A whole day of fishing, but nothing to show for it
A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back
Sam and Alex Fortescue
Fri 20 May 2011 23:35
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24:35.62N
076:48.56W
It has been a glorious day of fishing. Not so good
for the catching of fish, mind you - unless you take the vegan position that
'all meat is murder'. There has been very little 'murdering' today; none, in
fact. But the day began - for the skipper, at least - with a couple of hours
casting for surgeon fish off the rocks near our anchorage. Despite piquing the
interest of a nurse shark, a barracuda and a number of large surgeon fish,
nothing was persuaded to strike and the lure remained un-nibbled.
I managed to talk Alex into a joint fishing trip
midway through the morning by promising snorkelling and beaches too. Again,
there was no joy on the hunting front, although the water was an almost blinding
turquoise, rivalling the colours at Varadero. I scored a glancing blow on a
curious mackerel with the Hawaiian sling - a large catapult for firing steel
spears - but he escaped unpierced because the spear had been blunted by
previously unsuccessful shots at rocks. Later in the afternoon, there was a
chance to bag a ray when a whole herd of the beasts came flying slowly in to the
bay around Summer Song. I am not proud to report that I took a potshot at one of
these fine fish. And in many ways, I was justly rewarded when
my quarry scarpered with the spear. It's not that I missed him; it's just
that he didn't seem to care much about the wound, and dashed off carrying the
spear.
Later still, we crashed through the standing waves
created by a hefty tide pouring through one of the narrow cuts between the bank
and the deep water of the sound. As we motored a few miles south to our new
anchorage, we ran along above an underwater cliff, which dropped from 20m deep
to 200m in an instant. The local sports fishermen ply this drop off for tuna,
marlin and other large predators, so I had high hopes when I paid the
line out behind Summer Song. But with just 3 miles to travel, all we caught
was seaweed, before turning in to ride another tidal rollercoaster to our
anchorage for the night.
So we're now anchored south of an island with
another disappointingly middle-of-the-road the road name. Norman's Cay
has a fairly racy recent history, though. A hundred yards to the north is the
ruined airframe of an old plane, half protruding from the water in which it
crash landed 20 years ago. Until the 90s, this island was the lair of a
notorious drug runner, who used the Bahamas as a staging post for cocaine
shipments to the US. The pilot guide mutters darkly about yachtsmen who went
ashore to explore and never returned, and there are apparently the ruins of a
fortified complex. Now, of course, the place is home to the Norman Beach Club,
and things have changed somewhat. Unwary yotties might feel robbed by the high
price fo a lounger or an ice cold beer, but they're not going to wake up as fish
food.
These islands are astonishingly beautiful and, for
the most part, uninhabited. They're hard work to explore because so much is
shoal or mined with coral heads, so a look out is vital. But there are endless
white sand beaches with not a footprint on them, and vast tracts of empty
anchorage. The sun is setting around 8pm now, so it's possible to eat supper on
deck without a lantern. Somehow, it feels hotter in the middle of the day, as
well. I'm beginning to fear that jerseys and even trousers may no longer be
within my capabilities. We may have to move to the Channel Islands in order to
maximise our exposure to the sun while remaining in
Britain...
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