I have not lived what could be considered a safe or sheltered life. My childhood was filled with high places and sharp edges. My adolescence had me trying every 'extreme' sport and amassing a fine collection of scars, stitches and breaks. My second adolescence was spent far in excess of any reasonable speed limit. But I've never been reduced to bait.
By swimming in cold, deep Atlantic waters with a bloody fish, you develop a profound appreciation for the food chain, and your place in it. It's equally humbling and motivating. "We didn't rob a bank," M offered, though I couldn't help but think otherwise while I was carrying the bag of loot.
I fought off a hundred sharks in my mind. "Drop the bag, that's first," I thought. "Then use the gun. Go for the eyes. Hit the gills. Sharks are confused by bubbles. Sharks can smell blood over a mile distant, so there'll be more."
Then I started bargaining. "If I can just make it to shore, I'll never get in the water again... I'll give ten bucks to the "World Shark Federation... I'll..."
At some point, through some method, I regained composure. I knew that, though possible, there would be a slim chance anything would show its toothy maw our way. And, if something did, there would be two very alert guys with knives and spear guns to contend with. I maintained my awareness and pace, but settled into a very comforting place within my mind.
We made progress towards shore until we came to a section of very shallow water above a very impressive reef. Large, powerful waves formed just beyond, threatening to rend us apart in worse ways than any fish. We swam parallel to shore, using the shallow reef as a favorable defensive position.
A single obstacle remained between us and the shore. The channel was the only safe egress between rows of pounding waves and jagged coral. The slow, persistent current was now working against us. Fortunately, this required only an unknown energy reserve to overcome. After a good hour in the water, we were back on the beach and greeted like the triumphant hunters we were.
That evening, while sitting on the back porch at Casa Buen Aire, smelling the fresh king mackerel cooking on a mesquite grill, I came to a realization. A coward dies a thousand deaths. You cannot truly live until you kill that part of you.
I know there's danger in these two seas, but I know there's nothing I cannot face. I know that mackerel is delicious grilled with garlic, lemon and butter. And I know that I'll be spearfishing again, sooner than later, provided someone else carries the bag...