An American Fishing in Bali
by Ian Burrow
Mario prepares more bait while Luigi, eyes on the horizon, dangles his line. Notice that Luigi secures the spool of line with his bare foot.
“Tuna…?” “Tuna.” The guides whispered to each other; eyes wide with anticipation as they watched me brace myself against the tiny hull of the Indonesian fishing craft. I felt the line cut into my fingers. That was the biggest downfall of this fishing method. Without a rod or reel, and without the years of calluses that these local fishermen had on their fingers, I simply had to embrace the discomfort. The pain was quickly washed away the moment I heard, “tuna.” This was it. This, was going to be my Moby Dick. Well. It would have been had the line not snapped. Rest assured, by the time I have grandkids and retell this story, it will put The Old Man and the Sea to shame.
My wife convinced me to spend our honeymoon in Bali. While this Indonesian island was certainly beautiful and the culture was undoubtedly fascinating, I was hoping we would end up somewhere with big game nearby that I could sneak off to chase. Then the lightbulb went off: Bali is surrounded by fish. The deal was struck: Bali for the honeymoon under the condition I could go fishing. Anyone who is married realizes that I would have ended up in Bali for my honeymoon regardless. But, it’s nice that my wife went along with it and made such a “compromise” on my behalf.
I originally made plans to go spearfishing but when I learned I could spend a morning with local fishermen, fishing in traditional Balinese fashion, for a grand total of $30 USD, I couldn’t change my itinerary fast enough. What better way to experience a different culture? Not to mention the resort offered to prepare and serve anything I caught.
I met Mario at the resort counter after breakfast and we made the short trek to the beach. Within moments, a canoe with wings tore through the surf and beached itself long enough for Mario to toss his grocery sack of fresh shrimp (our bait) into the vessel. The two men barely acknowledged each other as they worked like a Swiss watch to turn the bow back towards the open sea and motion for me to hop in.
The three of us peer anxiously to see what has made my line taunt.
I found the Sea Trek to be an intriguing craft. A small outboard motor governed it through the waves as Mario pointed out the ship’s fiberglass hull; a proud upgrade from his previous wooden jukund. This canoe-like boat was wide enough for a passenger to sit, and long enough for four. A blue canvass canopy ran the length of the vessel, protecting its passengers from the sun while its supports served as a drying rack for a fisherman’s wet laundry. The “wings” were stabilizing pontoons - a necessity for such a small craft to travel into deep, choppy water. The inlet we were in, surrounded by mountainous jungle terrain, was full of large oil tankers. The wake from any one of these was enough to capsize the jukund ten times over were it not for its “wings.”
Mario explained, via hand signals and broken English, that a rod and reel were sometimes used for deep sea fishing. Apparently, a mile out to sea with a line running as deep as 50m does not qualify as “deep sea fishing” which is why no fishing rods were in the canoe that day. A 5kg test line, with two small hooks spaced 15cm apart and a 3kg tear-drop weight, was the method of choice. The angler drops his line and leaves the spool near, or around, his foot and monitors the line with his hands. Upon feeling a nibble, the fisherman will try to set the hook and then, hand over hand, withdraw the line.
We weaved in and out of big oil tankers in search of the prime spot. We dropped our lines, felt the hooks teased and our bait consumed, and then Luigi would guide us to another spot. Mario’s good sense of humor came to light each time a line came up with bare hooks. He’d smile and point out that, “there are clever fish in Bali.” It should come to no surprise that my line breaking on the presumable tuna was, well, heart-breaking. Those few minutes of tug of war were enough to alter the course of the boat - which only exacerbates my imagination now as to what was on the other end of the line.
Mario and Luigi quickly orient the boat back to sea.
We all caught several small fish that morning. I think one was identified as a small snapper? Truth be told, I hadn’t brushed up on my Balinese and I still struggle to distinguish the fish at home; when Mario shared the name of each catch, I just smiled and thanked him. In between the jeers and woes, the morning was fairly quiet. Each man was focused on catching dinner, or pondering his life goals, or whatever arbitrary thoughts cross an angler’s mind as he peers into the sea.
I loved learning a new fishing technique, I loved gazing over the water and up into the jungle, I loved breathing the ocean mist, but most of all, I loved realizing that there is no race or ethnicity of a fisherman. A fisherman, is a fisherman. Despite being from different ends of the globe, we all found tranquility in the rocking vessel and in the silence of the pursuit. We all reveled in a taunt line and cheered, despite the size, for each other’s catch. We all chuckled about my Moby Dick, and looked optimistically to the next spot to drop our lines. We all simply loved the opportunity, to fish.
We nestled ourselves amongst large oil and cargo ships. The “wings” of the jukund help keep the canoe-like vessel from capsizing when it comes into contact with big waves (such as those often caused by larger ships traveling).
This article was previously published here.