I watch his black and grey fins recede into the dark void, sucked into a cloud of silt. Will he be successful, return triumphant? Given we are not the first ones here, the odds are not in our favor.
My dive buddy soon emerges, blue spear in hand, its five-pronged tip still sheathed in a small black cap.
Sigh. The cavern must have already been cleared. Or has it?
I arch an eye-brow from beneath my maroon-rimmed mask. Of the two of us, I might be the slightly better spotter, making up for his strong determination with my gentle patience. I shift my camera to my left hand and turn on my light.
Trying not to stir up any more sand, I softly frog-kick into the depths. My light catches all sorts of nooks and crannies. Alas, all empty.
I roll to my left and aim my torch upwards, hoping to catch a glimpse of our elusive prey. Wait! Are those white tips? I swivel my light back. Sure enough, tucked behind a wee bulge is a wee mite, an unwelcome interloper who will lay waste to thousands of native fish and shrimp during his lifetime.
I turn around and head out, spotting two people ahead: my dive buddy and the other diver who had joined us on our mission. I start banging my tank with my light. Yoohoo, dive buddy, turn around! Please! No reaction from either of them.
Oh well, it wasn’t a big one anyway. I start to kick to catch up with them, then stop. I need to take a picture to prove I found a fish my dive buddy missed!
I head back into the crevasse, actually more of a big crack than anything else, and take a few snaps with my wide-angle lens – not an easy feat given my subject’s diminutive size and my lens’ preference for sweeping landscapes and portraits. Plus, there still is a lot of silt in the water, which causes a gazillion trillion bits of backscatter in my photos. But I think there is still enough space between the particles to prove my discovery.
As I head out a second time, I see my companions coming towards me. Awe, that is very sweet for them to turn around when they noticed I wasn’t right behind them. Now I won’t have to exert myself to catch up.
Staring directly into my dive buddy’s eyes to ensure I have his attention, I bring my hands together and interlace my fingers, wiggling them about like the fins of a lionfish, the universal sign for the critter. He looks at me, turns around and merrily continues on his way.
What??!!
I know he saw my sign. Doesn’t he want to spear the lionfish? Or does he think I’m joking, certain in the knowledge there are no lionfish in there.
This won’t do, won’t do at all.
Putting some oomph into my kicks, I catch up with my buddy and tug his fin. He turns around and looks at me quizzically. I make the lionfish sign again and then point back at the dark recess in the wall.
I swear I hear a sigh behind that regulator as he turns around and dutifully follows me back into the small cavern.
I shine my light up towards the fish and look at my buddy. I’m not seeing that “ahah” moment in his eyes that all of us lionfish hunters have when we spot one of these hardy, invasive creatures. I back up to give him space to swim closer to those tiny white tips, hoping proximity will bring clarity. Finally, I see recognition in his body posture – the tensing of his shoulders, the excited tremble of his fins.
For the third time, I swim out of the crack so my buddy has enough room to maneuver and set up his shot. Keeping my fingers crossed, I mentally send him encouraging thoughts of great success.
After a few minutes, I see him emerge. My eyes rivet to his his spear, or more precisely the tip of his spear.
Darn! It’s bereft of anything other than the black plastic cap, already replaced.
My dive buddy catches my eye, shrugs his shoulders and puts his forefinger and thumb together to indicate it was a very small fish. Yes, I know teeny lionfish are super hard to spear as they slip between the tips. But still, I had high hopes.
Oh well, at least he did see it . . . eventually.
Better luck next time!
© Sandra Y. K. Loder 2023
