Night Fishing on Muschu Island

Millions of people world-wide, love to fish, but there can be no more exciting way to fill a creel, than spear-fishing at night with the local men of Papua New Guinea. Traditionally, Island people fished the coral reefs each night that was calm and dark enough, using burning palm fronds they dipped in tree sap. Now, with Kerosene pressure lanterns, flash-lights, and metal spear points, they have much better success. Every night is a complete adventure, and no matter how many times you return to the same spot, the procession of life over the reef was constantly changing.

Between May and November, the doldrums prevail in the equatorial region along the North coast of Papua New Guinea. Kairiru Island lies about 20 km North of the town of Wewak, with Muschu Island directly between them. During these times, the North West wind dies to a slight breeze during the sultry days, and the nights are calm.

The people of all the islands along the coast have perfected fishing in all its forms, but everyone eagerly awaits the calm, dark nights of the dry season, when they can launch their outriggers, and drift slowly over the reef with their lanterns, looking for “sleeping” fish. The strategy works so well they can literally pick their choice of fish to eat for the next day or two, and the varieties available never ceased to amaze me.

Working as a C.U.S.O. volunteer, teaching at St. Xavier’s High school on Kairiru Island, I spent two and a half years enjoying the tropical Island life. Nothing in my life since, can compare to my excitement on those nights when I was invited to come along with some of the village men in their canoe. Many of those nights have been indelibly burned in my memory, so that I can hope to try to recall some of them for you.

I had only been on Kairiru for a few months, when Theo Naragunye, the captain of the school boat, invited me to join him and a friend Mick, night fishing. Being from Saskatchewan, I had envisioned fishing with a line and pole as we do at home, so I was surprised to see only spears in the bottom of the canoe as we pushed out from shore. The pressure lantern was hissing away, as I stood in the middle of the canoe, and took a paddle to help out.

Both men spoke only Melanesian Pidgin, the Lingua-Franca of New Guinea, which I was just learning. Conversation was the least of my worries however, as I was concentrating rather heavily on keeping my balance in the rocking canoe in the dark. The canoe was a typical coastal out-rigger, made of a hollowed out Garamut log about 5 meters long, with a small platform for cargo constructed on top of the out-rigger.

As well headed across the strait southward towards Muschu Island, about 500 meters away, I was fascinated by the sparkling phosphorescence of the plankton disturbed by our canoe and paddles. As I said, I was from Saskatchewan, which is a long, long way from the ocean, which I had only layed eyes on it a few months before. I was, and still am captivated by the endless wonders of the tropical ocean, as anyone who has seen it, would be.

My observations were cut short by a shout from Theo telling to Mick drop the lantern quickly, accompanied by a loud “thump” on the side of the canoe, then some frantic splashing. I had no clue what had happened, as the lantern was below the level of the sides of the canoe, but Theo suddenly reached down and grabbed a fish that had impaled itself into the wood.

“Oi, Changat!” he exclaimed, holding up a fish with a gruesome set of jaws filled with needle-like teeth. Changat is the local name for the many types of Garfish which abound in those waters. They can grow up to a meter long in some species, and are incredibly fast swimmers. They prefer the many flying fish that also share their region, so have evolved the ability to not only keep up to their flying prey, but to jump long distances in order to catch them in the air as well as in the sea.

The danger to the night fisherman is that they are attracted to the light of the lantern for some reason, and, as they can be traveling at 30-40 km/hour as they skip along the surface, holding the lantern up can be like holding up a target. This one had been skipping along so fast that he had driven his beak into the hard wood of the canoe deep enough to hold him fast until Theo grabbed him.

After a quick bite behind the eyes to kill the fish, Theo showed me a scar on his left thigh, which he explained, had been caused by a Changat many years before. The fish had pierced him and then thrashed away before he had time to grab it, and the resulting tear had left a nasty scar just above his knee. Forewarned, I resolved to listen carefully for their approach, and Mick assured us he would drop the light if we called out, since he couldn’t hear as well as we could over the hiss of the lantern.

As we finally reached the reefs around Muschu, Mick once again raised the lantern, and we were immediately rewarded with several fish, caught unawares in this unnatural light. We were in the midst of congratulating ourselves on such good luck, when suddenly I caught sight of a large body coming to the surface, just to my left. It was a big Leatherback Sea-turtle, and it let out a big puff of air when it broke through. Mick and Theo must have seen it at the same time, as they both turned to thrust out their spears, shouting with excitement.

Had Mick and Theo been alone, I have no doubt that they would have been successful, but they had momentarily forgotten that they had a “landlubber” on board. As they leaned left, I should have leaned right to balance the canoe, but I didn’t, and in an instant, the outrigger had flipped up and over our heads, tipping us into the ocean.

When the hot lantern hit the water, the glass shattered immediately, and as the light flashed out, I caught sight of our two flashlights spiraling downward. As the salt water made contact on the switches, they both came on and shone dimly from the bottom, about 10 meters below.

Grabbing for the overturned canoe, I hung sputtering with one hand, while I grasped the paddle with the other. I would have been a little upset, had it not been for the raucous laughter coming from Mick and Theo on the other side of the canoe. Chortling like madmen, they were gathering up all our floating gear that remained in reach, making jokes about the whole experience already. All I could think about were the many sharks that hunted the reefs everywhere, and the dozen or so fish we had spilled into the water, all leaking blood.

Before I had left Canada, I had foolishly gone to the new release of the movie, “JAWS”, and believe me, it was no help to me now! Treading water with my legs hanging down like white beacons, slightly unnerved me, and I immediately began looking around trying to figure out where we were exactly.

After our eyes became accustomed to the absolute darkness, we were able to orient ourselves using the lights of the school across the strait, and the fires in the villages on Muschu. With Mick and Theo still giggling and joking, we turned towards Muschu, and paddled and kicked our way ashore. After dragging ourselves and the canoe up on the beach and tipping back it back over, we flopped down and had another good laugh.

Everything was too wet to have a smoke or to chew betel nut, as the lime was all wet, so we re-launched the canoe, and headed back to St. Xavier’s. When we arrived, there were a group of boys from the school waiting, as they had heard the laughing and splashing from across the strait, and figured out what had happened. Sitting around the fire at Theo’s house, we were obliged to tell the whole story several times, with every participant adding his own rendition of the events. New Guineans love to tell stories, and ours got better with each retelling.

After such a disaster, I didn’t expect to be invited back to fish with them again, but in true Melanesian fashion, they came to get me at my house the very next weekend. They were all smiles and jokes about what might happen this night, and I couldn’t have said no if I had wanted to.

I had bought a new Lantern for myself, and also a new glass and some mantles for Theo’s lantern, so I was doubly forgiven as we headed down to the canoe. Theo made a comical suggestion that perhaps I should remain sitting in the canoe, until I learned how to stand better. I heartily agreed, and when we got to the beach, he provided a small plank of rough wood to place across the gunnels of the canoe, so that I could sit comfortably without the sides of the canoe cutting into my buttocks. I endured a few more jokes about my balance, and my ability to swim versus fishing ability while we loaded up, but I was having so much fun learning Pidgin and discovering a whole new world, that I just joined in with the laughter, which pleased them even more.

It was slightly windier that night, so we headed back over to Muschu again, but this time steered up a small estuary along the North shore. In the shelter of the Mangrove trees that lined the stream, it was calm enough to see the schools of small fish that ventured up the river at high tide to feed amongst the Mangrove roots. There were several different species dashing back and forth in every direction, as we crowded them further and further up the estuary, but one particular kind was Theo’s preference. He called them, “Kabi”, and although they were only about 10 or 12 cms long, they were quite beautiful shining in the lantern light.

They had a very small mouth, with a funny protruding lower jaw, and were silvery grey on their backs, with an orange coloration to their bellies. A long, dark lateral line gave them a very distinct appearance, and Theo’s spear had plucked several from the darting multitude, while I sat admiring one of his catches.

“Dispela pis, emi gutpela Kai kai tru, Meri blong mi save laikim moa moa yet”, Theo explained, as he stabbed out to come back with a double reward! Even my basic pidgin gave me to know that these were his wife’s favorite fish, and I smiled to think he was trying so hard to please her.

Continuing on up the stream in the shallows, the fishing became so good that even my inexperience couldn’t keep me from getting my share of the abundance. Soon, the bottom of our canoe was filled with flapping fish of a number of varieties.

We had just about gotten up the stream as far as the outrigger would allow, with all the Mangrove roots growing up around, when suddenly a great splash occurred right beside us!

In the clear water of the stream we could see a young Crocodile, about 2-3 meters long, diving beneath the canoe and heading further upstream.

“Puk Puk”, they both yelled at the same instant, and began paddling as fast as they could after it. I had seen a few crocodiles at an experimental farm up on the Sepik River, but this was my first contact in the wild. It wasn’t a particularly large crocodile, but we only had small barbed fishing spears, and bush knives to cut off the tails of rays etc. These would not be enough to pierce the hide of the crocodile, and I shuddered to think they would get close enough to kill it with the bush knife.

They both seemed to realize that too, and in a moment they had stopped paddling and began to shout out to the men of Big Muschu village to come and bring a big spear to kill the Puk Puk, the pidgin word for crocodile. When that failed to draw any attention, Theo began to bang on the side of the canoe with the end of his paddle. At first I thought he was just banging away to make noise, but after a few moments, I realized that there was a pattern to his pounding. In a minute or two, the village came back with their own set of thumping rhythms, and not much later, Theo assured us they were coming.

Mick got out of the canoe on the west side of the stream, carrying his flashlight and a bush knife, while Theo took the eastern shore. I held the lantern, and slowly worked the canoe along, struggling to keep the outrigger from becoming entangled in the roots. Finally we found him, laying motionless on the bottom, his eyes flashing in the beams we shone on him.

After many shouts of encouragement to hurry, 4 men from Big Muschu village finally showed up, but they had no spear, only an old Remington single-shot, 12 –gauge shot gun, with the trigger broken, and only 1 shell. The gun was actually illegal in New Guinea, but one of the Brothers that had stayed at the mission house on Muschu had left it there many years before. It was quite rusted and the stock was cracked in a couple of places, so that it looked unsafe and unreliable.



There was now a rather excited discussion about who was to shoot the Puk Puk, and how we were to get it up out of the water to do it. Somewhere in the exchange the question of who had ever fired a gun before came up, and everyone looked at the other in expectation. I was the youngest of the men present, except for Mick, who was a teacher aid at the school, and I fully expected one of them to step forward and insist on the privilege. Instead, they all turned to me holding the light, and asked if I had ever shot a gun.

Now I must tell you honestly that for a moment, I had a gut instinct to tell them that I have never shot a gun, but I didn’t, for a multitude of reasons.

First, if they really didn’t know how to use a gun, it would be very dangerous for them, and everybody.

Second, I didn’t want to tell them a lie, as Theo was my “Was Papa”, pledged to look out for me while I was on Kairiru Island. I loved him dearly, and owed him honesty.

Finally, and I hope, least importantly, I didn’t want to appear afraid in front of the other men, when I had an opportunity to make the kill. I was still hedging a bit on accepting the whole idea, when one of the men explained that they thought this was the young croc that had tried to drag a young girl into the ocean a few weeks before. She had been walking along the beach on Muschu with her mother picking up driftwood for their fires, when it had lunged out of the grass at the edge of the beach and grabbed her by one leg. Her mother had come to her rescue by kicking the croc as it was dragging her into the ocean. As it had let go to defend itself, the mother had picked up the child and run back up the beach. The little girl was badly cut on her leg, but survived after a trip to Boram Hospital in Wewak.

After learning this, my blood was up for the hunt, and I decided to volunteer. My father had taught me how to shoot at the age of 7, and I had been in the air Cadets as a teen, so I had fired lots of different weapons, even hand guns, with our local gun club, right beside R.C.M. P. members. I had also worked in an abattoir, back in my home town of Tisdale, so I knew how an animal should be dispatched. I had never dealt with a crocodile before, however.

They handed me the gun, and practice made me check it first. Its locking mechanism seemed secure, but when I pushed the lever and it popped open, I found that my only ammunition was to be a 12-gauge slug, that looked like it could be a World War II left-over. The trigger was completely missing, but the hammer spring was intact, although it would not lock in the cocked position. This meant that to fire it, one had to pull back the hammer with your thumb, and then release it in a snap onto the firing pin.

I looked down the barrel in the lamp light, but it showed no signs of obstruction, nor oil. Replacing the cartridge, and snapping the barrel up to lock it, I readied myself for the shot.

Now, Mick and two Muschu men, waded into the shallow water, while another stood ready on the banks with Theo. The remaining Muschu man held the lantern, as they shuffled closer to the still-motionless croc. I had no idea what they were going to do, but after a minute of jittery waiting, I caught on. They were letting the croc run out of air, and then he would come up. I’m afraid I had not thought too much further than that, when he actually did come up and things started happening fast.

As he rose to their waist level, they reached underneath him and quickly flipped him up onto the muddy river bank. Before I could be amazed at their agility, the crocodile turned, trying to go back into the water, slipping in the greasy mud.

Taking a small step further ahead in the canoe, I got to within 10 feet of the bank and snapped back the trigger. I think an instantaneous prayer went through my head that the gun wouldn’t blow up in my face, but it was over so fast that I don’t know if the prayer arrived in time.

The recoil was much more than I had expected, even from a twelve gauge. I had failed to take into consideration that a slug has much more mass than regular shot, and Newton’s laws accordingly. I found myself on my backside, almost lying down on the cargo bed of the canoe, and the men all jabbering around me and the crocodile.

Recovering my footing, and laying aside the spent weapon, I jumped down out of the canoe onto the bank. The croc was indeed over 2 meters long, and my slug had taken him right behind the left ear. It has certainly been sufficient for the job, for the creature had barely moved afterward.

The men immediately set about preparing the animal, and soon the hermit crabs were scuttling about after the remains of the croc that were allowed them. The belly skin was removed and carefully rolled in wet sand and carted off the village, while the meat was divided up according to time honored tradition. They would make good Kundu (drum) skins with the hide, and the meat would be a much-welcome change from fish and flying foxes.

As the man who had made the kill, I was awarded the greatest portion of the meat, and also the best, which was from the long muscular tail. I had no means of preserving so much meat in any case, so I did what any New Guinean man would have done, and gave most of it to the village people, as well as Theo and Mick. As a tribute to my generosity, they decided to give me the head, which I gratefully accepted.

That night, on our arrival back at the school, the crowd of boys that gathered round our canoe, weren’t laughing and joking this time. They were all from the Sepik River area, and the islands up and down the coast, and they all knew how dangerous a crocodile could be. They could all recount a story where a crocodile had taken some one from their village, and congratulated me heartily on my hunt.

That night, lying on my cot in a tiny thatched-roof house on the hill above the airstrip, I still buzzed with excitement. I could barely believe my good fortune, and as I drifted off, reliving every minute over and over, I thought could hear the men saying, “Oi, Masta Bop, yu wanpela man b'long Papua New Guinea stret!”.