skin-diving

That's Leon Selapack, owner of L & L Transmission, holding a pair of lobsters. Photo was taken in late February 2003 near Johnny's Cay, offshore from the island of Abaco, Bahamas. Leon was part of a group that included Batavians Ricky Moore, Scott Offhaus, former Batavian John Fanara and myself. This being his first spearfishing adventure, Leon was a "rookie on the reef," so to speak. The pics were from day three of a week-long outing in which Leon would learn that, while everyone in the group enjoys a good shark story, it's not necessarily fun to be part of one.   

I once read the words of a veteran diver who said, in reference to encounters with predatory sharks, Man, when he starts swinging his head from side to side, it's a good time to be somewhere else"......Those words were far from my mind as I swam toward the bottom amid the square miles of patchwork coral found offshore of the outer islands of Abaco.

Before trying his hand with a Hawaiian sling, Leon decided to take a few pics. Here he caught me armed with a sling, skirting the edge of a coral head and peering into the recesses where fish hide out. Shortly afterward in this very spot, the first shark showed up. It was just off the bottom over a sandy pocket and eight or nine feet long. What's more,  it was close -- too close. And it wasn't just shakings its head from side to side - its whole body seemed to be writhing as it twisted and turned, just a whole lot of rapid movement. It was clearly in a state of agitation.  

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After surfacing Leon and I made for the boat, keeping an eye on our backside  the entire way. Once on board, we all agreed it would be a good time to relocate. That's Scott at the helm with John Fanara next to him.

After a short boat ride we prepared for another dive. While putting on my fins I was looking at the red and white candy cane pattern of the Hopetown lighthouse on Elbow Cay when Scott asked if I had seen any barracuda yet. Up to that point I hadn't seen a single one, which I thought was unusual.

After donning fins and masks, three of us reentered the water, John and myself with slings, Leon carrying only a camera. It didn't take long for us to put considerable distance between one another. Though unintentional, our going off in different directions was not a particularly good idea.

I don't think we were back in the water for half an hour when shark number two showed up. And I'm sure it was only coincidence but, with this being Leon's first spearfishing venture and armed with nothing but a camera, you probably don't need to guess who the shark took an interest in.

Leon managed to snap this photo before he discovered the shark had "taken a liking" to him. Once he realized the shark wasn't simply passing by, Leon's only concern was getting back to the boat.

The shark's tail appears small and its sickle-shape nearly impossible to make out. With its perpetual sweeping motion, Leon snapped the pic on the "backsweep," with the tail directly away from the camera. The white blur in the lower left corner is one of Leon's fingertips.

With John off in one direction and me in another and totally unaware of our companion's plight, Leon must have felt like an island. In fact, while Leon was being harrassed by the shark John was totally enrapt with the marine life,  particularly a large group of juvenile barracuda, a school numbering 100-200 fish slowly swimming past.  

Meanwhile the shark wouldn't go away, instead moving in closer, making a few passes and following Leon's every move. As a group, we've all had shark encounters in the past, but always without incident. This was unusual, especially since we hadn't speared any fish up to that point. Still, the shark insisted on stalking Leon, and for him each minute must have seemed like an hour and the possibility of an attack very real.

Much to Leon's relief, Scott and Ricky finally got him on board and John and I were picked up moments later. In the photo above, John removes his gear as we get under way to relocate for a second time that morning.

Leon quickly shook off any feelings of trepidation and was back in the water in no time. He did, however, choose to leave the camera on board and take a sling over the side instead. Not long afterward he took his first lobster. 

Scott prepares to hand off his sling before climbing aboard. Sometime after the shark incident John, Scott and myself were swimming over a submerged reef when we spotted an octopus several feet below. As I dove for a closer look, the octopus changed its coloration for an instant. In the blink of an eye it flashed a brilliant white, then quickly changed back to a drab brownish-green. With that it jettisoned off the reef, leaving behind a cloud of ink. I once thought such a tactic was a defense mechanism, but I've since learned that quickly turning white is their first reaction when frightened.

Here's Ricky Moore. In addition to spearfishing, Ricky tends to captain's duties when Scott is diving. He also serves as troubleshooter for the group, real "MacGuyver" who has made emergency repairs on the water, ranging from fixing a faulty bilge pump to jerry-rigging the surgical tubing on our slings. 

This is John and I with a quartet of "sters" as John would say. Like Ricky, John is a multi-tasker on these trips: he's not only productive with a sling in his hands, he also cleans the entire day's catch and tends to the chef duties. Thanks to his culinary skills, dinner most evenings was a veritable feast of seafood and pasta. 

With its frilly edge, this pure white flatfish looked like a lace doily. A type of  flounder or sole, after taking the photo I gave it a gentle nudge with my sling and off it went, moving through the water like a magic carpet before settling onto the sandy bottom. There it blended in so well it literally disappeared before my eyes.  

With a breaker crashing over the outermost reef in the background, Leon relaxes on the bow.

A few days later we boarded the puddle-jumper for the first leg of our trip home. Even before our plane neared the end of the runway it was airborne and after gaining altitude I was able to see the Hopetown lighthouse. From there it was easy to pick out Johnny's Cay just to the north. Beyond Johnny's was the turquoise-blue water that covered the coral reefs and a week's worth of adventure.

As mentioned in my previous post, by the late '80s chasing down northern pike had taken a back seat on my list of priorities. I did, however, enjoy watching pike -- in addition to other species -- in their own element. Skin-diving local impoundments made that possible and that is how Jody Hebdon and myself bumped heads with one particular northern pike, an encounter that was not only unexpected but also quite invigorating.

On a hot July afternoon several years ago, we had donned mask, fins and snorkel in an attempt to cool off. We hadn't been in the water long when we spotted what looked like the tail end of a decent-sized pike sticking out of the weeds, the rest of it hidden by the dense growth. Several feet below us the fish remained motionless while we watched from the surface. Then, with no warning, it vacated the weed bed with one mighty sweep of its tail. Streamlined and built for ambush, in the blink of an eye that pike was out in the open where we could see its size.     

As I swam down for a closer look, the fish began swimming away from me. Then, about the time it disappeared into the depths, I noticed something strange. There, several feet below the surface, some of the taller growth at the edge of the weed bed appeared to be swaying. Ever so slowly it was beginning to lean in the direction where the fish had disappeared. Taking a closer look, I saw a single strand of monofilament fishing line wrapped around the moving weeds. From there the line angled downward toward the deep water, other end no doubt attached to the pike.

What to do? Grab the line? You bet! But first I needed air. After reaching the surface I told Jody, between deep breaths, just what the deal was. I dove again, seeing small perch and bite-sized bluegills hovering idly about as I tried to relocate the line. I was nearly out of air again when I saw it. Thinking to myself, here goes nothing, I took hold of it and began back finning to the surface. Ascending, I kept my eyes on the line, following it into the darkness. On the other end I could feel the fish, then watched as it emerged from the depths -- and what a sight it was. The pike undulated, shaking its head from side to side, its mouth wide open and gills flared. I remember feeling as though I was watching a Jacques Cousteau documentary.

Water tends to magnify an object, making it appear 25 percent larger than its actual size. Once on the surface, and with the fish twisting and turning below, I turned to Jody and stole what may have been Roy Scheider's most memorable cinema line (from "Jaws" of course), blurting out, "We're gonna need a bigger boat!"

Several times I slowly worked the fish close only to have it take back the line each time, not in long, slashing runs, but slow and deliberate, disappearing back into the depths. Jody and I would later discover there were 19 yards of line attached to the pike -- exactly 57 feet. 

After 45 minutes of give-and-take, we had worked the fish into water about six-feet deep. Previous experience with pike told me the most crucial time was at hand. Fish about to be brought to the net often go ballistic -- even those appearing exhausted. And because we had no net, we planned to slip our hands beneath the pike and flip it onto shore. What's more, we had a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth to contend with.

Of all the pike I've tangled with through the years, this one certainly ranks right up there in terms of excitement -- perhaps even more so. I mean, how often does one get face to face with their catch while it's still in the water?