Though separated by mere miles, the Atlantic and Caribbean are worlds apart. The Caribbean lives up to its reputation as a generally warm, placid Sea, with shallow reefs and few potential dangers such as strong currents and hungry beasts. The Atlantic proves itself the opposite.
I suited up while M explained our route. We would swim through this channel, turn at this coral island, and follow this reef to a good fishing spot. As he gestured and described, I smiled, nodded and donned my mask, not knowing what to expect in this new ocean to explore.
We set off as a group, the ladies on body boards to chance a few waves, while the men went looking for meat. Almost instantly, the bottom gave way to an immense coral channel. At 30 feet deep, the channel was flanked by giant walls of coral, the jagged formations teeming with reef fish.
A slow and steady current pulled us through the channel. Though we had a destination and an objective, I took time to enjoy the scenery. Antler coral, big as cars, branched from the reef along with equally impressive sea fans. I spotted more types of fish than could be counted, and a small turtle that made a hasty retreat.
Our pace remained steady as we exited the channel and came to a sandy bottom. The water was not as clear as we hoped. Sand and microorganisms made it difficult to see bottom, and entering deeper water did not provide clarity as hoped. M took several probing dives while I remained on lookout, trying not to look like prey.
Despite over-swimming the coral island, we managed to find the fishing grounds, and the probing dives became more frequent. At one point, M took a shot at a hogfish, which grazed the fish and allowed it to escape. Low visibility and waning daylight seemed to dampen our fishing prospects. We considered returning to shore when opportunity struck.
I caught a glimpse of a rather curious fish that had decided to follow M. It looked to be an arms-length barracuda; torpedo-shaped and silvery, with a big grinning mouth. M spotted it as well, leveled the gun and snapped off a shot that struck home. It gave a few defiant wriggles as M pulled it in.
"Mackerel," M said as we surfaced. Even as it thrashed and snapped at me, I could only think of how beautiful this fish was. It had a silvery underside and an incandescent blue upper that shimmered in the water. M went to work with the dive knife, delivering a cut that nearly severed its head. After juggling my gun, his gun, the dive bag and the fish, we managed to get the mackerel securely stowed in the mesh bag.
It was about this time that I finally had a chance to look back at the shore, which, I discovered, had become disturbingly distant. Beachcombers were reduced to mere dots. It was at that point that I started imagining all the other places I would rather be holding a dead, bloody fish.