Lamu: Part Two

We had decided that we would go back on the boat for our second day at Lamu and try our hand at deep sea fishing. The Douglas's seem to carry around a curse of bad luck when it comes to fishing. Perhaps a long deceased ancestor upset Davey Jones and was sentenced to have offspring with pitiful fishing skills for eternity. Never-the-less I decided that I will not be punished for the sins of the past and set out determined. 
And so we begin our adventure, sailing in the Imani; the most faithful, slightly leaky, Rasta boat to have ever sailed on the Indian Ocean. It took a while to get far enough into the open sea for good fishing and although the gentle waves were lulling me into a state nastalgia it seemed to have a less enjoyable effect on some of the other passengers. Unenjoyable for both the passenger and the spectator. Finally we made the first stop and the fishing lines were issued. The term "fishing rods" would not be appropriate as the square plank of wood inwhich the fishing line was wrapped around could not have been classified as a rod. The sinker was a rusty peice of rebar and the bait was just a plain old chunk of squid not desguised by any kind of fancy schmansy lure or shiny metal twirlers. I felt the curse of Davey Jones weigh heavey upon my shoulders; I would never outsmart Neptune's creatures with this kind of archaic madness! I sighed as Captain Dolphin shook his head and started the motor to search out a better spot. The beginning of a long fruitless day no doubt.
With the motor cut and the boat slowing, Toothless (a name I had developed for rasta helper who was missing a tooth) cast my line for me and then handed it over. Do I even bother trying to find the technique for fishing with a plank of wood? My skeptical thought was cut short by my mother's shrill shriek of excitement, "I caught something! I caught something! Ahh ahhhhhh! AHHHHH!" Seems the curse is on my father's side. As the dark figure attached to her line loomed closer to the surface the boat tipped to the right in response the onslaught of ecited passengers coming to witness the ascent of the first catch. And then there it was. An octopus. In my ecitement I reached out to touch the wealthy limbed creature but at that moment it freed itself from the line and escaped into the blue. Cruse my cursed hand! It seemed all for the better though as Toothless began acting out what would have happened had I managed to catch the beast with my bare hands. He didn't have to know English to explain that the octopus would have malled me. But from the moment that my mother had had that first lucky nibble the Imani had seemed to transform into some sort of fish magnet. Toothless would throw down a line, tug at it for only a brief moment and then reel up a fish. I was shocked. Who knew that in trying to maximize the catch potential by covering our equipment with shiny lures and buying the newest light weight rods we were actually drowning the delicate art of fishing with over modernization. I shall never touch a rod, nor lure, again. And, miracles of miracles, I was able to reel up a fish. After Toothless had made sure it was tightly attached to my line of course. I laugh at Davey Jones and his curse!
A few hours later we arrived to the shore of Manda beach with a bag full of freshly caught fish and a few bright, red sunburns to prove our days work. The rastas disappeared somewhere on the beach and left us to swim in the warm water of the Indian Ocean. We then took our places underneath a thatched roof of a small tiki shade house and awaited our lunch. We were served generous portions of coconut rice, stewed vegetables, fish (yes, the fish that we had caught) and fruit. I don't know what was more wonderfully novel; being served food by men, cooked by men or the absolute deliciousness of the "from scratch" dishes.