Deep-water fishing

The vessel moved differently to Europa. The deep hull rolled through the swell not with the quiet ease of Europa, but with a sharp and lively surge. We braced ourselves between fishing gear and the hull as she cut through the waves. Martin navigated around the coast, fringing the 1961 volcano, dark cliffs dotted white with terns (the Tristan subspecies of Antarctic), and out to the deep waters where seabirds were already busy fishing.

Yellow-nosed albatross wheeled in at eye level. This close, we saw clearly the characteristic yellow bridge on the black bill, tipped vibrant red. Their wings were pulled back like a taut bow, dark-smudged eyes gleaming as they hunted. Spectacled petrels live up to their name – wide white rings around the eyes, pale bill lined black like a comic illustration – swooping in before bobbing on the surface in anticipation. A great shearwater glided past on the same gust as one of the albatrosses, two birds so distinct, sharing a moment of synchronized flight. All smelt our fish and wanted some. But our gear was weighted to sink deep and fast – a measure to protect the birds from the hooks.

Eugine started with the crawfish pots. Baiting them with dried fish heads, he tossed each over the side in turn, coils running out and buoys bobbing on the surface. Martin explained apologetically that the landmarks they used to line the pots up were shrouded by the low fog – and that it was late in the season – so not to expect such a big catch.

We revelled in the opportunity to observe the pair at work – little was said, as years of practice had dissipated the need for verbal communication. They synchronised longboat and lobster pot while we struggled not to step on lines in the churning. Our apprehension to intervene in this well-oiled machine must have been obvious, but soon Eugine was handing out hooks – keen for us to experience the process first-hand. A frozen octopus was brought out and before long, cameras were set aside for bait and hooks. Two longlines, each with eight hooks, were prepared and deployed. Our hands now slimy with bait, we reached over the side to rinse them in the seawater. White-bellied storm petrels dipped and pattered the water, belly-bouncing in a dance for food.

Time came to bring the lines in. Barely ten minutes had passed since setting them, but we didn’t question the experience of the fishermen. As Eugine masterfully hooked the buoy and reeled the line in on the simple winch, we stumbled into positions, close enough to see but not to get in the way of the work. The first fish came in – a bluefish (Southern Butterfish Hyperoglyphe antarctica) – hook slipped out and dropped on deck. It was followed by seven others – all but one the same iridescent silver, blazed blue above the lateral line, dorsal fins spined and raised, eyes bulging deep darkness. A stubnose (Oval Driftfish Schedophilus velaini) was the outlier. Bigger and weighted toward the head, the fish was a soft grey-pink. Eugine commented that this was a particularly delicious one. We watched as they flicked desperately on deck. Someone asked how they normally kill the fish. Eugine seemed confused, and grabbing one from his feet, he tossed it squirming into a barrel. Who are we to tell him how to fish?

Martin wheeled the boat around and headed back to the crawfish pots. There was great excitement when, on resurfacing the pots, we discovered they were covered in kelp. We had learnt a lot about the algae from Jordi (who had completed a thesis on it) but hadn’t been able to touch any until this point because of IAATO avian influenza regulations. Maybe if our local guides knew this, they would have understood our excitement. They exchanged a bemused glance with one another but were happy that we liked kelp, as it was the only thing in the pot.

Not to worry, though, because soon we filled a crate with teeming crustaceans. Like the lava that formed the island now sustaining them, their carapaces were crevassed red and orange, burnished black. Curious antennae poked from the crates. Some flicked powerful tails, propelling them out and to our feet. Uncertain hands scrambled to catch the escapee crawfish. Birds drew closer.

Eugine began resetting the pots. We eyed with suspicion the coils he made – anticlockwise – heresy onboard Europa – but he had been doing this for years, and if a coil didn’t run freely, he just tossed it over anyway. If it works, it works. The beauty of this window on another way of life is the challenge it presents to your own. We may have winced at a twisted coil or a brutal battle with a fish, but we understood that this is a world in touch with itself. Resources are precious. A fish will be carried from sea to boat to kitchen to plate by the same pair of hands. This brings with it an understanding of its value that a lot of us don’t have for our food at home.

The next time I looked back, it was Florian (one of our voyage crew) who was driving. The engine roared on through the swell and we looped past the settlement and Europa to a different fishing ground. Here, we tried hand-line fishing. On a wooden spool of thick plastic cord, we hung weights and hooks and octopus bait. The longboat drifted through kelp as we lowered the lines into the water – some getting bites before even reaching the deep. For those of us new to fishing, it was an uncertain wait, but soon we all pulled fish aboard. These were brown and fingered with dark mottling on the flanks, large spines protruded from the dorsal fins – five fingers (Acantholatris monodactylus). Mine wrestled at the end of the line and I failed to grab the head – Martin watched and laughed as we struggled with them before stepping in to unhook and barrel the fish.

After returning to the crawfish pots, filling another crate and packing up all the gear, we turned back to the harbour. Martin and Eugine insisted that they gut the fish, so a couple stayed to help de-scale while the rest of us cleaned up at the café. We took the fish aboard (after attempting but failing to persuade the fishermen to take some for themselves) and the galley kindly stored them for the last leg of the voyage, serving deliciously fresh fish alongside the dinner that evening.