Leki asked me if I wanted to go fishing with him. I happily agreed, naively thinking it resembled the American style of fishing that I had in mind. I pictured a quiet afternoon, sitting on a boat with my hat tipped slightly over my eyes, feet dangling over the edge, all the while popping the occasional beer (even though I’m not allowed to drink during training), and patiently waiting for the fish to bite.
I didn’t know he meant that he wanted to go fishing immediately, when it was raining heavily with strong gusts of wind thrown in for good measure. If that wasn't bad enough, we had to fish "Peace Corps Tongan style"! Fish and lure?… Boat?… what are you talking about?
Three hours later, I’m standing more than a mile away from any real land with my waist in the ocean. I have a cut on my left arm that’s just started bleeding and with who knows how many cuts on my legs from the very sharp coral seabed that ranges in height from ankle deep water to submerging me up to my chest. It’s so sharp that the Tongans I’m with, who usually don’t even wear shoes for the piercing land coral, are either wearing tennis shoes or fishing boots in the water. I’m thinking, “Hey, sharks are extremely attracted to blood. Not even a year ago another Peace Corps volunteer died from a shark attack here in Tonga. This isn't good.”
It wouldn’t be such a precarious position to be in if it weren’t for the fact that I was helping drag 50+ pounds of dead, yet very bloody fish in an open bag out in the middle of the ocean.
The method we were using to fish was quite simple, but highly effective. Some of us would set up a large net out on one side of the ocean while a bunch of others would be about half a football field away. Once we gave the signal, the people furthest away from the net would start moving closer while pounding the water and throwing starfishes / rocks to scare the fish. The fish would get caught up in the net and we would have dinner!
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