This place is absolutely magical. Outside our front door is open ocean and a miles-long barrier reef. Outside our back door is a mangrove-lined cove. You can't lose.
That first morning, we took advantage of some equipment that came with our rental house. Aimee and Jill paddle boarded the cove while Dean and I made plans to kayak out to the ocean.
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| Photo by Jill Knuth |
Dean was ready to start fishing, and I was ready to hold a fishing pole while staring aimlessly out at the sea. The water in this area is quite calm, so we casually floated out to sea while casting our lures every couple of minutes.
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| Photo by Dean Knuth |
I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. But Dean did, and quickly had an 8-inch fish on his line. We had bought some fishing permits earlier that morning, but didn't really plan on keeping any. We were just out there for some Instagram and release.
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| Photo by Dean Knuth, obviously |
From about 50 feet away, I saw the commotion and took pride in our 0.5 fish-per-person average. I figured that it would stay that way indefinitely. But then I felt a tug on my line after the very next cast. And then another tug, and then another tug.
But first, some background. Dean and I both have the same tiny fishing rod. Not a coincidence. I have one because Dean got one, and I know enough about fishing to use the same gear that people who actually catch fish use. The rod is essentially a kid's toy, but it works great for the small streams and ponds of Northern Arizona and it travels well. Like most toy rods, it comes with cheap and thin line that is essentially repurposed dental floss. I’ve never bothered to change it, because I’ve never caught anything bigger than a goldfish. But Dean has. So he was fishing with a super thick line that was actually intended to be used by a grown up. His rig can handle big fish, mine can’t. Now back to our story.
We left off with me feeling a strong tug on my line. Historically speaking, that's usually just from me pulling on a lure that got stuck under a rock. But this time, the rock was moving. Quickly. My line zigged and zagged across the bow of my kayak, and then zoomed out perpendicular to my right.
You know where this is going, and you’re mostly right.
So the fish is pulling me hard to the right, and the dinky kayak I’m on is one wind gust away from rolling over. And then I felt a wind gust. As I feel myself about to go over, I jerk on the line and it snaps. Proving both Newton and Murphy correct, I fly off the left side of my kayak.
In the chaos, I manage to grab my water bottle and tackle box in mid air, but my rod is nowhere to be found. I looked around as I treaded water, but it was clearly a lost cause. And I had more pressing concerns, namely the upside down kayak drifting away. But thankfully, the kayak was as easy to right as was to tip. So I tossed my remaining gear inside, and gracelessly kicked myself back into it. But again, light kayak, large man, open ocean. By now, Dean had heard my thrashing, and looked over just as I was rocketing off the other side. So, again in the water, I did what any self-respecting fisherman would do, and pretended to intentionally muck around for my rod.
Dean pointed out that I would just be kicking up mud and burying the rod further, and I muttered back something like, “Yeah, yeah, good idea, I should probably just hop into my kayak and definitely not dive right back into the water.”
Thankfully, my witnessed second attempt was far more graceful. The practice helped. Then Dean and I regrouped, and decided to use the walkie-talkies that he had ingeniously brought from home. We radioed Aimee and Jill for our snorkeling gear, and they walked it down as we beached our kayaks.
As we were swimming back out, I saw Dean’s fins suddenly pop out of the water. Seconds later, he resurfaced with my rod on the first attempt. With crystal clear water and negligible current, it wasn’t hard to find. So we took the opportunity to snorkel around a bit. A few artificial reef balls were sunk in the area, and a nice little ecosystem had built up around them. And then about 20 feet off to my right, at the edge of what we could see in that area was a three and a half foot shadow looking back at me from a single eye on it’s right side. It was clearly not a shark, but its aggressive jaw line and unblinking eye-contact made the hairs on the back of my neck go up, nonetheless.
I tapped Dean on the shoulder with my fishing rod and pointed out what I had seen. All three of us paused and floated for a moment. Without speaking, we all decided to swim in opposite directions (Dean and I obviously going towards the shore). When we got back to the beach, we tried to make sense of what we saw. “Did you see that eye?” “Did you see those teeth?”
Dean, who had done far more research for this trip than I had, said, “I think that was a barracuda. Yeah. I’m pretty sure it was a massive barracuda.” His initial reasonable statement was followed by an equally unreasonable one. “Let’s go back in and check it out!”
Awkward silence.
“Come on, Myles, that was amazing! I’m pretty sure they don’t attack people.”
“Dean, how confident are you that barracudas don’t attack people?” I asked.
“Pretty confident.” He shrugged.
I trusted his confidence enough to get back into the water, but not enough to let him take the inside position. So I swam along, making sure to stay on the beach side of Dean at all times.
But Dean was right, or the barracuda swam off. Either way, we made it back to shore fully intact. As we were walking home, Dean and I recalled the types of fish we saw while swimming in the reef. We realized that there was really only one thing that could have snapped my line.
Yes. I'm pretty sure that I accidentally caught a barracuda. And I’m never putting stronger line on my reel.
