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Nevertheless, having been coupled
to that power even momentarily is
enough to kindle a maniacal per -
s i stence . I t ’s the reason why, on
our third day on Kiritimati, Elgas paddles
offshore for seven hours, casting a thou-
sand times like a man possessed, until
lactic acid makes his forearms seize up.
And it’s why, on that same afternoon, I
slog a half-dozen miles into headwinds
and swells, trolling a topwater lure. I
have no particular strategy other than
methodically scanning the horizon for
bird piles. These occur when deep-water
predators charge upward to chow on
shoaling schools, forcing them to the
surface, at which point seabirds swoop in
for an easy feast. I paddle slowly, my lure
trailing 50 yards behind, waiting for that
heart-pounding “screamer”—the wail of
a whirring reel when a hook-in-mouth
heavyweight makes its dash for freedom.
Alas, today my reel is silent.
The giant trevally has eluded us, and
by our fourth day on Kiritimati we are
forlorn. Since we had fished exclusively
with lures, Kaiteie suggests we adopt
native tactics and bait our hooks with
milkfish fromthe lagoon, which he’ll stalk
wading through the flats with a hand-
pulled seine. As a pod of spinner dolphins
cavorts nearby, we trail Kaiteie aboard our
outrigger mother ship, three kayaks
strapped to a platform over its starboard
pontoon. He dices themilkfish into 1-inch
chunks and tosses them overboard
while sooty terns and frigate birds
flu er above, sniffing ameal.
Within seconds, I
spot about six giant
trevallies in the
translucent shallows. They are sleek,
shiny pla ers. We had intended to launch
the kayaksand angle a bit deeper into the
lagoon, but the trevallies aren’t waiting.
I plunge into thigh-deep water, a baited
hook on my rod, and they are on us like
feral dogs. Standing shoulder to shoulder,
we cast into a frenzied pack. Sansano
gets a bite, but his line snaps. And then a
40-pounder seizes my hook. Elgas shouts,
“This is only a 35-pound rod! You need a
45-pound one. This one is going to break!”
At first it runs hard, and then it reverses
course toward the rocks. Fearing a sliced
line, I scuffle over to the edge of the coral
bed, wearing only flip-flops to protect my
feet fromthe razor coral, and reel madly as
my prey bolts and charges. Time is amor-
phous—perhaps 20minutes pass—but the
giant trevally eventually tires. I reel it in
and hoist it intomy arms. Kaiteie waddles
over and pries the hook from its sturdy
jaw. Someone takes a picture. The shank is
bent. The trevally is still heaving fromour
duel when I dunk it below the surface and
give it a gentle nudge to set it free.
I catch my breath, registering just a
touch of disappointment at not landing
it frommy ’yak. No ma er, we decide. We
found the lair. We’ll be back.
MICHAEL BEHAR,
who lives in landlocked
Colorado, had caught only one fish before
this trip: a trout from a stocked kiddie pond,
at the age of 11.
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CONTINUED FROM PAGE 88
148
MAY 2012
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HEMISPHERESMAGAZINE.COM
“The thrill is ge ing towedaround
byamonsterfish,” Elgas says.
It’s also theperil. Out here, such
rides cangoon for hours, taking
anglers out to sea—orworse.