Team Flying Fish
T E X T B Y N E D A N D A N N A D
e
L O A C H / P H O T O S B Y N E D D
e
L O A C H
W
aking hard from a late-afternoon nap I have
to force myself out of the bunk and up to
the deck where shipmates are gathering
for the night dive. While halfheartedly
tugging at my wetsuit sleeve, I overhear dive guides Claire
and Yann discussing flying fish that had just drifted past our
Indonesian liveaboard, presently anchored in a current-swept
channel somewhere north of Ceram, an island in the Maluku
archipelago. This is a chance I’ve waited for ever since I saw
a stunning image of a tiny flying fish photographed by Keri
Wilk. As Keri’s story goes, he went over the side still naked
from the shower while screaming for his brother, Kris, to
bring his camera and mask.
“Where are they now?” I ask the guides excitedly.
“A dozen or more passed in a float of debris 10 minutes ago,”
Claire answers as she glances down at the water streaming
along Paradise Dancer’s port side. Yann steps up on a bench.
“There, you can still see it,” he says, pointing toward a bank of
boards and palm fronds fading into the distance.
“Is there any way we can get in with them?” I ask.
“See Wendy,” Claire suggests. “She’s getting the boat ready
for the night dive. I believe the other skiff is off fishing.”
Wendy is so accommodating and busy I hate to burden
her with such a troublesome request. Besides, it’s almost dark,
and every passing minute carries the flying fish farther away.
I make my plea short, almost apologetically. Wendy simply
nods. Resigned to a lost opportunity, I shuffle back to the
bench, finish dressing and join the others in the companionway
waiting to board the night-diving boat secured to a water-level
platform below.
Unexpectedly, the other skiff roars into view. My spirits soar,
then falter when it hits me: Wendy radioed my friends, Jim and
Tim, back from their fishing trip on my behalf. But I don’t sulk
for long; even at a distance I can see the fishermen beaming like
kids with lollipops. As the boat pulls alongside, the pair hoist a
monstrous wahoo to a round of cheers and chants of “sashimi!”
As calm as a saint, Wendy skillfully choreographs the
converging chaos, coaxing the jubilant fishermen to one side
to pose for photos with their catch as Charlie and the engineer
swab the blood-drenched bottom of the returning boat and
Yann passes tanks and my camera over the gunnels. In the
other boat, the night divers troop down the steps, take their
places and depart right on schedule.
Minutes later, Yann, Charlie, the engineer and I push free to
chase flying fish in the night. As we race off with the current,
Yann explains our unconventional mission to the two young
men who, born to the hunt, switch their sights from hulking,
4-foot wahoo to 2-inch juvenile flying fish.
By the time our beams pick up the slick, the liveaboard’s
lights are faint dots in the distance. But search as we might, we
can’t find our fish. After a second and then a third pass through
the debris field, we follow the current to a smaller patch. There,
among the leaves, beer cans and candy wrappers, we spot what
appears to be a silver butterfly floating beneath the surface.
With a splash I’m over the side, straining to locate the fish
among the trash. “Here, here, here,” the crew yells, waving their
beams hard to my left. I spin, dodging plastic bags and scraps
of wood, but it’s difficult to pinpoint anything with my eyes at
water level.
“No – here!” they repeat, dancing their lights several feet
in front of my face. Switching tactics I snap off my light, drop
below the slick and glide toward the underwater glow. And
there it is, the size of a silver dollar, floating just beneath the
surface with its wing-shaped pectoral fins spread like a pinned
moth in a science project.
Not knowing how the fish will react, I hold my breath and
inch forward, focusing as I go. Just as I’m ready to pull the
trigger the image vanishes from my viewfinder. I glance about
in dismay. Thankfully, it darts only a few feet, but relocating
the fish seems to take an eternity. In a moment of insight, Yann
slips into the water where he is able to keep his hand light
continuously trained on the erratic target. This time I drop
deeper and approach from below. It works! I’m able to grab a
shot or two before the fish flits away.
24
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FALL 2011
ENCOUNTERS
TOP: Juvenile sailor flying fish,
Prognichthys sealei
BOTTOM: Juvenile pharao flying fish,
Cypselurus naresii
24-25_Encounters_Fall2011.indd 24
9/30/11