The Native Iowan

Just back from Morovo. A great, short trip. Left here early yesterday (Saturday). A 3 hour run. Good weather.

My 14 year old son, Paul, has been there for a week. I have had my friends 12 year old son, Mike, since before Cmas. I went to swap sons. This is my second trip to this area. I know the place now. Not a stranger to them not them to me. I took Grace along for the ride. She hates boat trips. Arrived in time for a plate of milked rice. Had a rinse and a snooze. then went out fishing.

we chased skip jacks. I had my 10 lb test rig. Used a feathery lure Rob Guild gave me. The others are using a 150lb hand line with a squid. Got the first hook up. The rod bent double. The line screaming out. 10 minutes later we land a 2.5 – 3 kg S.J. My hand and shoulders were cramped. I had a line burn / cut on my finger. My guts sore from where I had held the rod butt. It was magic. Should have had my gimble belt with me.

Tearing around the water. A brisk wind up. Lots of chop. We race to keep up with the fish. We follow the birds. Dozens of Frigate birds. Show us where to fish. They are right over head. Next to us. Attacking our lures. We watch their antics. We are compatriots in the fishing scene. We are all after the same thing. They are just better than we are. We get another strike. The line burns out. A loud pop. The line snapped. The fish too big. I lost the feathery lure.

Quickly rig another jig. The gang catch another on the hand line. Three young boys work to haul it in. I’m in the water again. Kazzziiinggg! The reel sings. The boat going too fast. The line snaps again. We are racing over the water. Zigging and zagging. Pabulu is driving and hollering at the fish. He does this. Talks to fish. Nothing uncommon… If you know Pabulu.

His two sons, Mike and Jr. with my son, Paul triple team another fish into the boat. The swivel breaks as they go to pull it in. I get another hit. The line screams. I leave the drag off and have Pabulu turn the boat around and chase the line. We idle on the surface as I fight the fish up. It is something like 60 meters below us. My line is alternately being reeled in and being stripped out. I can’t apply too much drag. The rod is bent double. My right hand is cramped up and the butt digs a hole in my sternum. The fish sounds. I let it go then pump and wind. Gaining line. Everyone is laughing. Their hand line is a lot more efficient. Bigger. Badder. I am following Pabulu’s example. I am talking to the fish. I begin to gain on it. The line is coming in. I am actually relaxing between pumps. The line goes slack. The fish spit the hook.

We spend a couple hours chasing the birds. Hooking up on the fish. The end score is humanoids 2 fish 3. We are going back for a rematch soon.

We head home on dusk. The lagoon is a bit choppy but beautiful. We do a slow troll home with swimmers on the lines. We don’t get any bites. We arrive home. Square the boat away. Go sit in the kitchen. They are preparing a big motu. Hot stones do the baking for a Sunday feast. A king size cassava pudding. Fresh mangrove oyster soup. Baked potatoes, the fish we caught. All of in a big oven.

The rain dances on the sago-leaf roof. The smell of the smoke and the baking food makes me drowsy. We eat potatoes, fish and oysters. I swim under a frigid stand-pipe. All cleaned up and ready to sleep we talk and drink a cup of tea. I lay down to sleep. A fire ant bites my right cheek. I try not to scratch it. I think of other things.

The music of nature blends with the dancing of the rain. Like a “river dance” but with less ego and more power. The moon is bright and shines behind the clouds. I drift off to the sound of the others talking in the next room, the rain on the roof and the fire ants crawling around me.