decided it would be impolite not to comply with the prescription. Certainly I needed something to help my focus. I was almost starting
to believe that the mbenga is a spirit and not a real fish at all. Maybe my approach was wrong. Or maybe catching it was just a matter of time. Keep at it and another one will come, and sooner or
later one will stay on the line. But whether it will or not is in the lap of the gods. The trouble was that I had very limited time: just two weeks to fish, which were nearly over.
By now our African Queen-style launch had returned to its owner in Brazzaville, and our transport for everybody plus kit was a large dugout canoe with an unreliable outboard that a young man
called Fred (pronounced Frrred-duh) piloted. Getting around in this was a slow business, and after all this time with no fish, morale was getting lower by the day. We’d not been to the
original bweta for a few days, so I decided to give it another try. This time we moored the boat a way upstream and I picked my way over the boulders to a precarious fishing position. The
bait had a large single hook nicked through its back and another through the skin of its tail, with a treble dangling loose under its belly, held in place with a twist of fuse wire. This was a
newly devised rig with a good hooking capability but not too much metalware, and I felt more confident than I had for a while as I swung the bait out fairly close, about ten yards. And I’d
scarcely settled into my uncomfortable perch when the float disappeared.
The next thing I knew I was on my feet wrestling a rod that had come alive. Uppermost in my mind was the knowledge that I mustn’t let this fish take too much line. On a long line the fish
could swing in towards the side, with me powerless to stop it. Because of my position on the point, this would take it around a corner, out of sight, and if the taut, braided line touched a rock,
that would be that. But in front of me was deep, open water: each time the fish changed direction, I tried to counteract it in order to keep it in there. At one point the line cut up towards the
surface and I thought the fish was going to jump, but instead I just saw its dorsal fin and a flash of silver. I could see it was a big fish, and as I clambered down to the water’s edge I
yelled at Fred to bring the landing net. There was a good chance this would be chewed to pieces once its head was inside, but by this time, in theory, we would have grabbed its tail. And between
us, despite me nearly slipping right into the water, we executed this plan perfectly. The fish, a massively deep-bodied monster, was ours!
What’s more, we had landed it alive. As I held it in the flowing shallows, keeping well clear of its business end, its gills were working strongly and rhythmically. But whenever I took my
hands away, it couldn’t hold itself upright, and over time its breathing slowed. If I had let it go, it would have slipped into the main flow and sunk from sight. But I’m certain it
wouldn’t have recovered; it would have suffered a fatal battering on the rocks at the bottom of the bweta , possibly being given the coup de grâce by another goliath.
I have a theory that some fish can suffer a form of decompression sickness when they are caught, the same disorder that afflicts divers (‘the bends’) if they surface too quickly.
This is caused by dissolved nitrogen in the blood and tissue fluids forming tiny bubbles when the pressure around the body decreases – exactly what we see when we twist open the cap of a
fizzy drink bottle and the dissolved gas (carbon dioxide in this case) forms bubbles. Such bubbles forming in the body’s inner workings can cause skeletal, circulatory, and neurological
disorders, which, if not treated by recompression, can lead to paralysis or death. One human symptom that’s sometimes visible externally is a skin rash, and this is something that also
appears on some fish a little while after
to believe that the mbenga is a spirit and not a real fish at all. Maybe my approach was wrong. Or maybe catching it was just a matter of time. Keep at it and another one will come, and sooner or
later one will stay on the line. But whether it will or not is in the lap of the gods. The trouble was that I had very limited time: just two weeks to fish, which were nearly over.
By now our African Queen-style launch had returned to its owner in Brazzaville, and our transport for everybody plus kit was a large dugout canoe with an unreliable outboard that a young man
called Fred (pronounced Frrred-duh) piloted. Getting around in this was a slow business, and after all this time with no fish, morale was getting lower by the day. We’d not been to the
original bweta for a few days, so I decided to give it another try. This time we moored the boat a way upstream and I picked my way over the boulders to a precarious fishing position. The
bait had a large single hook nicked through its back and another through the skin of its tail, with a treble dangling loose under its belly, held in place with a twist of fuse wire. This was a
newly devised rig with a good hooking capability but not too much metalware, and I felt more confident than I had for a while as I swung the bait out fairly close, about ten yards. And I’d
scarcely settled into my uncomfortable perch when the float disappeared.
The next thing I knew I was on my feet wrestling a rod that had come alive. Uppermost in my mind was the knowledge that I mustn’t let this fish take too much line. On a long line the fish
could swing in towards the side, with me powerless to stop it. Because of my position on the point, this would take it around a corner, out of sight, and if the taut, braided line touched a rock,
that would be that. But in front of me was deep, open water: each time the fish changed direction, I tried to counteract it in order to keep it in there. At one point the line cut up towards the
surface and I thought the fish was going to jump, but instead I just saw its dorsal fin and a flash of silver. I could see it was a big fish, and as I clambered down to the water’s edge I
yelled at Fred to bring the landing net. There was a good chance this would be chewed to pieces once its head was inside, but by this time, in theory, we would have grabbed its tail. And between
us, despite me nearly slipping right into the water, we executed this plan perfectly. The fish, a massively deep-bodied monster, was ours!
What’s more, we had landed it alive. As I held it in the flowing shallows, keeping well clear of its business end, its gills were working strongly and rhythmically. But whenever I took my
hands away, it couldn’t hold itself upright, and over time its breathing slowed. If I had let it go, it would have slipped into the main flow and sunk from sight. But I’m certain it
wouldn’t have recovered; it would have suffered a fatal battering on the rocks at the bottom of the bweta , possibly being given the coup de grâce by another goliath.
I have a theory that some fish can suffer a form of decompression sickness when they are caught, the same disorder that afflicts divers (‘the bends’) if they surface too quickly.
This is caused by dissolved nitrogen in the blood and tissue fluids forming tiny bubbles when the pressure around the body decreases – exactly what we see when we twist open the cap of a
fizzy drink bottle and the dissolved gas (carbon dioxide in this case) forms bubbles. Such bubbles forming in the body’s inner workings can cause skeletal, circulatory, and neurological
disorders, which, if not treated by recompression, can lead to paralysis or death. One human symptom that’s sometimes visible externally is a skin rash, and this is something that also
appears on some fish a little while after
Similar Books
