Fish and Lightning - April 15, 2000

	One of Bequia's beaches.

The Caribbean Sea, inside the rim of islands that separate it from the Atlantic Ocean, ranges from 1,500 to 5,000 meters deep. But if you look carefully at the International 402 chart, between and to the west of the chain of islands, you get a picture of a vast underwater mountain range connecting the Florida Penninsula with Venezuela. While the islands that we have been exploring are the highest peaks, there are hundreds of others that just missed being tall enough to break through the somewhat arbitrary level of the sea. The peaks that only make it 1 mile above the sea bed are covered with coral and sea fans. The peaks that reach hundreds of feet above the level of the sea are covered with cactus, grass, goats and rock and the peaks that tower thousands of feet above the sea are carpeted in rain forests. The most frustrated loser in the land sweepstakes must be the Saba Bank. Rising out of a surrounding depth of 1,400 meters to the east and 3,500 meters to the west, the two peaks of the Saba Bank reach to within 7 meters of the surface.

Last week we made the 340 mile passage from Martinique to St John, USVI, in a straight line, just far enough west of the island chain to be out of site of land and any other boat traffic. At about 4:00 p.m. of the second day out we were right at the edge of the Saba Bank. Time to fish.

We have been buying progressively heavier fishing lures all winter, looking for one that would stay underwater at our trolling speed of 7.5-10 knots. The latest is a pink and white rubber squid with a large lead head and twin 3/4" treble hooks. We dropped it 200' off the back of the boat and within minutes of the depth meter registering that we were over the bank, a fish hit and the reel started to pay out 80lb test line. We were sailing at about 9.5 knots, on a broad reach, with the bigger of our 2 spinnakers and a full mainsail. A little too excited, I called out, "FISH!". Books were tossed, the CD player was extiguished and kittens were trampled as the team sprung into action. Matt and Dani snuffed down the spinnaker and dropped it into the forward hatch. Karen took the boat off of autopilot and steered up to a beam reach to slow it down. I pulled the fish in hand over hand after I broke the clutch in the fishing reel on the first crank, hopelessly snarling 50' of dormant line.

The fish that we hooked and eventually killed turned out to be a 30" Barracuda. For its size and strength, it did not put up much of a fight, surfacing after a minute and just dragging behind. But with the type of tackle we use, there is nothing like a sporting chance for the fish. The line is heavy enough that the fish cannot break it. The hooks are so big, and so well hidden within the lure that they essentially gaff the fish from inside its head. And by the time we slow the boat down enough to pull the poor thing in, it is half dead from being towed for a half mile. When we landed the fish I held it upside down by its tail and the handle of our short gaff, hooked through the gill and out the mouth. Its jaws hung open showing rows of impressive teeth and the hooks of our lure sticking cleanly through the pure white bone of its upper palate. The fish hooks were so deeply embedded that the points deflected the skin on the top of its head. Matt poured about 8 oz of rot gut rum into its gill to finish killing it. A matter of seconds later the fish shuddered and stiffened and then let loose a powerful stream of excretion directly onto my new shorts. An hour after that we were eating the thick muscles from either side of the barracuda's spine, and its head, tail, bones and internal organs were settled on the bottom of the Saba Bank.

We eat fish all the time. One of the surpassing pleasures of this trip has been the abundence of cheap, fresh fish meals. But there is an inescapable sadness that comes with the little triumph of conquest when you kill and eat a fish. A big fish has a silent dignity that gives me pause. I could care less about chickens. Cows are dumb and ugly. Vegatables are inanimate. But I think that big fish just might have Budha nature. If they did not taste so good, I would stop eating them.

So we arrived in St. John fat and happy. We left St Anne, Martinique around 1:00pm and got into St John in time for breakfast two days later. We covered 205 miles in a mixed bag of conditions over our first 24 hours. But things got wierd that next night.

Just after we caught the fish Matt noticed lightning in the sky to the north. While we ate dinner we all watched the electricity light up the sky every 15 seconds. As the sun went down, just the tops of the clouds were reflecting the lightning so we were comfortable that the activity was well to the north, probably over the far reaches of the Anegada Passage where the relatively warm waters of the Caribbean meet up with the Atlantic Ocean. Dani and I went to sleep for 3 hours, confident that as the air finished cooling the lightning would die out and we would have a mellow midnight watch. When we came back on deck at 12:00 am, and sent Matt and Karen to bed, the lightning was still going strong. Because we had moved further north, the flashes were now alternately illuminating the tops and bottoms of the clouds. We spent the next four hours of darkness watching the storm. There was no thunder. With flashlights we read all the weather books we had on board and found nothing about Caribbean lightning storms. As much as we hate lightning at sea, it was a good show. We were transfixed.

At 4:30 am we had arrived at our waypoint to enter the relative protection of Sir Francis Drake Channel, the British Virgin Islands. The lightning activity had slowed down but the night was very overcast and we could see nothing. The passage between Round Rock and Cooper Island is plenty wide and we were confidently reaching through the darkness when three lightning bolts struck the water ahead of us, simultaneously, no more than 2 miles away. Lucifer's trident striking the sea, barring the entrance to the channel. The entire archepelego of the British Virgin Islands was lit up as in daylight and the first audible thunder of the evening rolled out of the sky. Without a word between us, Dani and I peeled Calvin out of there in seconds, woke up Matt and Karen and told them to stay south of the islands until daylight, and not to wake us up until we were within a dinghy ride of coffee and a spanish omlett.

And now we are home. Back in the Virgin Islands, land of perfect clear water, spotless white sand beaches, impossibly remote coves, vacant forests of cactus and palm trees, and the silent world of reef fish.