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MAY 2012
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HEMISPHERESMAGAZINE.COM
would shredanyvessel and its occupants. I trynot to consider such
a fate as I cast a lurebigger thanmy foot andwaitwith trepidation.
Whatever swallows this, I presume, is going to be enormous.
I’ve come to Kiritimati with two kayakers. Allen Sansano, a
42-year-old microchip engineer who lives in San Jose, Calif., is
trolling about ahalf-milenorth inhis yellow ’yak, as the lingo goes.
Sansanohas paddled far-flungwaters—BritishColumbia’sNootka
Sound, the Sea of Cortez off Mexico’s Baja Peninsula—hunting
pelagic trophies. In2007 inPrinceWilliamSound, Alaska, he landed
a 400-pound salmon shark on the foredeck of his kayak. It’s pur-
portedly the largest fish ever caught from such a vessel. Casting
a 6-ounce popper lure precariously close to the roiling Kiritimati
breakers isDavidElgas, 45, fromHaleiwa, Hawaii, onOahu’sNorth
Shore. Elgas is a professional kayak guidewhose company, Coastal
Kayak Tours, offers excursions throughout theHawaiian Islands.
Elgas claims theworld kayak fishing record for a giant barracuda.
He caught the toothy 65½-pound beast near surf-mauled Ka’ena
Point, the rugged western cusp of Oahu.
Sansano and Elgas, whomet in 2007 at a kayak fishing contest
inKona, Hawaii, andhelpedpioneer the sport, have come toKiriti-
mati to explore its kayak fishing potential. We are, in fact, the first
kayak anglers ever to venture here. And though any big fish will
do, our aim is to hook a giant trevally, a cra yhunter that has long
a racted bucket-listers to Kiritimati. The trouble has
been access: Because the reef is treacherous to navi-
gate, it’s not always possible to angle from a boat.
And many square miles of the interior lagoon—a
cerulean labyrinth of sandbars and salt flats—are
waist-deep and passable only by wading.
Butwithdra smeasured
FROMTHEDECKOF A LARGEWOODEN
outrigger with a spu ering motor, I carefully
slide my kayak into the Pacific Ocean. Se ing
yourself adrift at midday, nearly smack on
the equator, in a 13-foot-long plastic kayak
more than 1,000 feet above the sea floor is,
by any reckoning of seamanship, an act of
profound foolishness. And yet, having bidmy
mother ship farewell, here I am, ripening like
a hothouse tomato beneath the high-noon
sun while trade winds buffet my 56-pound
polyethylene tub. There is an island nearby,
Kiritimati (or Christmas, aphonetic deduction
fromGilbertese, the regional language, which
pronounces “ti” as “s”), but even if I made the
hourlong paddle to shore, landing would be
impossible. A fringe of reef rings Kiritimati,
its coral heads protruding like pitchforks
through foaming 10-foot surf.
Attempting to pass
this gauntlet