Chapter 13: And Made Me How to Swim

Pauline came to life under me. “Is that a fish?” She raised her head.

“Probably. But it hasn’t hooked itself yet.” I was much more interested in our fucking, and the amazing and totally new sensations I was experiencing.

“You haven’t cum yet. Have we got time? I’ll help!”

She didn’t wait for my answer, but wriggled and indicated that I should straddle her, so that her legs were together between my thighs, and my whole length plus the base of my cock and my balls were all encased in her warm slippery tightness. I was immediately close, and Pauline helped me over the top with vigorous wriggling and squirming from a schoolgirl role that spoke to the deepest levels of my lust.

“Please fuck me sir! You can cum in my tight little cunt! Put a baby in me sir!”

I did. Well not actually the baby, but the thought was there. It was a really nice orgasm, albeit brief, but by the time I had finished pumping and squirting, Pauline was keen to get out from under me and grab the rod. She managed to struggle to her feet and had just lifted the butt clear of the holder when it bent sharply and the reel screamed.

For a moment I was afraid that the fish was going to pull the rod out of her grip, but Pauline got a second hand on it and held the tip up as it bent further and the fish took more line in a series of 20 metre rushes. She remembered what we had done with the Kahawai, and went to tighten the drag.

“No, don’t do that. Let it run!” The reel was old and not well maintained, the drag was “sticky”, and I knew that even a quarter turn too much on the adjustment could lock the whole thing solid and give the fish a chance to break free.

“Why? We didn’t let the Kahawai take line.”

“We were close to rocks it would try to snag us on. This is an open sand bottom and a much bigger fish. Not worth the risk.” I glanced at the reel and assured myself there was still 300metres of line left on it.

Pauline was a picture. Starkers, with a shiny wet crotch and two rigidly erect nipples, she was thoroughly animated and totally focussed on her battle with whatever had taken the squid and hooked up. I quickly reeled in the line from the second rod to get it out of her way.

“It feels like I’m hooked to a miniature submarine!”

“Just pump and wind when you are winning line, and when the fish runs and takes line stop winding and let the rod and the drag do the work.”

After a few minutes, the fight settled into a pattern. The fish would take line, and then Pauline would pump and wind and win it back. The fish would take line again, and Pauline would win it back. This went on for some time. They were both tiring. The fish was taking less each rush, and Pauline had lost her sparkle and bushy tailed eagerness. Now this fishing business had become work. But she pumped and wound, and gradually the angle of the line got steeper as the fish got closer to the boat.

I took the landing net, and positioned myself where Pauline could eventually bring the fish to it. From the way it was swimming, I thought the fish was most likely a big Trevally. I was eventually proved right. I could see flashes of silver and yellow through the clear water as Pauline worked it up towards the boat. By the time she got it within reach of the landing net the ten pound fish was exhausted and lay on its side on the surface. I had the net almost under its head when the Trevally gave a last desperate thrash and the hook finally tore free from its soft mouth.

Pauline gave a strangled cry of alarm and disappointment but fortunately, pelagic fish like Trevally can’t swim backward. I tilted the net, and as the fish swam further into it, I hoisted it aboard In my experience, most newcomers to fishing are inclined to let the fish they catch die from suffocation as their gills dry out and stop working. I kill them with a technique the Japanese call “iki”, pushing a knife or spike through the skull and into the brain. It is certainly kinder and makes the flesh taste better.

“You said I could do the next one.” She already had the bait knife in her hand, as the fish lay gasping in the net on the cockpit sole.

“Just here!” She located the point where I indicated, and thrust. The Trevally flapped vigorously, and then lay still as Pauline strained a little to hoist it aloft and then laid it alongside the Kahawai in the slurry.

“Ugh!” As the adrenaline rush subsided, she became aware of the fact that ikied fish are bloody and slimy, and that she had transferred a fair amount of both to her hands and the front of her thighs. Before I could offer a word of caution, she leaned far out over the side to wash herself.

It was a nice, fine, relatively calm day. There was perhaps a metre of swell, with small waves from the afternoon sea breeze on top of it. But we were now only a mile or so from the mouth of the harbour, and a 40,000 ton container ship moving at more than 20 knots makes a big bow wave which travels a long way for a long time.

Pauline was inexperienced and unaware, but also unlucky. A bow wave from a recently departed ship, an abnormally large swell, and one of the larger small waves combined to rock the boat much more violently than usual, and the portion of the cockpit coaming she grabbed as she lost her balance was slippery with slime.

There was a squawk and a big splash.

“Bugger!” The water was not very cold, but falling into it accidently and unexpectedly can cause panic, even in experienced people, let alone a novice who doesn’t swim particularly well. Panic can sometimes result in inhaling water, and the unfortunate victim is then in what is technically known as “deep shit”. And we had shed our lifejackets along with our clothing.

Pauline was coughing and spluttering. Her face was clear of the water, so she could breathe, but she sure wasn’t comfortable, and her efforts to keep herself afloat and find a grip on the outside of the hull weren’t well enough coordinated to inspire confidence.

“Hold on to the spray strake!” Dumb instruction. She wouldn’t know a spray strake from any of the other two hundred and seventy-three bits of maritime jargon I had grown up with. I got the landing net.

“Grab this!” She did, and I held on to the handle with one hand while I struggled to untie and drop the boarding ladder at the stern with the other, making a mental note that my current system was not fit for purpose in an emergency. The ladder dropped and Pauline abandoned the landing net for its security, hanging on for grim death as she continued to cough and splutter. After a few minutes, her breathing settled, and she scrambled back aboard.

She was shivering, soaking, and cold, though I wasn’t sure how much of the shivering was shock. She flung herself into my arms and began to sob. I can do tender solicitous sympathy, particularly with a naked woman, and more particularly when I am also naked myself. Unless I am warm and dry, and she is cold and wet. Right then, I wasn’t particularly keen on a lot of body contact with cold wet skin.

“Let’s get you dry.” I always pack a dry towel and some warm clothes, and before too long Pauline was dry, clothed, and under an aluminised emergency blanket in the beanbag. I was sorry I hadn’t packed a thermos of hot coffee. By the time I had got myself dressed and jacketed, started the motor, and headed back towards the harbour, she had perked up. I was pleased to see she put on her lifejacket without comment.

“What’s that fish called?”

“It’s a Trevally. The Maori name is AraAra. Overseas, they call related fish “Jacks”. It is probably even better eating than the Kahawai. But I was a wee bit sad to kill it. It’s probably nearly as old as we are.”

“Wow! How can you tell?”

“The scales have rings like tree rings. So do the otoliths – bones in the ears.”