bluefin tuna
Still carrying his 130-centimeter speargun, Gaspar fired once more at a large tuna— this time in self defense.
Even today, when I think about this, I get chills. I had been in the water for at least two hours when I spotted a bluefin about 12 meters away and about 2 meters deep. Its side was toward me and it swam slowly. I stayed completely still admiring this beautiful fish. I was totally impressed with its size and the grace with which it swam.
Suddenly, the fish turned toward me, swimming very fast. Realizing the danger, I aimed my gun. When I pulled the trigger, I knew I wasn’ t going to capture or kill it. In spite of its speed on a collision course with me, it wasn’ t at proper range for a kill. However, my intentions were only to divert it. I knew it wanted to bump me.
The fish leaped out of the water and almost came down on top of me. When I think of this, one vivid image stands out: the face of the bluefin so big and so close with a large opened mouth and lots of line( almost like spaghetti) floating all around in the violently disturbed waters.
The day finally came when Gaspar received his Riffe gun equipped with three bands and a shaft with a detachable spearhead. The same day he took his untested gun into the waters 400 meters deep off Silveira Island.
It was 4 p. m. when I arrived in my 18-foot Boston Whaler. I couldn’ t feel the current and the water was crystal clear. The words of an old fisherman friend spoken that morning echoed in my head.“ Paulo, remember you’ ll only catch one when you fully appreciate its strength. Be careful— that fish is a demon.”
Just as I was returning to the surface after a short dive, it appeared in front, just below me at 5 to 6 meters. At the time, I must have been 3 meters deep, moving very slowly and without returning to the surface. Even though I desperately needed to come up for air, I couldn’ t lose this chance and I went back down a little. I made minor adjustments in my wrist for a good bulls-eye shot. My heart was racing. At the moment it went past me, the tip of my spear must have been 1 meter from its head. I fired. My shot landed 25 centimeters behind its great eye. Instantly, the great tuna stopped, opened its mouth as its tail trembled rapidly in short motions. Finally I can breathe! I was amazed at the amount of blood pouring from its mouth and gills.
I swam toward it quickly, grabbed it by its pectoral fins and with much difficulty swam it to the surface. Its shaking tail helped propel us. I was immensely worried that the fish would emerge from its stunned state. I was afraid it might strike me or tangle me in the spearline.
Still in the water, I grabbed the 2.5-meter line I had previously prepared and tethered the tuna to the boat. Only then did the tuna regain some energy and began thrashing its tail about in the water and spinning the boat around. After what seemed like an eternity, but probably was only a minute, the fish died.
It is difficult for me to decide which was the most thrilling part of this adventure. I don’ t know if it was when I first sighted this grand fish, when I fired, when I grabbed it, or when I saw it hoisted on the pier. One thing is for sure: it was the most overwhelming experience, and one that I will never forget
New archaeological evidence suggests that bluefin tuna may have played a pivotal role in the southern migration of ancient Greeks from the mainland to the Aegean Sea. Finding large quantities of tuna bones and spears at archaeological sites, anthropologists theorize that ancient Greeks followed the migrating tuna, where they corralled them in bays with crude nets, and then speared them.
Paulo Gaspar with his 655-pound( 297.2 kilogram) bluefin tuna taken in the Azores.
Photo by Doug Perrine
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