spearfishing – Charlierobinsonbooks

Where It All Began 11

Christmas

Christmas, Gran Canaria in 1976 was a little different to a Bradford council estate. In fact, nothing seemed to be planned. Our two Aussie friends had departed for Italy, which I believe Peter was pleased about, as I now had no partner in crime. We were a little short on cash, the fishing was not so good locally, and so we’d taken the inflatable three miles up the coast where it was remarkably better.

You know how life can throw little problems at you? Well, it was one of those days. We’d caught quite a few fish, but when we returned to the inflatable it was no longer inflated 😂 We fired up the outboard but it was dragging the boat under, so we paddled. A long hour passed by before a fishing boat came into view. We scrounged a lift with the aforesaid pancake hanging over the back. It was late when we got back so we dumped the darn thing on the beach, and using what they now call “Black Ops” in the world of espionage, we sold the fish to a restaurant that wasn’t owned by the local Chief of Police’s brother. Yup, we’d crossed a line of a family dynasty.

The following day the inflatable and the outboard had gone. The Police Chief saw us on the beach, came over and told us we should be more careful in all things we do, shrugged and walked away. When you are in a foreign place sometimes you have to accept what is. Anyaways… Peter had to go into Las Palmas, so I decided I could swim the three miles, get some fish and swim back. It was a pleasant swim, and took less than two hours. I knew from the previous day where to fish. You may have been in the sea for two hours? If you have you’ll know your skin becomes very soft. I rested the handle of my speargun tight into my belly and pulled the thick bands back, locking them into the trigger mechanism, at least I thought I had. As I let go the spear flew out and the wishbone of the bands ripped the skin from the inside of my hands. Have you ever been submerged in salt water with no skin on the inside of your hands?😂

Yesterday had been one of those days, it appeared today was feeling lonely and wanted to join in. I tried to load the gun again, but it wasn’t going to happen. My mind likes to toy with me in those kind of situations and so it recalled the film, Jaws where Robert Shaw said blood in the water attracts Sharks. I decided it was probably a good idea to swim back. The swim home took a little longer than the swim there and Peter was waiting on the shore when I finally returned. His comment? “At least the wounds don’t need cleaning😂” Oh well, at least it was Christmas.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 10

San Nicolás

On the west of Gran Canaria is San Nicolás and it’s remote. We’d been a few times, but it was always too rough to dive. We drove down out of the mountains and I could see the ocean raging against the land, but I knew it wouldn’t matter. Peter was not a patient man. There was a jetty where you could enter the water, but with a 40ft swell and waves crashing over our entry point I was a tad nervous.

We donned our wetsuits and walked down to our departure point. An old man shouted “Loco.” Once in the water I swam hard to get away from the wall. Peter had instructed me to stay with him, I lost sight of him within 5 mins.😂 After an hour or so I had a few fish, and decided on one last dive and then I was done. We liked to dive holes, rocks on top of each other formed little caves where fish would lay. I found one and slid into it. On my way out I felt something snag above me, and realised my weight (backpack) was stuck. Peter had told me the only thing that can kill you underwater is panic. So, although I was really keen to re-surface and breathe, I wriggled back inside, dropped down and tried again. I was jolly well relieved when I got out of there, I can tell you😂 Now I had to swim back!

It appeared I had drifted a fair way out. I was beyond the headland and could barely make out the jetty. But, I got my head down, kept finning, and eventually I’d made progress. I saw Peter as I neared the shore and he told me it’d be tricky getting out, and he would take my gear and fish in for me. He told me not to come in until he waved me in. The idea being that a big wave would drop me onto the jetty rather than smash me on the rocks, as he put it. 😂 It worked!

As we walked back to the van a crowd gathered, one of them was the local landlord and he offered to buy our fish. He said he’d take them to the bar and if we called there after we’d changed he’d pay us. Which we did.

He paid us immediately and offered us a beer. There were a few fishermen in the bar who were obviously impressed, not only because we had ventured into that broiling mass, but that we actually survived 😂 A few moments later the landlords wife came from the kitchen with our fish on a large platter. Her husband told us to choose one each and she disappeared again, returning a little later with two cooked fish and those wonderful garlic potatoes the Spanish do so well.

We stayed a while, drank beer, laughed with the locals and revelled in the kudos. Eventually Peter asked for the bill and the landlord waved us away, Apparently we were to pay nothing. Outside the bar the old man who had shouted “Loco” approached me and placed his hand on my shoulder. He said something in Spanish, I looked at Peter with my usual teenage blank expression, he had some knowledge of the language. A rough translation was “Today you have learned not to fear the sea. You must never fear the sea. But you must always respect her, and never underestimate her. You are young and today you maybe underestimated her. Maybe you showed her disrespect, that it is not for me to say. Whatever you did today, she forgave you. Be careful young one. She does not forgive often and never, will she forgive twice.” He squeezed my shoulder, gave me a grin and walked away.

It appeared I had learned yet another lesson. A few years ago I turned this experience into a short story and was shortlisted for the Olga Sinclair prize and published in an anthology Tales From The Tide.

Happy Trails, Folks x

Where It All Began 9

Gran Canaria, Mogan

If you remember, this all started because I asked Gillian if I should get therapy? Her answer was an emphatic, “NO! It would be too traumatic for them!” So I wondered why.

I read recently that Gran Canaria in 1976 was equivalent to a third world country. I remember the day we arrived in Mogan, and to be honest there wasn’t much there. We pulled up by the beach, Pink Floyd’s Wish You Here blared out from John and Mudgut’s van as we unloaded the inflatable and began to put our wetsuits on. A crowd gathered until the local police chief pushed his way through and they began to disperse. It turned out we needed a license to spearfish, which we should have purchased on the mainland! Then came the “but.”😂 If we sold our fish to only one restaurant, he would allow us to continue. A little baffled, but with a sigh of relief, we agreed, and with a slap on our backs he left.

The fishing was good that day, and after a rest we ate some Cambells Meatballs and potatoes, we couldn’t afford to eat the fish, that had to be hawked around restaurants, or in our case sold to just one. We arrived there early evening, and as always went to the rear door. Usually the chef came out, he weighed the fish, we agreed a price, and shook hands. Not this time! The owner appeared, told us what he would pay, and explained it was non-negotiable. We took his money reluctantly, and were about to leave when Peter noticed a kitchen hand smoking a cigarette. He went to have a word and came back frowning. “It’s his brother,” he said. “The owner is the police chief’s brother.”

We needed a new plan, but for now we’d agreed to meet John and Mudguts in one of the few bars, as I remember there were only two. We chose the fisherman’s bar which was more of a shack. Aussie John was standing at the bar with his hands outspread. “El biggo, el bottlo, el wino” he kept repeating to a bemused, rotund barman. Mudguts seemed impressed and commented how his brother’s Spanish was becoming better by the day. I heard Peter sigh. “Dear Lord,” he pulled John away from the bar and explained that A. He wasn’t speaking Spanish and B. The bar only sold beer in small bottles from a chest fridge. We settled down with some beers, and half an hour later the lights went out. The barman explained that the generator on top of the hill supplied power to the village. It was an old generator! “It is ok, Miguel will fix it,” he told us. Sure enough within an hour the lights came back on, everyone cheered, the barman reached for a beer, downed it in one, and there was another cheer.

After the third beer Peter informed me it was time for a run. “Say what?!” Apparently I wasn’t spending enough time underwater and we would soon be diving to 75ft. So, I needed a bigger lung capacity, and to achieve this, I needed to run. I explained we were parked at the bottom of a mountain, which seemed to have no affect. Apparently running two miles up a mountain and then two miles back down again, was good for you, and it was too hot during the day. I should be grateful, I still remember that evening, and I was totally unaware that I would still be hitting the trails fifty years later.

When I returned to the van there was a towel, soap, and note on the tailgate. “Get a wash in the sea, and don’t wake me.” It was December and we weren’t leaving until March. I was an eighteen year-old male, did I need to wash? Apprently I did. It was one of many lessons I was going to learn over the next four months.

Happy Trails, folks. x

Where it All Began 4

Jersey

So there I was, seventeen-years-old, sitting on a plane heading to a far away island. My first view of Jersey didn’t disappoint, but I had just left a Bradford council estate where, after my first happy ten years as a countryboy, it had been cold, raining and totally depressing, so the bar was pretty low. I had become a different person during the years in Bradford, and not a particularly nice one. All it seemed to have taught me was how to fight and drink, but I had escaped.

I wondered what kind of reception I would get. I had some ideas. Fantasy Island wasn’t released until a year later but that it was the kind of image I had imagined.

There was a distinct lack of hula hula girls with flowers in their hair. No sophisticated, enigmatic Mr Roarke or a helpfull Tattoo, just a copper looking at me as I trudged past with my battered suitcase and an old guitar on my back. I left the airport, caught a bus into town and did what any sensible person would do. I went to the Tourist Information Office and asked if they had a list of B&Bs. There was one priced at £2.50 per night (remember this was 1976). When I arrived I saw an attractive brunnette leaning on the wall outside, she turned out to be the owner. I was 17, I wasn’t going anywhere else.

Now they say you make your own luck, I guess that could be true. It turned out her husband was a self employed uphosterer and could do with some cheap labour. Even at £1 an hour I jumped at the chance. He was also a sports diver/competition spearfisherman. Now we were talking. I had been watching Jacques Cousteau for many years, so diving was right at the top of my list, even after experiencing Mr Spielberg’s Jaws.

One day a friend of my new employer turned up, Peter. He’d heard I wanted to learn how to spearfish. “Jump in the van.” he said. “Why?” I asked. “You’ll need some gear.” He drove me, one by one, to each of his friend’s houses. He told each friend which piece of equipment they no longer used or had never used, and they were to give it to me, and by lunchtime I was fully kitted out. The next few months I was in the sea at every opportunity. In a spearfishing competition you enter the sea at 10am and have until 4pm to catch as many fish as you can. I was hooked (maybe that’s a pun).

One Saturday after a gruelling six hours in the water we were relaxing in the Yatch Club when my employer told Peter. “You should take young Charlie on your trip.” Apparently he was planning to head to the Canary Islands in September living out of a camper van and fishing to survive. The trip would last seven months, returning the following March. “Wanna come?” he asked. Did I want to come? 😂

So it was arranged, six months after arriving on the island and three months after my 18th Birthday I was going to be travelling 3,000km and spearfishing in the Mediterraen and the Atlantic while living out of a camper van. The plan was to take the car ferry to St Malo, drive through France to Spain and fish our way down the Spanish coast to Cadiz. A ferry would then take us to our final destination. A small village called Mogan on the island of Gran Canaria.

Felices senderos mis amigos 😉x