How spearos are born – short story
It was 1988. Four spearos were about to be born.
It was a type 1A winters day at Sunwich Port on the Natal Lower South Coast, and the waves had been there all morning, but now the tide was moving in and it was time. A time I had been subconsciously known was coming, but the void waiting out there, was overwhelming. A time I had mentally prepared for, but the fear of this time was peppered all over my soul. I had seen the sharks on Protea. I had seen them off the mouth. I had seen them at Chakas, Shad Lane and behind the nets at Umtentweni, the point at Seapark, the backline of Idomba. I had seen them everywhere.
Their absolute authority under the water. Their cunningness. Theit strength and speed. Their teeth.
Sharks.
Having one swim by whilst sitting on a surfboard can also be ok, as long as you can see it.
But I had by this time yearned so, to see what was going on underneath the surface of the ocean that we had been sitting on top of, not submerged in, our whole lives. A boat. A board. A ski. Ok, we had always caught crayfish in the shallows, but the fear was tasting very real now, as we decided to give this spearfishing a go.
I remember donning my old faithful crayfishing fins. Second hand Rondines, cut and patched up with cable ties. Luckily my new friend and to be dive partner, Darrell Hattingh, had hooked me up with some Super Ochios – the rolls royce of masks back then. And a 1.0m gun, bright blue and with a rickety handle and troigger mechanism.
Greg deFillippi, trusted and true friend, a hellman at big Sunwich, with two older brothers we all worshipped, was with me that morning -he had a fun from them. As was Rick de Bruin, before he left it all for I don’t know what, with borrowed new gun. And the inimitable and tough Andrew Cottrell was there too. His gun fired at will so he had swim away from us all the time.
And so we tied ourselves to our motley equipment in the warming sun of mid morning Natal, and ambled down to the waiting channel. All very inviting, and in the idyllic scene and company, for a while, sharks never even entered out minds.
And so it was, our first spearfishing trip had come about.
Getting out through the channel at Sunwich can be child’s play, and this day it was. No currents or churn, just plain swimming through the sandy bits until voila, we were peering into God’s own aquarium. The vis was 50ft or more.
So the four of us doddled up towards the point, avoiding Andrew who was by now feeling very lonely with his faulty weapon. It was firing every few minutes on it’s own! Checking the odd rock for feelers, we reached The Highway.
The Highway.
The place that was to define me as a spearo, in the future anyway, Not this day however. Well sort of.
A massive rock, about the size of a tennis court, has conveniently been placed just behind the outer outcrop of rocks that forms the start of the break at Sunwich. With a 30 ft gap in between. The Highway.
The Highway.
Although sharks now dominated every neuron, to me it felt safe, I could see that a “Gebe” (Fanagalo for shark) coming at me from the shallow turbulence and wildness from shore, was not going to be easy. They could not come at us from the outside because of the huge rock which almost broke the surface (later to become known as The Altar – for surfing reasons). So it was just north and south we had to watch. Remember, with crayfish equipment and experience, this was out first foray out there with guns. Luckily the four of us gave out some much needed confidence, to eachother.
After a few minutes our pulses stopped racing and Andrew disappeared into the rocks to catch us bright red and spiny breakfast, lunch and supper – we were all living wild back then, I was 18 yrs old – the oldest of the group.
We were all were soon to treated to the most amazing underwater experience of all time as the first queen mackerel, or snoek as we call them, came right in, to inspect us! We looked at each other in amazement. I mean, Greg and I were basically commercial fishing off skis and catching crayfish in the shallows, daily. We had seen kob, kingies, many fish, whilst crayfishing, but here were our first real gameys, underwater.
The first few came right into the highway and Greg and I both let rip, complete newbies with the guns, and almost aiming at each other, when the fish went between us.
Click. Click. Both guns fired. Both guns missed. By miles!? Click click some more guns fired, one involuntarily.
Frantically we reloaded as we realised just how many snoek there were. Coming from the north to the south, they just streamed past, layers and layers of snoek with the odd bigger couta in between?! Is this what it looks like underwater?! I’m staying. Forever!
Shoot. Miss. Shoot. Miss. Shoot. Miss. Man we were useless. Hundreds upon hundreds of gamefish, now featuring even the ever co-operative garrick, were sliding past unscathed. Laughing.
And then finally BANG! We all hit one at similar times and now the game was on. Mackeral teeth aiming everywhere, buoys and lines completely tangled. Spears hardly holding. The passers-by were coming right in to see what all the fuss was about. Gamefish swimming in between us. We frantically held on to our tangled up prizes. Kicking and screaming, bubbles, splashing?! I landed Cottrells, he landed mine. Greg also got his. Rick too. Man were we stoked.
Not a thought of the sharks any longer.
We tried some more, each of us bagging two or three each, and maiming another two or three in the process. We had learned to aim for the eye of the fish, and were scoring solid hits now. The fish never stopped coming. Thousands by now.
When we got back to land, and the crowds gathered round, at our average age of 17, we had become spearos.
And would never from there, ever stop.
Even with many so reasons too. Many.
More about that later!
by Shonalanga
