Going Hog Wild Over a Fish in Bermuda

John Musson hoists a hogfish he speared on the reefs off Bermuda last week. "Less is more when you cook hogfish," he said. (By Angus Phillips For The Washington Post)
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I didn't want the lads to waste time instructing a novice and was about to say so, but no need. As soon as the anchor was down they were suited up and over the side. "We should stick together," Musson said with a wave as I struggled to don borrowed fins, mask, gloves and booties. That's the last I saw of either of them for a while.

They did say to keep an eye out for hogfish and rockfish, our top quarry, but I had no idea what either looked like. (Rockfish, it turns out, are black groupers, and hogfish are something else again.)

Over the transom I went, into the crystal depths where parrotfish, sergeant majors, neon somethings and great schools of gaudy minnows nibbled on corals of every kind--brain and fern and fan and heaven knows what else. The view down there in bright clear water for an interloper from the murky, muddy Chesapeake was breathtaking.

But one thing snorkelers hate is strong current and it was whipping. Musson called a halt to the proceedings quickly, with no shots fired, and we moved gingerly around the rocks to a quieter spot. Here the hunting was better. Almost immediately, I was surrounded by some one-pound, gray critters that looked edible. I cocked my spear, dropped to the depths and hung motionless for a moment. Most fled from my approach, but one spun for a closer look. Wham-O! Got him!

When I paddled back to the boat with my trophy, the others were coming in as well, Chiaramonte with a nice snapper about the same size as my mystery fish and Musson with a great, harlequin-colored hogfish of about 15 pounds. The preposterous-looking creature comes by its name honestly, with a snout only a pig farmer could love and a double-jointed jaw that opens so wide, "He can eat a lobster whole," Chiaramonte said.

Best of all, he said, hogfish are the finest eating fish in all Bermuda waters, with flesh as white and flaky and sweet as cod, maybe sweeter. Wahoo? Not even close.

My little triumph, sadly, was not so exciting. Turns out I'd speared a chub, which in Bermuda is considered edible only by folks in St. David's, who are said to have a special way of cooking them after a long soaking in milk. I cleaned it anyway and found a lady back on land who was pleased to take the bluish-tinted fillets off our hands.

As for the hogfish, the fillets were as advertised, white as fresh Vermont snow. "Less is more when you cook hogfish," Musson cautioned. "Just a little butter, a pinch of spice and a quick run under the broiler."

Just so. It was perfect.

Adaptability is the key to happiness, it's said. My return ticket is paid for and at $99.99, USA 3000 doesn't wait for anyone. My date with a wahoo will have to wait till next year. Meantime, bring on the hogs. It's almost Redskins season, after all.