudden burst in to action. Craig was at the helm at the time, so I ran to the rod. Holy shit did that thing go! The reel was spinning faster than the wheels on a Las Vegas slot machine, and I was worried I was going to run out of line. Then, while I’m grappling with the biggest thing I’ve ever had on a hook, and Craig is trying to slow down the boat by taking in the foresail, rod 2 springs into action! Crikey! Craig gets on that rod and starts reeling in what turns out to be a small-sized yellow-fin tuna (yum). He only gets it as far as the stern of the boat when he sees he’s about to lose Rod 1 with wife attached, overboard. Shouting “THE ROD!” (yep, I noticed it too), he left the tuna in the water, ran over, grabbed the rod in the nick of time, and took over the fight with my sea monster. As Craig fights on (and on), I spend my time alternating between straightening up the boat (which is being pulled around by whatever is on the line) and taking footage. One could argue that my time would be better spent getting the now thoroughly rinsed tuna out of the water, or helping Craig by getting gaff, towel, and fish knife ready for the big landing, BUT, as this promised to be a beauty, I didn’t want it to be another “fishing story”. So I leave Craig to his own device and focus on gathering evidence.
After what seems like forever, Craig is still reeling in, and I’m contemplating popping some popcorn and crack open a coke to better enjoy the show. Both of us are having internal thoughts of what it can be. Craig is hoping for a Mahi Mahi, and I’m just praying it’s not a sailfish. I’ve seen the injuries my former accountant husband (that is, former accountant, still my husband) has inflicted on himself when wielding a screwdriver. I do not want to witness what could happen if he were to engage in a fight with a spear, teeth, hook, and gaff in the confined space on our boat. (If you’re not sure what a sailfish looks like, google it, and you’ll get the idea).
Finally, the fish is nearing the boat. Excitement levels are high as the large shadow in the water is approaching. When reaching the stern, the catch turns out to be… a shark. A bloomin’ 2.5 meter-long lemon shark (or so we think. Feel free to review the footage and correct as required). Whilst we are both very disappointed, the bigger issue is: Now what? As Shark Ceviche is not something I’m aspiring to ever try, I suggest that cutting the line would be the safest and most logical next step. Craig, on the other hand, announces that he wants his lure back! (He really values his fishing gear). With the standard Kiwi “she’ll be right” attitude, he asks for gloves and his super, mega, sharp fishing knife. His plan is: 1) Bring the line in as close as he can to the boat. 2) Lift the mouth of the estimated 100kg shark out of the water. 3) Bend over the railing of the still-moving boat, and 4) take the super, mega sharp knife to the teeth-infested mouth of the thrashing shark, and cut the hook out. Bob’s your uncle! I look at him dumbfounded, mouth gaping, stunned. I can’t help a thought flicker through my mind: If he is supposed to be the smart brother, my heart goes out to my poor sisters-in-law.
Thankfully the universe acts in my favour. The shark gives it one more tug, the line snaps, and off it goes – with Craig’s lure. Craig gives a huge sigh of disappointment, and I am one of blessed relief. Then we make a wonderful Tuna Ceviche 😊.
