Prologue:
“I’m planning on roasting whole lionfish.”
Greg raises an eyebrow, knowing full well that lionfish can be fickle creatures. One day you nab half a dozen and another, not a banded fin in sight.
Then there is the issue of finding ones large enough to cook whole. You need one large fish per person. However, most of our catches tend to be small to medium-sized, which are perfect for lionfish schnitzel but not much else other than ceviche.
Then there is the matter of my hunting prowess. My only successful catch to date was a wee mite barely large enough to tease my cats. I want redemption: a large, impressive fish to grace my plate.
I look him straight in the eye,“I am positive.”
The Hunt:
I glance at my watch. 4:30 a.m. Rise and shine!
Greg will be here to pick up his gear and walk to Captain Morgan’s at 7:15 a.m. Since the pandemic began, he has been leaving his equipment to dry in my laundry room as all the usual dive shop activities have been cancelled, relegating us to the odd shore dive.
Knowing him, I better be ready by 7:00 a.m.
I have a ton to do by then: the house has to be picked up, dishes from last night put away, new dishes washed, hard surfaces disinfected from poorly behaved cats and soft ones defurred with a pet-hair roller, floors swept, dive gear assembled, flowers watered, hummingbirds fed. My head is getting dizzy from the thought.
But first, coffee and chow. Unlike most of my friends, I wake up ready to feast. Too many hours have passed since my last bit of nourishment. Although I should eat something more substantial, I cannot resist a humongous slice of starfruit upside-down cake. My starfruit tree is fruiting again, encouraging me to try out new mouth-watering treats.
I spear a forkful of cake, ensuring I snare a good portion of topping, my favorite part. The dark brown sugar has caramelized over a thick layer of fruit similar to a pineapple upside-down cake, another island favorite. My second bite, however, is all cake. Although still quite tasty and an excellent accompaniment to my black coffee, I am not as keen on this recipe’s use of cinnamon and ground nuts, a nod to the fruit’s crisp apple overtones. I find starfruit to be more delicate and nuanced, demanding a lighter touch: overtones of vanilla verses fall harvest.
Nonetheless, I savor every luscious morsel. It is surprising I am not a hundred kilograms (220 pounds) given my sweet tooth.
I linger a touch too long on the last few sips of coffee, knowing that once I set down my mug, it is off to the Indy 500.
The skies have lightened by the time I place my cup in the sink. I take a deep breath and survey the sea through the kitchen window. Calm. Greg said Windy forecasted less than a foot high waves today. So far so good.
Let the races begin!
I suit up in a faded, pink bikini paired with a short, blue, wrap skirt and dash through the house, clicking off my mental list of daily chores. I am already breaking a sweat, and I did not even throw on a top.
Chores completed, I spin around in the great room – a combined living, kitchen, dining area. Though, truth be told it is more like a cramped, elongated box, too small to be considered great. The only thing great about it is the plethora of windows and the view of the water. Everything looks ready for tonight’s grand repast. Now all I need is the centerpiece of our feast: two mighty lionfish.
I glance at my watch. 6:30 a.m. Plenty of time to gather the gear. I trot half a dozen times from the laundry room in the back to the living room, swamping my sofa with scuba stuff. I double-check that I have accounted for everything, including the all-important dive light and spears, and then pack my mesh backpack.
As I am throwing on my tank top, I hear the rumble of Greg’s moto pulling through the gate. 7:06 a.m. Perfect timing.
We load up and head out, bogged down by what feels like a ton of baggage. Gear is a major downside of diving. There is a lot of it, and it is heavy, even without the tank. Oh, and it is expensive, especially the nice stuff for which I have a tremendous fondness. I am sure I could have bought a luxury sports car with the amount of money I have spent on gear.
We plod the short distance down the street to Captain Morgan’s. By the time we arrive, my eyes are stinging from salty sweat. I push aside the garbage can that blocks the pathway down the side of the building to the water, a sad testament to the times. With the island on lock down, there are no tourists to grace these halls.
No sooner than I finish unloading, the first divers start to assemble. The air is sticky and still, cloying to my skin like a million micro suction cups. I am not the only one suffering. Everyone is sweating profusely and complaining about the heat, one diver even threatening to move to a less miserably hot island. And it is not even 8 a.m. yet.
Unlike our last trip, which was the first since the lockdown began, when the boat arrives, there is no cheering. The pent-up, dive-starved energy of our prior adventure has dissipated and been supplanted by relief that we will be underway soon and can escape this torrid June swelter. During spring, summer and fall, one brutally hot month melts into the next. Even the water heats up, bleaching the corals and providing only token relief.
Since we are headed a scant three miles due south to an offshore, underwater sea mound, I do not dally and begin the laborious process of suiting up to ensure I am ready in time. My buddy, ever the keen lionfish hunter, always aims for us to be the first in the water.
After painstakingly inching my legs into my wetsuit, I slowly tug the neoprene up my left forearm millimeter by millimeter to expose enough wrist to fasten my Garmin dive computer. It needs to rest against my skin to track my pulse. The right arm will be relatively quick to slip on when we arrive. I want to stave off expiring from heat exhaustion as long as possible.
Moments from our destination, I finish gearing up. We take a giant stride off the back of the boat and begin our descent. The water is refreshing and clear, the reef shadows filtering up from sixty feet below.
We head towards the sandy bottom at the edge of the mound. Being safety conscious, we begin the deepest part of the dive first. This allows the accumulated nitrogen in our tissues (the gas that gives you the “bends”) to dissipate while we slowly work our way shallow.
Watching Jacques Cousteau as a kid, I had no idea that the air you breath under water is at the same pressure as your surrounds. Going down every ten meters or thirty-three feet is like having another whole atmosphere weighing down on you, which means you are breathing in twice as many air molecules at that depth. At ninety-nine feet, it is four times as many. And most of our air – about 78% – is nitrogen.
Enough about the science of diving. Having over a thousand dives, I never loose sight of the physiology of my favorite sport, which keeps me safe.
The visibility this morning is awesome, allowing us to fan out over the terrain and cover more territory.
I shine my torch across the reef, illuminating a treasure trove of potential lionfish lairs. Before I began hunting this fish, I never realized quite how Swiss-cheese ridden the reefs were. From afar, they look solid, but add light and you can see a myriad of enclaves and holes protecting the sea life living there.
In short order, I spot the telltale red and white banded stripes of a small, invasive lionfish. It is unlike any other fish in the Caribbean, clearly an interloper with its flashy spines and fins splayed out like the fan of a Spanish dancer.
I cock my spear, exhale and drift close before releasing the sling. Drats! Nothing but water. My three prongs girdle the fish, missing it entirely, allowing it to scamper into the hole. Alas, one of the challenges of having a trio of tips spaced a couple of inches apart (my tips seem to be more spread out than most) is that the odds of a water shot increase when trying to land a smaller fish, especially for a novice hunter.
I back up and pivot round to check on my dive buddy. I spot him a bit deeper, eyes focused on sea floor. Is that a fish on his spear? Hard to tell from this distance.
Keeping him in the corner of my eye, I continue on a parallel track, enjoying the mild cardio workout. Spotting a larger cranny with a broad shelf protruding over it – a favorite spot for wary lionfish to hang out under – I close in. Sure enough a mid-size fish is preening there.
This time, two tips pierce the unfortunate fellow. I still feel sorry for these guys, but until the ecosystem rebalances, humans, as the only predator in the Caribbean, have to do what we can to save the endemic species. It is amazing how in a few short decades this Indo-Pacific fish has gone from an aquarium in Florida to terrorizing reef fish and shrimp all the way down to South America.
Feeling triumphant, I glance to my left and find my buddy. I fin over and hand him my spear. He transfers my fish onto his extra spear, which of course already has a fish on it, albeit a small one.
We separate again. The fresh water and stellar visibility invigorate me. I scan the large, undulating mound and its sea of beiges, the colors absorbed by nearly two atmospheres of water above us. It feels like an impressionist study in pale hues. Quite the contrast to some of the tall, dark underwater pinnacles closer to shore, which extend deep into the inky depths and are a mecca for schooling fish.
I revel in the feeling of freedom, hovering over what feels like an unending oasis. Life is good.
Soon, I spy my third fish of the day. It is smaller than the last and only one barbed tip snags him. But that is good enough.
This time when Greg and I meet up, my eyes rivet to an extraordinary sight: a massive, deep-red lionfish swamping his spear. My buddy has fulfilled his end of the bargain. Now it is up to me to fulfill my end. Unfortunately, this dive will soon be coming to a close. The next one will probably have to be my lucky dive.
We slowly work our way shallow in silent symphony until it is time for our safety stop. I look closely at his tightly-packed, storage spear and count the final tally: three for the great lionfish hunter, two for the neophyte.
Breaking the surface, we twirl around to look for the boat, but all we see is water. Lots of it. Large, rolling waves bob us up and down, obscuring the horizon on the down beat. Greg looks over at me, reading my thoughts, “Not the half foot waves I expected, more like six feet!”
Conditions can change on a dime here. One moment calm, the next moment a flurry of white caps gush forth as a squall zips through. But today it is just large rollers, reminiscent of a kid’s roller coaster.
While searching for our ride at each crest, a long, skinny, orange surface marker buoy (SMB), pops to the surface ahead of its charges. And beyond it in the distance, I think I see the long, white hull of Miss Ginny. Did we swim that far or has the boat drifted? Probably a little bit of both. I check my dive watch. My average heart rate was 103 beats per minute with a max of 119. Yup, I was not idling, so we must have covered a lot of ground.
We start a slow kick to the SMB as we wait for the boat to spot us. Before long, one head pops up and then another, accompanied by a spearful of lionfish. I am chuffed to see that we were not the only successful hunters.
Soon after reaching the divers, the boat arrives to pick us up before gathering up the remaining scattered buddy teams as they surface over the next quarter hour.
Our next dive is close to shore at Big Bight. Since our first dive was deep, a max depth of 111 feet, we plan a shallower follow-up. Even though we have been out over an hour, nitrogen is still outgassing from our tissues.
Like before, we are the first to drop in. This time, however, instead of a big, undulating plain beneath us, lovely, long, rocky fingers and sand channels snake out from the shoreline.
Greg and I begin searching up and down the sinuous reef structures. We stay closer than on the last dive in order not to lose each other in the gangly tendrils.
Nada. Rien. Niente. Nichts. Not a pesky invader in sight.
Then, in the distance I see a diver emerge from behind a shallow wall with a teeny fella on his spear. So they are here, somewhere. The question is where.
I shine my light into every crevice and hole. But still nothing. My whole roasted fish dinner plans will be for naught if I do not land a hefty fish.
Fishy, fishy, come out, come out where ever you are.
Perhaps I was a bit brash in declaring what our supper would be. But I feel in my bones that the perfect fish is out there waiting for me. I just need a dollop of patience topped with a side of perseverance.
I pop my head up from under an overhang and stop in my tracks. In front of me is the most breathtaking tableau: over a hundred schoolmaster snappers gliding by, their silvery white bodies and yellow fins dappled by the midday sun. I stop, transfixed, having never seen so many schooling snappers before. Now is not the time to worry about supper; it is time to commune with the fish.
Only after they move on, do I resume my search. But I soon get side-tracked again. A beautiful, large, snaggletoothed, orange-mouthed Tiger Grouper is chilling in a shallow enclave. I creep in closer for a better look. Surprisingly, he does not move. I am positive it is because I am not pushing a big, scary camera rig in front of me.
We hover there quietly, him eyeing me, me eyeing him until I remember my quest. With heavy heart, I bid him adieu and resume scanning ledges. Every now and then I pivot around and locate my buddy, who seems to be having similar dismal luck.
Up, over, down one side, then the other, then up, over, down another side and repeat. Drumfish, squirrelfish, damselfish, tobacco fish, trumpetfish, angelfish, every fish but lionfish. I don’t get it, lionfish usually love hanging out in the low overhangs of these fingers.
Where, oh where, are you today?
It must be the lateness of the hour. Lionfish feed shortly after dawn, not at noon. They are probably safely tucked away in their hidey holes for the day. Well, at least I speared two fish this morning. And this time they are person-sized and not cat-sized.
I dip back down in between the next set of reef tentacles and spy an ominous dark overhang ten feet ahead. As I near, I think I see a diffuse scattering of bright, white specks tucked underneath the ledge. I close in and aim my light on the dots. My heart starts to pound as the distinctive red and white pattern of this beautiful misplaced creature emerges from the darkness.
I freeze, almost afraid to breathe. It cannot be possible. I cannot have found “the One.” But I have. There, a few feet in front of me is perfection on a plate, spines and fins flared.
All I have to do is not flub it. Thank goodness there is a lot of fish to aim for.
I cock my spear and gently approach, not wanting to scare him from his upside-down perch. When I am a few inches away, I release the sling. The spear flys true, piercing the fish with all three prongs. My eyes open wide, not daring to believe the amazing sight on my spear: one big, sublime, striped lionfish.
Yes! Yes!! Yes!!!
I did it.
Redemption.
Epilogue:
At my house, Greg empties our fish plus a few more we inherited into the sink, including the cat-sized treat the other diver speared on the second dive. As it turns out, his and my fish were the only two lionfish caught that dive.
We clean all but the two largest. Well, actually that is more of a royal “we” as Greg does most of the work. I only cut off the spines and tweeze out the small bones from the fillets before weighing and bagging them.
For the last two, I snip off the venomous spines from the underside of the fish, leaving the impressive array of spines on the top. The side fins, although equally striking, are harmless. Greg guts the fish, and I scrape off the scales with the back of a tablespoon, making a right old mess in the sink. The scales stick like glue to everything. It will be days until I am rid of every last one.
I weigh Greg’s catch – an impressive one pound, five ounces. Mine is a respectable one pound, two and a half ounces. Perfect portions for each of us.
Before seasoning the fish, it is time to tithe the cats for their patience. The moment I pick up two tiny reserved fillets, I see four eyes focusing with laser precision on my hand. They follow me, or should I say my hand, to their food bowls, meowing for their cut of the haul.
“Sit,” I command, and Bruno plops his bum down in a flash.
“Good, kitty.” I place a fillet in his bowl.
Lily looks up at me quizzically.
“Sit,” I repeat.
No reaction.
“Sit.”
She stands up on her hind legs.
I give up. She is clueless. I give her the fish, and she gobbles it down as Bruno finishes his.
Cats happy, I focus on preparing dinner. Careful not to touch the dangerous dorsal spines, I lay the lionfish side-by-side, head to tail in my universal, go-to-pan when nothing else seems to be right – a fifty or sixty year old, large, cast iron skillet.
Using my last silicone brush (the seventh since I have been here – Lily likes to eat the bristles), I coat the fish with a paste made of Thai fish sauce, grated ginger, lime, soy sauce, garlic and a hint of brown sugar and pop the pan into the oven.
When done, I transfer the fish to our respective plates. I take a moment to admire mine, realizing that this will be the first fish I have eaten that I caught myself, exactly twenty-seven minutes into my dive when my heart rate spiked to 124 beats per minute per my trusty Garmin.
I take a bite of the soft, fresh white flesh. Divine.
And after my last hunt catching a fish barely large enough to feed a cat, I feel redeemed.
I am a real lionfish hunter now.
© 2020 Sandra Y. K. Loder
Originally published July 20, 2020
