You would think that if you were a Peace Corps volunteer that lived right next to the ocean you would be in the water all the time. Well, think again, For a variety of reasons, Michelle and I have gone snorkeling a grand total of four times since we arrived at our site 2.5 months ago. And we literally live right ON the beach. It is not an exaggeration when I say that I can walk 30 paces out my back door and be standing in the South Pacific Ocean. So there’s really no excuse that we should not have spent more time in it, except that our days seem to be filled with construction projects on my side and weaving socials with the women on Michelle’s.Nonetheless, when we have managed to get out on the water we’ve seen some spectacular things. Thanks to the low population density and subsequent relatively low pressure on the reef from overfishing, effluent pollution, and destructive fishing that results, the reef in our area is in comparatively good shape. Since the ban on dynamite fishing and poisons that include a naturally derived cyanide made from an indigenous plant (Fijians are nothing if not resourceful…), the reef in our area has fared remarkably well. It’s not pristine like Kingman Reef in the Northern Hawaiian Islands chain, which is renowned as one of the least impacted reefs on the planet, probably for no other reason than it is simply too far for fishing vessels to travel economically. However, it’s also not Hanauma Bay on the island of Oahu further south, which is, despite it being the introduction to snorkeling for millions of tourists, an ecologically dead reef. It turns out that the millions of tourists stomping on the reef, breaking off pieces for souvenirs, washing off gallons of sunscreen (which happens to be lethal for coral according to recent studies), and, of course, relieving themselves to the tune of hundreds of thousands of gallons of urine annually, happens to be bad for coral and, subsequently, all the other critters that depend on it.
So things are pretty good on the reef just offshore of Wailevu Village. There is some evidence of localized overfishing, with large reef fish virtually absent in some spots, but an abundance of other small reef species. This observation is further confirmed by the catches that the fishermen bring home, which include reef species that are only 3 inches long…seriously, 3 inches long. Given that some of these species can’t even reproduce until they are about 10 inches long, you can imagine what the population trend may look like. And there is some minor damage from some of the locals who engage in reef stomping as well as minor debris from the village and Savusavu, the largest city on the other side of the bay. Reef stomping, as another Peace Corps volunteer described it, is the process of identifying the most sensitive and fragile species of coral and placing your foot squarely in the middle with all your weight and crushing it into rubble in the process…they call it walking. The good news is that there are LOTS of sharks!
Recent studies show that a predator/prey ratio skewed toward an abundance of large predators is a strong indicator of good reef health. More often than not, I have visited the reef, either while fishing or snorkeling, to spot between 1 and 3 sharks. Only one that we saw while fishing from a bilibili (a boat made from bamboo) was a real potential hazard. It was about 8 feet long and appeared to be a bull shark, which are notorious “man-eaters” in other parts of the world, bearing in mind that more people die each year from bee stings and dog bites combined. The rest have all been grey, whitetip, and blacktip reef sharks, which, unless you are a bleeding reef fish, are relatively benign.
On our very first snorkel out on the reef, Michelle and I were swimming along and I spotted a shrimp goby in a sandy area between the coral. Only geeky fish-types like myself would notice or even care about a 3-inch long fish that has a face and personality like one of Jim Henson’s Muppets. But they are absolutely fascinating to me…because I am, by admission, a true “fish nerd.”The reason that shrimp gobies are so fascinating is because they share a symbiotic relationship with a burrowing shrimp. The burrowing shrimp excavates and constantly maintains a long corridor and anteroom that the goby and the shrimp, like Oscar and Felix of “The Odd Couple,” share. In exchange, the shrimp goby provides in-house security for the shrimp, brazenly attacking fish that are considerably larger than itself that present any threat to the shrimp. It is utterly amazing that this relationship has evolved and nothing short of astounding to watch in person something that up until now I have only seen on The Discovery Channel.
So, upon spotting my little Muppet-like friend and his shrimp buddy, I was so excited that I had to share it with Michelle. As I tugged on her arm and pointed toward the sand she gave me a look that said, “Yes, that is sand.” So I tugged harder and pointed more forcefully in the direction of the shrimp goby in a way that resembles an American talking more loudly and gesticulating emphatically to a non-English speaker as if they were deaf rather than unable to understand. “Right there! Can you not see! There! Why are you not seeing it and as excited as I am?!”
Then the tables turned suddenly and she started tugging at me frantically. “But the shrimp goby...” I thought despondently. Then I realized what she was pointing at. A 6-foot long whitetip reef shark was circling by less than 10 feet away…or in temporal terms, less than a second away. Time stopped as we watched this beautiful combination of teeth and muscle with silvery gray sides terminating in stark white tips on its fins cut silently and gracefully through the crystal blue water. Our eyes made contact with the shark’s, confirming that it was curious, even if ambivalent, about our presence. As the shark slowly cruised out of view the wheels of time began to turn again as we became aware of our increased heart rate and the sound of waves crashing around us. It was indescribably exhilarating to see such an amazing and graceful predator in such close proximity!
We also recently got to experience another amazing event in the village in which an even larger, charismatic megafauna took center stage. At a rugby game about a month ago, we sat with the villagers and watched the game while also playing guitar and singing periodically. The village was using the rugby game as an opportunity to raise money for the local school, selling food, tea, and seeking donations from the locals. Amidst the flurry of activity, the crowd suddenly stopped and looked seaward.
Michelle and I were perplexed as scattered murmurs of “ika levu” (big fish) rose around us. As people walked toward the shoreline directly across the field where the rugby game was in process, completely ignoring the game and players on the field, an eruption of cheers and gasps erupted from villagers already gathered on the beach. As we approached, my first thought was, “it must be a big manta ray or maybe a whale shark!” A ray or shark it was not, but it was indeed a “tavuto” or, as we English speakers know it, a whale. More specifically, it was a Humpback whale mother and calf.
The calf, like any playful baby mammal, was leaping and playing, all to the great delight of the villagers. Every time the baby would breach, the villagers would jump and cheer with excitement. Meanwhile, the mother seemed to be encouraging her offspring by slapping her tail fluke on the surface as well as rolling and lifting her pectoral fins out of the water as if to wave to the people celebrating on shore. Maybe it was the celebration of life, a new season, and the imminent return to the rich Antarctic waters that had the whales exhibiting such energized behavior that seemed infectious among the villagers on shore…who knows. Regardless, it was only the second time in the memory of the village that they could recall seeing a tavuto.
Humpback whales in the southern hemisphere migrate annually between the food rich waters of Antarctica to the South Pacific where they breed and give birth. While in Antarctica, the mother Humpback whales gorge themselves on krill (a small, shrimp-like crustacean) and small fish in preparation for their long migration to and stay in the relatively nutrient poor South Pacific. While the mother whale is in the South Pacific, she does not eat anything, depending solely on the fat reserves she accumulated in Antarctic to sustain her and her calf. During this time she loses between 30-50% of her body weight while her calf gains an equivalent amount. However, it is not typical for these whales to visit Fiji, especially Savusavu Bay, as they tend to go to other island chains throughout Polynesia and more remote areas on the periphery of the Fijian chain.
Michelle and I have seen many of the southern Humpback’s northern cousins in Alaska. So close have we been to them that at one point that we were covered with whale breath following the explosion of three gaping maws just yards in front of us as we sat in our kayaks. In case you are wondering, whale breath smells absolutely horrid…something like a mixture of rotten fish and sour milk. But as amazing as those experiences in Alaska were, we felt far more privileged to experience what we did on that remote beach in that Fijian village. To see their response…their excitement…their awe…resulting in cheers and tears of joy…was nothing short of inspiring. Many viewed it as an omen or a blessing from God and, given their response, I'm not one to disagree...
But even some of the less grandiose species in the South Pacific are just as fascinating. Take for instance the lowly sea cucumber, also known as a beche de mer or sandfish in many parts of the southern hemisphere. The sea cucumber is not a green vegetable as its namesake garden fruit might suggest, but an animal that resembles a big slug that moves slowly along the ocean floor sucking up fish poop and any other detritus that it might come across. Picky about its dietary habits it might not be, but it does perform a very important ecological function as the “janitor” for the coral reef.
Again, as a fish nerd, I find this critter extremely interesting. I found it even more interesting after Michelle and I watched a TV show before we came that was specifically on Fiji and had a segment on creative ways the Fijians use their resources. You see, despite the lack of a true brain or certainly any semblance of consciousness, some species of sea cucumber have adapted very specialized and intriguing defensive mechanisms. Some sea cucumbers, for instance, puke up their guts when attacked by any predator. The predator either eats the guts instead of the sea cucumber itself or is so confused that it doesn’t bother to eat the sea cucumber. It’s an elegant design, really.
In this TV show we had watched, they profiled how Fijians would walk through the shallow water and find a “leopardfish,” a unique sea cucumber that not only pukes up its guts when threatened, but the guts themselves possess a quality similar to an industrial adhesive. When the Fijians find a leopardfish, they grab it and throttle it like Homer Simpson does Bart. The leopardfish barfs up a wad of long, sticky threads. Then, they take the puked up guts and carefully lay the threads across their feet, where it sticks better than the best duct tape that money can buy…double-sided and waterproof duct tape, that is. The Fijians then step in the sand and…voila…reef shoes!
So you can imagine when I came across a leopardfish when snorkeling with Michelle how excited I was! When I saw it I instantly grabbed and throttled it where, much to my glee, it barfed up its guts just like in the TV show. Ensuring that I didn’t touch the threads, I kicked over to Michelle to show her, sure that she would remember the TV show, too. After all, like any woman, she can remember exactly what I said in an argument years ago. What reason would I have not to think that she would remember this unique occurrence in the TV show we watched together?
She did not. When I carefully placed the squishy, slug-like critter on the coral head in front of her so that she could admire it and take a picture, she reached out and grabbed it by the “business end.” When the adhesive intestines wrapped around her hands and arms it seemed to contract on her skin and hair. As it began to pull at the hair and skin, Michelle began to panic as the pulling hair and associated pain made her think that maybe this thing had poisonous stinging tentacles. It was clearly my fault, (those of us married men who are smart enough to concede so know that it is always our fault) so I endured a panicked verbal attack that questioned my level of intelligence among a peppering of names that I’d rather not repeat here. My insistence of, “But honey, we watched this show!....” was no consolation.
Michelle eventually recovered from the sea cucumber attack and we later went fishing together on a borrowed blibili. I’ve managed to do far less fishing than I would like since arriving in Wailevu, despite watching mackerel jump outside the fringing reef on a regular basis. When I have managed to get out there, I’ve caught several jackfish and other reef fish. I’ve also had several follows by sharks and BIG barracuda. As much fun as it would be to snag a shark or big ‘cuda, I’m not ready to lose all my line just yet for just a few seconds of excitement. So at this point, I’m still exploring and learning while supplementing our protein occasionally with reef fish. Once we build our own bilibili, though, our access to the offshore reef will dramatically increase my opportunities.
Nevertheless, I recently reverted to one of my childhood techniques and took a hike to a large river mouth nearby. After talking to the locals, I learned that they would regularly catch large mangrove snapper, on the order of 20+ pounds, at the river mouth on setlines. So one evening, I went down to the river mouth with two set lines rigged with 10/0 circle hooks, 90# braided wire leader, 130# swivels, and 200# mainline. Using my cast net, I caught a couple of 10-inch mullet for bait. After baiting and setting the lines, I went home to wait for the low tide the following morning.
The next morning I walked to the river to find the first line with no bait. The second line, however, was drawn tightly from its secure tie on a stump at the river’s edge. “Woohoo!” I thought as I saw the taut line and picked up my pace over to its location. Nonetheless, as I picked up the line the resistance disappeared and I pulled in the line to find it separated about two thirds of the way down. This was 200# poly line that was separated in a way that indicated it was pulled apart, not cut, not slowly abraded, but literally pulled apart. When I told the villagers, I became the talk of the town and the most recent fish story. It was then that I learned of the bali, which the villagers insisted was what broke my line.
The bali is apparently a fish that lives in the lower river and estuary that reaches an unimaginable size. When I ask them to describe the fish, they insist that it is not a shark and has a mouth as wide as a man can spread his arms and a body that tapers to a small tail. Local legend says that during strong tides the fish just opens its mouth and eats everything that drifts through with the tide. The last one that was caught back in the 60’s supposedly had to be hauled from the river using two cows and had a sea turtle in its stomach. I have no idea what this fish is, but now I’m intrigued…and determined to catch one!
I'm looking forward to more exploring on the reef and offshore very soon once we get our bilibili built. We still have a lot to learn about the marine environment near our home and I have a lot to learn from the locals about the local fish calendar. Nonetheless, I am confident that very soon I will be catching lots of big fish. I’ve also become good friends with the local spearfishing expert who’s promised to show me the hot spots and best techniques for fish and lobster...yes, lobster. Michelle and I are also very much looking forward to some diving on some spectacular South Pacific dive sites. So look for some entries soon of more fish and diving pictures!
