Going Hog Wild Over a Fish in Bermuda

By Angus Phillips
Sunday, August 31, 2008

PAGET, Bermuda The big event here last week was the implosion of the old, 400-room Club Med, witnessed by hundreds of boaters from all over the island who convened to see an ugly white elephant blown to concrete dust. "I've never seen this many boats gather for anything," said Tom Vesey, my old offshore sailing partner and a native Bermudian.

It was fun to watch, sure, but I had smaller fish to fry. I'd come all these miles to catch a wahoo, the wildly athletic and delicious fish from the mackerel family that's so abundant here, restaurants serve it as the default special and apologize if it's all they have.

The only time I ever caught a wahoo was off North Carolina's Outer Banks years ago. It came greyhounding up behind the boat chasing a fast-trolled bait, pounced like a linebacker on a fumble, then made spectacular leaps all over a vivid blue sea before falling to the gaff.

Back on land, our host carefully carved it into steaks for the grill and pronounced it his favorite fish--better than fresh tuna, mahi-mahi or kingfish. It was hard to argue when he plopped the steaks on a plate, all tight, muscular white meat slathered in butter and a dash of spice.

Vesey said wahoo were so plentiful around Bermuda, he was sure he could get someone to take me out to catch a mess if I came in August, high season. Of course he's no fisherman, and I should have taken that into account.

All offers of day trips out to the 350-foot line where wahoo roam dribbled onto the carpet as the wheels of USA 3000 flight 1247 touched down. Ricky's boat was out with smoky black exhaust, Glenn's had something else awry. With gasoline at $8 a gallon and charter fees sky high, I was unprepared to hire a boat and skipper for a day. What to do?

"I bet we can at least get Muss to take you out to the reef and go spearfishing," Vesey said. "He's always keen to go."

He was quickly on the phone to John Musson, a shaggy bear of a Bermudian who spearfishes the reefs once a week, year-round, with his mate Gene Chiaramonte. No worries, said Muss. See you on the dock at noon.

So began my maiden encounter with face-to-face fishing. I've caught thousands of fish over the years, from 400-pound blue marlin to three-ounce bluegills, but never had to look one in the eye at the moment of truth.

Spearfishing is legal in Bermuda a mile or more from shore but not with a speargun, only with a "Hawaiian sling." The seven-foot-long spear is powered by a loop of surgical tube at the end; you cock it by stretching the tube, hanging onto the shaft, aiming and letting loose at close range--two to three feet. "It's more like hunting than fishing," Chiaramonte said.

Musson put his 25-footer on plane and roared out of Hamilton Harbor, bound for reefs off the island's north side that have claimed many a mariner over the centuries. Once outside, Chiaramonte took station on the bow, gesturing this way and that to keep from adding us to the rolls.

He was scanning for breakers -- coral and rock outcroppings that poke just above the surface, where foam erupts when the sea is up. It was so calm, though, no foam appeared, and it took awhile to locate the outcroppings. Why fish these dangerous breakers? "That's where the big fish are," Musson said.

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.