The Red Snapper Fishing Disaster

In the summer before my seventh-grade year, we went on vacation down to the Melanesian coast with some of our longtime family friends. They were missionaries also and had known us way back during our first term on the field when my dad was still alive. He and Uncle Joe had become fast friends, in part because of their shared experience of being in the US Marine Corps. They also hit it off because both were extroverted leaders who were always up for a good laugh or an adventure. Even after my dad passed away, Uncle Joe always honored that friendship by looking out for me and my brothers. He and my dad were examples of how the Marine commitment to Semper Fi is only deepened when those Marines are followers of Christ.

Note: missionary kids tend to call the other adult missionaries “aunt” and “uncle” rather than using other titles. Whatever the origin of this practice, it’s now a global thing and part of missionary culture everywhere. Since adult missionaries are not in fact biological aunts and uncles, this can lead to some temporary confusion among the kiddos, as it did when each of my kids got old enough to work it out. “Dad, why do we have so many aunts and uncles?”

Anyway, as a twelve-year-old I found myself the youngest member of our two-family convoy, happily descending 4,000 feet on switchback roads to the sugarcane fields and the tropical beaches beyond. Uncle Joe had promised to take us boys on a night fishing expedition – and I was excited. I had never been night fishing on the ocean before, and this was likely to be a lot of fun.

The night finally came when we had planned to do the midnight fishing. Our two families enjoyed dinner together, with each of us kids eating generous amounts of beef burrito. Only five of us would go fishing together: Uncle Joe, his seventeen-year-old daughter, my two older brothers, and me. My mom, quite the adventurer herself, was a little envious that she didn’t get to come.

Our group set out from the beach cabins where we were staying, full of anticipation. But as is so often the case in island culture, the plans Uncle Joe thought were set in stone with locals were not exactly understood as such by those same locals. So, when we drove to the home of the boat owner and pilot, he was nowhere to be found.

In the age before cell phones, this meant we had to wait a long time until he showed up. At last, he appeared. But then he informed us that there was no gas for the boat. So, we waited another hour or so until gas could be procured. After that, he also told us that he didn’t have an anchor. Yet another long process of borrowing an anchor from someone else led to even more delay.

Even though we had all lived in Melanesia for a long time, culture clashes like this between the plan-oriented Westerners and the take-it-as-it-comes locals still came up on the regular. These sorts of misunderstandings would years later contribute to me and my friends being chased down a mountain by a tribal war party. But on that summer night, it just meant that we sat for a couple of hours in the humid evening air, bored, and wishing we had brought more burritos. But at last, we had a boat, a pilot, gas for the boat, and an anchor. Now the adventure could begin.

Our vessel was what is known as a banana boat. This is a long open fiberglass vessel with several benches spanning its width, propelled by one outboard motor on the back. Along with outrigger canoes, it’s a pretty standard craft for local fishermen who make their living from the abundance of the coral reefs and tropical seas in that part of the world.

We all piled into the boat, five of us Westerners and three local men. Almost as soon as we got onto the water, a light, warm rain started. We couldn’t see any stars due to the thick clouds that had rolled in – not a good sign. Then, the wind picked up, which meant the waves quickly became too choppy for us to stay in place over the reef. A few initial fishing attempts only produced some small bait fish, which were tossed into the boat to flop around on the floor for a disturbingly long time.

Things were not off to a great start, but Uncle Joe was on a mission. He commanded the boat’s pilot to make for deeper seas. At about this point, we started to regret the burritos. As our banana boat bounced off one wave and then another, first, one of my older brothers lost his supper over the side. Then, the other followed suit. From the churning of my stomach, I knew that I would not be far behind them. I tried my best to keep my supper down, but it was in vain. Dutifully following birth order, I puked as well. At least we might draw some more fish this way.

After a little while we finally come to a stop and the men were attempting to fish again, this time in deeper water. Uncle Joe’s daughter, for her part, was laughing at us weak-bellied boys. She appeared to be fine. Suddenly, one of the men had a bite. It seemed to be something sizable. He fought with whatever it was on the other end of the line and steadily reeled it in. All at once, it seemed to give up the fight. We understood what had happened once he fully reeled in his line. On it was the massive head of a fish that looked like a red snapper (The only reason we knew this was because of the ridiculous Weird Al movie, UHF, and its Wheel of Fish scene). But the rest of the fish’s body was gone. It had been bitten clean off on the way up, likely by a barracuda. The disappointed fisherman unhooked the decapitated fish head and unceremoniously tossed it into the bottom of the boat, right down by our feet. There it lay, staring into oblivion, surrounded by the still flailing and gasping bait fish.

At this point, my brothers and I started round two of blessing the ocean in birth order with regurgitated burrito. We realized that night that we each have distinctive styles of throwing up. My oldest brother seemed to be the most normal-sounding. Overall, he had pretty balanced heaving noises. The middle brother sounded like he was either giving birth or dying. I’m sure that he was in pain, but he was also quite painful to listen to. As for me, they claimed I had a very strange style. I didn’t seem to heave or grunt, but merely opened my mouth and closed it in a very nonchalant fashion. Allegedly, it sounded like someone turning a tap on full blast, then turning it off – or like someone pouring a gallon of milk onto a cement floor. That’s gross, A.W., move on already from the puking styles.

We felt miserable. But at least Uncle Joe’s daughter had joined us in our misery. No longer snickering, she was in the back by the motor trying to throw up as discreetly as she could. Worn out though we were, we still felt the justice in this. By now, the rain and storm had picked up and we were starting to shiver. My oldest brother gave me his jacket (a very good big brother thing to do, by the way). But it wasn’t long before we were all soaked and the growing puddles in the bottom of the boat were breathing fresh life into the flip-flopping bait fish.

It was now past midnight. Uncle Joe was at the helm, laughing in the rain and thunder, like some kind of Viking giving out orders, telling us all to steady on and be men. But even the locals were starting to get grumpy. It was a terrible night for fishing, even for men of their skill. Still, we soldiered on, taunted by the staring decapitated head of the red snapper – and the evil barracuda who had denied us our one good catch.

The last thing I remember is curling up on one of the hard benches, drenched and exhausted, and trying to get some sleep. I remember seeing my middle brother curled up in a puddle in the bottom of the boat, seemingly in a glazed staring contest with the red snapper. Why is he trying to sleep in that puddle? I wondered to myself. Somehow, I drifted off into a strange sleep.

We made it back to the beach cabins after 2 am. Once my mom heard what had happened, her envy at not being able to come quickly turned to relief. She and the other ladies who had stayed behind had a lovely evening – and still held down their burrito supper. Out of us Westerners in the fishing party, Uncle Joe was the only one able to pull off that kind of feat of iron stomach.

I was just messaging with Uncle Joe the other day, telling him that my brothers and I were recently laughing about our epic night fishing trip. “What an adventure that was!” I told him.

“Adventure? It was a disaster!” wrote back Uncle Joe.

Indeed, it was a disaster, for us humans anyway. Other than some bait fish and that red snapper’s head, we hadn’t caught a thing.

But I imagine there were at least a few fish who had a good night. Certainly, those who enjoyed the doomed burritos. And of course, one very happy barracuda.

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