Extreme Fishing (14 page)

With that thought in mind, I crawl into bed and black out.

I wake up at 6 a.m. and walk outside onto the verandah. The ocean is twenty metres from my door, iron flat and turquoise, with only beach between us. Men, women and kids are
fishing in bancas, traditional dugout canoes with crude bamboo outriggers to keep them stable. They are all using basic hand line methods, about a dozen of them floating in the shallows pulling up
fish. It’s wonderful to see, but these families are not fishing as a hobby – it’s a way of life and they need to put food on the table. Jobs are hard to come by in the area and
people live off the land as well as the ocean, growing rice and breeding animals. To most people here, every day is about survival.

Junior

I meet Junior Gonzalez, one of the finest fishermen on the island, I’m told. There are loads of fish here and they are varied but, as I discover, they are very
small. The locals either eat them or sell them at the market. Junior has no technology to help him catch fish, no GPS, no sounder, no mobile phone, no two-way radio and not even a compass. He does
what families have done for generations in Siargao: he relies on his knowledge of the stars, landmarks, tides, the weather and the moon. He also uses bird life to guide the boat, knowing certain
species never fly far from the shore, and high birds or feeding birds mean fish. Low-flying birds, skimming the waves, tend to be just passing through, using the air from the waves to save energy
on their journey.

Junior has fished like this since he was a little boy. He appears to be around sixty years of age but could be younger; he has a face that is well lived-in. We head out on Junior’s banca,
which looks more like a tourist river boat that he’s hurriedly converted into a fishing vessel by putting a couple of pipes on it to hold rods and the odd plank to rest your feet against.
Junior’s sixteen-year-old son, Grieshan, is in another banca and to be honest I’ve got ship envy. His is way better.

Junior starts the engines. It sounds like a cross-channel ferry – the fish will hear us coming from about twenty-two miles away – and I stick my fingers in my ears. We get a gentle
speed up but the boat is all over the place, rocking and lurching. Thankfully it doesn’t matter too much today as we’re staying 500 metres from the shore, but tomorrow we’ll be
travelling to the Philippine Trench. I hope he’s got a bigger boat. At a maximum known depth of 6.54 miles, the trench is the third-deepest body of water in the world, the deepest being the
Mariana Trench, near Guam, which is 6.86 miles deep. It’s mind-blowing stuff, like considering the size of the universe and what it all means when you’re really, really tired.
It’s so much to ponder that it makes me feel queasy. But then again, that’s probably just Junior’s crappy boat.

We try to fish from the diesel-glugging beast but to no avail. I look over the way – young Grieshan is hauling them in. I suggest, very strongly, that we change boats, and my request is
granted. As we head back to shore, Junior tells me a story of the time he went out with Grieshan, aged four, to catch a swordfish. Swordfish are nocturnal deepwater fish so are caught at night when
they come up to feed on squid. He was forty miles out over the Philippine Trench in an oversized canoe with a toddler and no GPS, radio or phone, in the middle of the night, when the mother of all
storms hits. Storms in this area tend to come very fast and out of nowhere. Junior and Grieshan are tossed about in their banca until it’s eventually smashed to smithereens and sinks. Never
letting go of his son’s hand for one second, he flings Grieshan on his back and, clinging to a piece of wood, begins to slowly swim and float to shore. Since that day they have been
inseparable. It’s an amazing tale that completely blows
Life of Pi
out of the water.

I switch boats.

‘This one’s much better, Junior!’ I say.

He smiles. It’s quieter, too, which is what we need to catch coral reef species and pelagic fish that live near the surface of the ocean, not the bottom. We’re hoping for wahoo or
maya maya (red snapper) to come our way. The red snapper is a beautiful red fish, which strangely makes it an excellent predator, because in the underwater spectrum of light, red isn’t seen,
so the fish is almost invisible.

Nine hours later, I finally get a bite. It’s a dog tooth tuna and it’s not coming in easily. It’s fighting the current and the speed of the boat, and even
though it’s small it’s still quite strong. It’s a hard fish to land and I don’t want to get my fingers anywhere near its ferocious canines. A member of the
Scombridae
family – not a mad Highland clan but a subclassification of fish that includes bonitos, mackerels and tuna – the dog tooth tuna, in spite of its name, has more in common with its bonito
cousins than with pure tunas. It’s fast in the water but it’s the impact and bite that kills the prey.
One down
, I think to myself

My next fish comes five minutes later. It’s a good fighting fish and we have a decent tussle. I reel it in but am unfamiliar with the species. Junior calls it an ‘oyung-oyung’.
It’s definitely my first one of those. I manage to land it. It’s a strong, compact fish with a powerful jaw lined with triangular razor teeth and a blue-green skin. Junior tells me that
in English it’s called a bluefish. Bluefish are found all around the world in coastal areas favouring continental shelves, surf beaches or rocky headland. (I’ve got a continental shelf
problem: everything’s on the way down.)

My mood has soared and we all head en masse to the market to see what we can get for this brace of fish. I tell Junior about my desert island experience in two days’ time and he says,
‘Robson you are a natural, you could survive on any one of these islands.’ Then he gives me double thumbs-up. I am optimistic.
I am actually really good
, I think.

At the small open-air market I get 200 pesos, about three quid, for our catch. I give the cash to the children of the locals who have gathered around to watch us film and everyone’s happy.
The people here are incredibly charming and friendly in spite of their abject poverty. It’s paradise here but surviving in paradise is far from easy. I’m sure I’ll be OK for a day
and night, however.

Port Pilar Harbour

Today we’re heading out to the mighty Philippine Trench forty miles from the shore, and our target is dorado. I have the idea that we will only eat what we catch for
breakfast, lunch and dinner. We have cooking facilities on board our fishing boat and I intend to show off my culinary skills like a Northern Rick Stein. The four deckhands, wearing classic
lampshade hats, ask me if they can bring some food on just in case. I say, ‘No way. We’ll catch loads of fish. I caught two in five minutes yesterday.’

‘Yeah, after nine hours.’

‘Shut up, Craig. Right, everyone turn out their pockets for contraband. If this show’s going to be a success we have to play by the rules. I don’t have anything on me. Does
anyone else?’

They shake their heads.

‘Are you sure?’

They nod.

‘Good.’

We set out to the trench. I am experiencing a great high today. The sun is shining; life is good. Deep down, I wonder if I am experiencing one of my manic episodes but I don’t think so. I
breathe in the air.
I am a fishing god
, I tell myself, and I am buzzing with energy and chat. As we are trawling, Junior explains he is looking for bird life, floating debris, which makes
false reefs, or any other natural indicators that put us in the right place for a magnificent dorado. We are fishing as nature intended and I can’t wait for our first strike.

Junior says, ‘One year I went fishing every day of the year to work out the best days.’

‘Three hundred and sixty-five days? Wow. And what did you discover?’

‘The fourth day before a new moon is the best.’

‘Is that today?’

‘No,’ he laughs.

I suss out the tiny kitchen area, which is basic and no more than two feet wide. As I leave a deckhand enters and places something quickly in a cupboard. I open the door and find a tin of corned
beef inside. I look at him.

‘Oh, ye of little faith. I’m very disappointed. That’s really bad.’

He looks at me sheepishly. The four of them go into a huddle talking in Filipino, probably calling me a name used by British carp fishermen.

Six hours later I am feeling like a prize James Blunt, as we have got nothing. The sea is getting lumpy and the sun is due to set in seven hours’ time, which seems a long
way away but we need to get back to shore in that time.

Jamie says firmly, ‘We have to catch a fish and we’ll stay here all night if necessary.’

We are starving, I’m feeling faint and I am getting some filthy looks from the crew. I sidle up to the one with the corned beef – I can’t remember his name so let’s call
him David.

‘Psst, David. How much for the tin of beef?’

‘What?’

‘How much?’

We are very subtle; it’s like scoring shabú – methamphetamine pills – the drug of choice in South East Asia. I give him a large amount of pesos and wander casually down
to the toilet to gorge my contraband. After seven hours of nothing to eat it doesn’t touch the sides. As I wander out, Craig catches me.

‘You bastard. You fucking sneaky bastard.’

I start to giggle nervously. Craig is furious.

‘Jamie! Peter! Robson’s just snaffled a whole tin of corned beef.’

I walk upstairs. Peter looks grey with hunger and Jamie regards me like a bitterly disappointed teacher. But I feel much better. I have a new lease of life.

Another seven hours later the effects of the corned beef have worn off and we still haven’t had even a sniff of a fish. If I thought I looked bad when I arrived, I now look like I’m
decomposing. I hear a rustle and see Craig open a bag of crisps.

‘Where d’you get those?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’

He shares them with everyone apart from me in retaliation for the bully beef. Craig produces another bag of crisps, again none for me. He eyeballs me, munching mouthful after mouthful. I ignore
him and talk to Junior.

‘Well, the fishing’s been great but the catching’s been appalling.’

Junior says, ‘In all my years of fishing, this has been one of my worst days.’

I believe him. I am a jinx and a corn beef criminal. Suddenly, two terns appear above us out of nowhere. Junior points; they are flying high – they have seen something. We see it too:
it’s drift-wood, no more than eight feet long and six inches in diameter. Junior turns the boat around; we trawl the lines past it, and bang! I’m into a mahi-mahi. Also known as a
dorado or dolphinfish, this creature’s brain size in proportion to its body is large. Some say this is one of the most intelligent species of fish as it can follow simple instructions, but I
say, ‘Did they invent the internal combustion engine? Was Pythagoras a dorado? Let’s put it in perspective.’ They’re about as bright as a Sunderland Supporter after a heavy
weekend on the piss.

As I wind in the dorado, he comes to the surface and leaps. He’s magnificent, his vibrant green, gold and blue skin glistening in the setting sun. Dorados fight hard and they fight
aerially. He jumps again like a Lycra-clad acrobat doing somersaults. Morale has soared, the crew is going to eat and it’s going to be delicious.

I shout, ‘I have caught us supper. You all doubted me but I did it!’

The aerial fight cranks up a notch; I must bring this fish in. I give it one last leap and he jumps off the hook and is gone. The crew is catatonic with shock and I am in the seventh circle of
hell, but Jamie is going mental, shouting, ‘That was fucking brilliant! One of the best sequences I have ever filmed. The under-fish triumphed – adversity works so well on
telly.’

We all want to deck him.

‘Fuck the programme! We want something to eat.’

I am so pissed off with myself. The deckhands won’t look at me, especially the one who sold me the corned beef. He’s visibly stiffened with internal rage. To make matters worse,
Jamie declares he wants us to fish into the night and catch a swordfish. We beg him to let us go home but the footage has given him a second wind. He gives me a piece of bread.

‘Thank you, master,’ I snivel.

But Junior has a cunning plan. We are going to drop a line for swordfish very deep, and with six miles below us we’re never going to touch the bottom. We bait the rod, which is huge and a
bit like a marlin rod. The swordfish is a billfish and is known as one of the ‘big five’, along with blue marlin, black marlin, striped marlin and sailfish. This striking, dark grey
fish has huge black eyes, which help it to see in the deep water over half a mile below the surface, where it resides in the daytime. Its bill is massive in proportion to its body, which it uses
like a sword to cut down its prey. It is thus known as the gladiator of the sea, from its name
Xiphias gladius
(from the Latin
gladius
, meaning ‘sword’).

To help us catch, Junior lets the boat drift using the wind. In order to slow a conventional boat down, skippers use something called a drogue – an underwater parachute that impedes
forward motion. Junior doesn’t have a drogue because he can’t afford one, so ingeniously he uses palm leaves, tied in such a way that they have the same effect. He says nature always
solves the problem of a lack of technology. The second part of Junior’s plan is to use two kerosene lamps to try to attract squid. We use a lure like a plastic shrimp with upturned barbs on
the end. I drop it ten metres and slowly pull it up towards me. I do this about a hundred times before I finally catch a cephalopod (Ancient Greek for ‘head-feet’, as these creatures
have no body). The squid I pull up is seven inches in length and basically a meal for one. By this time I am so tired and hungry I am starting to hallucinate. Junior suggests we use my one and only
squid as bait.