I glance at my watch: 3:55 a.m. Time to rise and shine! It is going to be a glorious day. I bounce out of bed, throw on my robe and bound into the kitchen. Coffee is brewing on the stove before I even notice my two hungry felines circling the kitchen island.
“You guys are in for a treat,” I tell them as I pull a can of wet food from the refrigerator.
Lily meows and stands up on her hind legs.
“No, not this. I mean later. This afternoon. You’ll see.”
The cats are oblivious to my words, their eyes glued to the contents of my hand. I scoop a spoonful into each bowl and top that off with my latest find – nine kilos of seafood-flavored Purina Cat Chow, a little over twenty pounds. My cats are set for months and months.
This being a momentous day, I eschew my usual cold breakfast and make an energy-boosting egg sandwich with spent grain bread made from leftover beer brewing grains. Delicious.
Fueled and recharged, I turn to the news. I scan the headlines but am having trouble concentrating. Too much to get done. I need to be out of the house by 7:45 a.m. Better to get dressed and start this propitious day.
But first, I need to untangle my bedding as all great days start with a neatly made bed. I smile as I straighten the comforter, reveling in the weave of ocean blues and tropical fish, topped with a headboard the color of deep sunshine. Yes, it is going to be just such a sun and sea day.
Now, to find a fitting accompaniment to this day. I open the third drawer of my petite dresser and examine the rows of neatly bundled bikinis. I select a black, white and red one – the only one without strings or ties. Super functional and athletic. Perfect.
Next comes the tank top. Today is a Captain Morgan’s day, so I select the prettiest, sea-blue logo wear I own and pair it with a bright blue, quick-dry, wrap skirt. These RipSkirts are the bomb for any beach, boat or other tropical adventure. I had no choice but to outfit my mother and best friend in one, too.
Hmm. This skirt is not wrapping as tightly as it used to. Week seven of quarantine is taking its toll. Perhaps I should lay off baking so many desserts. Oh well, at least my skirt is adjustable. But next time I may order one size up.
Attire sorted, it’s time to tackle the next priority: prepping tonight’s salsa. My dive buddy and best friend on the island, Greg, gave me five small papayas a week ago. So far, I have made green papaya salad, added a ripe papaya to my morning yogurt and mixed up papaya and pineapple for a fruit salad. I was beginning to run out of papaya inspiration when the leftover pineapple in my fridge inspired me. What better to complement a divine meal than a papaya and pineapple salsa? Add a bit of finely chopped red onion, fresh cilantro, lime and the pièce de résistance – chopped jalapeño, and presto, you have heaven on earth.
I can already taste supper. Well, more of a lupper since it will be half way between lunch and supper due to the early curfew. Why isn’t there a word for a meal at that time? We have “brunch” which is between breakfast and lunch, so why not have a “lupper”?
Chopping done, I quickly clean up all the dishes and attack the next item on my prioritized to do list for this illustrious day – dive gear. I head to the laundry room, a/k/a scuba cleaning and storage area, and haul each piece of gear to the living room sofa as I mentally tick off what I need to bring. Can’t forget anything.
Fins – One pink✔️, one orange ✔️.
Booties – Two stinky, 5 millimeter neoprene boots✔️.
I better soak those in Sink the Stink tonight. They are not drying out on that hanger over the sink.
Wetsuit – One 2.5 millimeter wetsuit ✔️.
Won’t be needing a warmer one. Not today.
Buoyancy Compensator – One Red Devil BCD ✔️.
This BCD is perfection in simplicity – one strand of black webbing, slipped through a red aluminum backplate connected to a black and red wing, the ends meeting in the front through a red aluminum buckle. The four D-rings strategically located on the webbing hold clips for everything from my rolled-up surface marker buoy (SMB) to my compass.
Mask – ???
Where did I stash that thing? Oh yeah, I was worried about the silicon skirting rotting in the hot, humid air since it was not being used during the pandemic, so I removed it from its usual spot above the sink. It has to be either here in the laundry room or in sealed case my bedroom. I pull a large bin off a shelf, set it on the washer and rifle through its packed contents. Bingo! Buried beneath a bag of extra hoses, I find the requisite mask.
Mask – One prescription mask, complete with attached snorkel ✔️.
What is left?
Oh, only the most important (and most expensive) pieces of equipment – my life support!
Regulator – One high-performance, titanium regulator with attached pressure gauge ✔️.
Computers – One Garmin permanently affixed to my wrist ✔️. One Cobalt to be connected to a high-pressure hose on my regulator ✔️. Redundancy reigns supreme.
I survey my sofa and complete a final check, visualizing myself in my gear, starting from my feet and working my way up to my head. At some point over the past three decades, I must have forgotten nearly every piece of equipment. A friend still reminds me of that fin I forgot to pack for a six a.m. beach dive over twenty years ago. No, no. Can not have a repeat. Satisfied I accounted for everything, I squeeze the lot into my nice, pink, mesh backpack.
Adrenaline is already beginning to course through my veins. How many months has it been since I have been on a dive boat? I can’t remember.
Oh no! I almost forgot the raison-d’être of today. My spear!! Although diving is not allowed at the moment, dive shops can request permission to conduct a lionfish hunt as long as the lionfish are for personal consumption.
I am relieved we are permitted to cull this invasive species. With their only predator grounded, who or what is keeping this ferocious, fecund invader in check?
Spear – One yellow spear with a three-pronged tip ✔️.
Although I have my spear well over a year, it looks new. I used it on less than a handful of dive trips, preferring photography to hunting, and have yet to land a lionfish. However, since today’s mission is all about ridding the sea of this prolific scourge and providing a multitude of delicious fish meals in the process, I am confident my luck will change.
Dive bag packed, I turn to my daily housekeeping, glancing at my watch every fifteen minutes until finally the appointed hour is nigh.
Captain Morgan’s is only a seven minute walk from my house, so even with heavy dive gear on my back, I can easily make it there without needing to flag a Tuk Tuk, the island’s three-wheeled taxi service, which could be problematic. With the toque de queda absoluto, or absolute curfew, limiting our excursions to an appointed day based on the last digit of our ID, traffic has dropped precipitously.
As I near the shop, I am joined by my neighbor and local renaissance man, Chaz, on his scooter. Chaz has dabbled in archeology, photography, cooking, dive instruction, tilapia farming and more recently, and very apropos for the island, large boa relocation.
We are not the first to arrive. A slew of divers is already gathering their gear into piles on the dock, chatting away about the day’s adventure and their inability to sleep since like me, they have been land-bound far too long.
Before long, we spot the beautiful, white silhouette of our boat, Ms. Ginny, approaching from the east where she berths in the safety of a lagoon. A wave of joy washes over us. We pump our fists in the air and cheer on our chariot to salvation. Not wishing to waste a moment, the assembled motley group of dive instructors, dive masters and fun divers plunge into action, setting up their gear on every other tank. Even the dive shop owner is on board with his sons, everyone looking forward to this exalted day.
Laughter, grins and casual chatter fill the boat as we head west, a solitary vessel on an important mission to the far side of the island. Although lionfish abound everywhere, they are more plentiful on the North Side, which is dived less than the populated South Side, where the town and harbor are.
The conditions today are straight from a Hollywood script: the waters calm, the winds barely a whisper, the sun shining and the skies blue with a smattering of clouds to add depth and a touch of Monet to the heavens.
I sit in the back, wind in my hair and watch the familiar markers go by: the dive buoys along Black Coral Wall, followed by Neptune’s – a restaurant on Little Bite, a small sandy cove that is home to a couple of way cool orange frog fish. At first glance, these lumpy guys are easily mistaken for sponges tucked amongst the corals.
Shortly before the coastline bends north, we reach one of my favorite dive spots, Sting Ray Point, where I have seen numerous spotted eagle rays, barracuda and, of course, sting rays foraging in the long, sandy finger jutting out from the shore.
A moment later, the water transforms into a beautiful iridescent turquoise as the bottom shallows out. To our left are several cays (pronounced “keys”), tiny little islets barely above the water line. The two largest, Jewel and Pigeon Cays, look like one long collection of houses, nearly masking the short bridge that connects the two. We head up the short west coast and round the corner, officially entering North Side territory.
Our plan today is two drift dives, no mooring. Jump in, dive and have the boat pick us up at the end. Although more work for the captain, drift dives are perfect for lionfish hunting where you want to cover a lot of territory and not worry about making a round trip back to the buoy.
Although still fifteen or twenty minutes out, I begin suiting up, anxious to be in the water. I start wriggling into my wetsuit, a tedious and arduous affair. I inch the least stretchy neoprene I have ever encountered up my left leg and follow with the right. Then I return to the left and repeat on the right until both legs are several inches above my ankles. Then comes the hardest part – the hips. I am already hot and sweaty, so my skin and wetsuit are like Velcro, clinging to each other in mortal combat. I hop up and down, tugging at the suit until I pop in.
Breathless, I sit down to regain my composure. I probably should get a size larger, but then the waist would be loose and the suit not as warm. This was not a problem decades ago when I started diving, but with the passage of time, the population has increased its natural padding, leading to clothes (and wetsuits) that don’t quite taper enough in the middle.
I take solace in the fact that once I am in the water, my suit feels just right, not the least bit tight. It’s just a stretch to squeeze into. In another ten minutes I will pull on the sleeves – fortunately not as hard as step one – and then have someone to zip me up the back once we are there. By protracting the suit-up process, I avoid rushing and don’t end up a hot, sweaty, panting mess. Zen is a prerequisite for a great dive.
In short order our destination is before us.
I open the valve on my tank (I discovered early on that diving works better with air), sit down on the bench in front and slip into my harness, buckling it at the waist. Using both hands, I give the straps on my fins a firm yank to pull them over my new, heavy-soled boots. Sweat pearls on my forehead, my wetsuit turning into a sauna-suit under the hot sun.
Glancing over at my master lionfish-hunter buddy, Greg, I am pleased to see he is already geared up, his entire neoprene ensemble comprised of a lone pair of three millimeter booties.
Chaz, vis-à-vis from us, is also ready, brandishing two spears in his hand. The pro hunters always have a second spear to store their lionfish so they can continue to rid the sea of this harmful predator with the first. For a bigger hunt, they may carry a lionfish keeper, which stores the fish safely as their spines are venomous.
I shuffle a few steps to the rear of the boat and take a giant stride into the welcoming water. It’s fresh, salty and wet. Nirvana.
My two fellow hunters follow close behind. Our fourth, a spotter and steward of the lionfish keeper, not being as accustomed to the cadence of drift diving, lingers getting ready. The poor fella had returned to Utila to complete his divemaster course just as the coronavirus lockdown hit. He elected to stay here, but alas has not been able to dive. I am glad he is on the boat today. All of us divers need to get into the water, it’s the elixir of life.
The three of us start swimming to the edge of the underwater wall that follows the contour of the island. We yell back at our fourth to swim towards us, but he doesn’t see us and heads down with another group. Not a problem since we have five spears among the three of us.
The water swaddles me in a refreshing embrace as I descend into the clear, calm blue, the reef teaming with life below me. I watch aptly-named parrotfish nip at algae, striped grunts school amongst the rocks and small wrasses hover by the coral. I am home.
In a few minutes, we reach the top of the wall. I watch Greg drop and then disappear under a slight overhang. As I near him, I spot the tell-tale, white-tipped ends of several lionfish just beyond his shoulder. After he swiftly dispatches the first, he pulls back the sling on his second spear and expertly skewers the next fish.
How many thousands of reef fish has he saved by eliminating those first couple of fish? Lionfish are rapacious eaters, vacuuming up such vast quantities of prey that they can reduce the juvenile native fish population by nearly 80% in weeks.
I leave Greg to spear the remainder while I swim ahead in search of other fertile hunting grounds. Visibility is good, allowing us to spread out along the wall. Chaz takes the highest line in front, I am in the middle and Greg is below, bringing up the rear.
The pace is faster than I am accustomed to. I have to concentrate on keeping my breathing slow and steady, not wanting to suck through my air. Conscious of keeping tabs on my buddies, I check behind me and see Greg signaling to turn around. Guess the terrain is more conducive to lionfish the other way.
Glancing ahead, I groan. Chaz is way ahead of me and moving quickly across the wall. I bang my tank with a metal pointer I keep clipped to me, but he doesn’t hear me. I take a deep breath and dart off to get his attention. Right before I am in fin-tugging range, he turns around and sees me motion for us to head in the opposite direction.
I swing around to get a visual on my other buddy and end up following a trail of bubbles to a dark blurry figure in the distance. Greg is clearly caught up in the throes of the hunt. I am panting from my sprint and make no attempt to catch up, content to follow the line of bubbles and resume my middle position.
The water is clear and crisp, lulling me into a pleasant stupor as I settle into a routine of checking the bubbles ahead, glancing at the hunter behind and scanning for critters hiding in nooks and crannies.
A couple of miniature, white, waving antennae catch my attention. I swoop down and inspect a tiny purple and white translucent Pederson Cleaner Shrimp peering out of a small recess. These diminutive shrimp abound on the reef and often are found hanging out together. Sure enough, this little guy has two even tinier buddies tucked in above him. Sweet.
A little further ahead, the telltale gaping maw of a Spotted Moray grabs my eye. These eels love to hang out in rocky holes along the walls or in coral mounds. I drift in closer and study him. His pale body is speckled with a mesh of light to dark brown spots. Hmm. The way this wall curves, I bet I could silhouette him against the water if I held my camera close to the rock face and shot eastwards. Oh wait, that would require a camera.
I rotate my head to check on Chaz and find him cocking his spear above a massive barrel sponge, which reminds me – we are on a lionfish hunt, not a scenic stroll through the countryside. His aim is true and his spear re-emerges from the sponge with one less endemic-fish-eating machine on the loose.
Continuing along the wall, I watch the bubbles ahead circle around a promontory, then bubble up from behind it. Having dove with Greg for many years, I know we will catch up when he comes up from the depths.
As if on cue, both Chaz and I spot him approaching in front of us, one spear loaded with lionfish. Most excellent. The great lionfish hunter does not disappoint. Having all caught up, we close ranks and continue our dive into the shallows, tracking the fingerlike crevices that run perpendicular to shore in search of more prey.
Oh, oh, oh!! Ahead on my left are a pair of White Spotted Filefish! These beautiful large, orange fish are often found in the shallows milling around small mounds. I glide over and watch them change color and mottling, their spots disappearing. I am still working on snapping the perfect portrait of this stunning creature. As with most fish, they have a tendency to swim in the opposite direction from me, leaving me with a perfect fish-butt photo, which is not exactly what I am aiming for.
As I swim back to my buddies, I spot a small Cocoa Damselfish guarding his patch of algae. Now this fella won’t swim away. Damselfish are fierce defenders of their territory, darting back and forth, nipping at any intruder, including my camera and strobes. As with the filefish, I have not caught the consummate picture of this guy either, but for different reasons. This wee chap is fast, faster than my trigger finger, so I end up with half fish, blurry fish, no fish. Huh. That sounds like the beginnings of a Dr. Seuss story.
To my amazement as we head into the shallows, our fourth diver emerges from the haze with the lionfish keeper. Both Chaz and Greg plunge their spears into the large plastic tube, the fish catching on the inverted funnel when they pull out their spears.
The four of us continue scanning the terrain for lionfish as we move across the top of the reef. Before long, Greg motions to me that he is low on air. I pull out my regulator and offer to share air with him, thinking since I had oodles of air (a factor of not having gone as deep and being a smaller female), he could coast a bit longer and perhaps spot another lionfish or two before heading up. But being a master dive instructor (he teaches the teachers) and never being the one needing to share air, he had no idea what I meant.
After a few more minutes, Greg gives the thumbs up signal – time to head up. He inflates his SMB, a long safety sausage designed to alert boaters that divers are surfacing, and ascends with the others. I still have time left on my safety stop and position myself four meters beneath their fins as I wait for both my computers to clear.
At the surface, the guys are shouting and waving, trying to attract the boat’s attention. The captain looks to be comfortably snoozing on the roof and does not see or hear us. The boys turn to their whistles next, which although rarely used are considered an important piece of safety equipment. But these little bits of plastic barely make a sound and are no better or even worse than whistling yourself.
That reminds me. I need to locate my whistle and transfer it to this BCD, not that it will be very effective. Come to think of it, that cheesy whistle came with an old buoyancy compensator and is probably worthless, too. I would be better off buying a decent one the next time I am back in the States. I wonder if there are on-line reviews for scuba whistles?
Eventually our captain spots us and beetles over to retrieve us. As each group finishes their dive, he motors to them and collects the next lot of happy divers. Everyone is grinning from ear to ear as they climb up the ladder, spears and lionfish keepers full of fish.
All present and accounted for, we head east to Rock Harbor, continuing our circumnavigation of the island. We switch our regulator and BCD to a fresh tank and gear up. Since my group came up first, we have the longest surface interval and are the first to plunge back in. Spending sufficient time between dives on the surface is critical because it gives the accumulated nitrogen in our body time to gas-out.
This dive, our fourth diver, feeling a bit queasy from the gentle rocking of the sea, opts to sit out, so it is we three hunters again or, more accurately, we two hunters and one carrier of the extra spear.
Jumping in, I am shocked by the initial icy sting of the water. Even though I didn’t notice it, I must have gotten chilled during the first dive. Water wicks away heat twenty-five times faster than air, hence the need for a wetsuit. Not that either of my buddies, being hot-blooded gentlemen, needs one. Sometimes I feel like I am part lizard, but then when it is hot, I feel like I am part snowman, melting away. My happy thermal band is awfully small.
In contrast to our previous dive, the terrain is more undulating now. I adopt a comfortable, steady pace as we explore mounds, crevices and ledges. This dive, the three of us are much closer, allowing me to focus more on hunting and less on my dive buddies.
Normally, I am horribly squeamish when it comes to killing critters. I feel bad for them, but with the irrepressible lionfish infestation taking its toll on native species, I feel worse for the reef fish. When helping Greg clean his catch, I have born witness to the innumerable shrimp, wrasses, squirrelfish and other whole fish in this predator’s belly. Combine that appetite with a single mature female releasing two million eggs a year, there is no choice. This fish has to go. It does not belong here.
I look up and see Chaz has spotted a group of lionfish under a large outcropping. He spears the two largest ones. My belly begins to grumble. Those would be perfect roasted whole, spines flared out and basted with a tangy Thai sauce.
Greg floats down to assist on the rest, leaving me with the tiniest one. Excited, I quickly take aim and release my spear. Drats. A total whiff job. Pathetic.
Chastened, I swim away from my successful hunting companions and search for a lionfish of my own. I dip my head under ledge and after ledge, scanning for their distinctive white and maroon striped pattern. I reach a large, dark overhang and in the inky shadows spy what I think are the white tips of lionfish spines. I exhale and let myself descend for a closer look, worried it might just be little leaves of algae. If the past is any guide to the future, there is a ninety-nine percent chance of this being algae.
My eyes bulge as I realize that those spots are definitely not from the plant kingdom.
I blink and stare again at the bundle of flared spiny fins just to be certain. It’s a lionfish! A real, live lionfish!!! And I found it!!!!!!
I cock my spear, worried that I do not have enough strength to pull the sling back far enough, visualizing my spear launching with a limp burst barely sufficient to scare a fish, much less spear it. Other than potatoes, I have not successfully speared anything. I have watched Greg hunt numerous times, and with his strong arms, he pulls the sling back several inches further than me. No matter, I don’t think I need Mach One to nab this one.
I drift in close until my spear is less than a foot from the fish.
O.K. Breathe. Aim. Focus. Release.
My spear sails the short distance and pierces my prey.
Not quite believing my eyes, I turn the spear towards me and examine it closely. There it is, a lionfish perfectly speared on one of the tines. I marvel at my good fortune. Finally, I am a real, live, lionfish hunter. I ascend to the top of the ledge, spot my buddies and do the universal happy dance, shaking my booty and arms.
This time when we surface, the captain is on the lookout and promptly motors over. I have a few more minutes on my safety stop (one of the woes of two computers with vastly different algorithms) and come up shortly after Chaz climbs onto the boat. I hold my spear high as I break the surface, a massive smile on my face. I hand up my mighty catch, wrestle my fins off and clamor on board.
Greg dunks my fish into his keeper. I am not worried about mixing up my fish with anyone else’s. I know my fish.
The rest of the trip back is a blur as I bask in the glory of a successful lionfish hunt. No, it wasn’t a successful lionfish hunt, it was the Great Lionfish Hunt. The best ever.
After we dock and clean our gear, Greg and I head back to my house to filet the fish. I have a granite island under a lighted ceiling fan, which is perfect for the task. Greg empties the lionfish keeper into the sink, shooing away Lily, then Bruno. The sink is full of fish of all sizes. We acquired a few extra ones since not everyone was keen on cleaning them, especially the small ones. Few want to go through all the work of snipping spines, gutting internal organs, separating the meat from the bones and painstakingly removing the skin, to be rewarded with two, teeny flecks of fish, barely big enough for a bite.
As it has been a long day and curfew is looming at six p.m., we decide to clean only the four largest fish and my fish, of course, leaving the rest for tomorrow. We set the fillets from my fish aside and then weigh and freeze the meat of two of the other fish.
I dust the remaining four fillets in flour and dip them in beaten egg, followed by a coating of panko crumbs before sautéing them in butter and olive oil. I perfected this semi-traditional schnitzel methodology over the years in the quest for an authentic Austrian pork schnitzel.
Since I already made a papaya pineapple salsa and am tired from the day’s big adventure, I forego the usual veggies and prepare a hearty salad instead. My favorite grocery store, Bush’s, finally received some beautiful, dark-green, bagged lettuce this week. I nearly cried when I saw it, having endured bland, flavorless iceberg lettuce for an eternity. Add some avocado, tomato, cucumber, pumpkin seed oil (another nod to the country of my birth), a sprinkling of vinegar and voila, the perfect accompaniment to a fresh fish feast is born.
Before we sit down to partake in the bounty from our most successful day, the cats need their reward for being patient, albeit not without a lot of paw-twisting. If we have a small lionfish, they get those tiny filets, otherwise it’s scraps from cleaning the larger fish. Today, their treat is their newly-minted, lionfish-hunter owner’s prize catch.
I pick up the two filets, each about the size a coin and weighing a half ounce combined, and place one in each cat bowl. They slurp them down in a flash, looking up at me. More?
They don’t seem to fully appreciate the spoils of my Great Lionfish Hunt.
Maybe next time, kitties.
Originally published May 24, 2020
