by Henry Hughes
There was the Grand Palace with its fantastic murals depicting a bow-drawn King Rama lured from home and wife by an enemy disguised as a trophy stag. The story came from ancient India and seemed relevant to the modern world. Resting on a bench, I heard an older American man talking with his family about the Vietnam War, when he was on “R & R in ’67.” His wife stepped closer to study the mural. “Never thought of coming here,” the man confided softly to his grown son. “We just wanted a good time.” It was swelteringly hot and humid. His wife undid a couple buttons and sat at the other end of the bench. The stag’s twisted antlers raked an orange sky, and the crazed hunter pursued blindly while ogres surrounded his wife.
One December, my friend Dan and I took a rumbling night bus up to the mountain jungles of Chiang Mai, trekking with a group of Swiss travelers through the foggy mountains, staying overnight at a Karen village where we smoked a little opium and Dan played guitar for a smiling family. In the morning we mounted elephants for a lumbering ride down to a brown river. The elephants seemed happy with the water, taking long drinks and wading out into the flow. Our guides used old bicycle tire tubes to lash bamboo into rafts while Dan and I walked along the grassy bank. People hawked small pipes, bracelets, and spangled bags, and one man came up with a homemade rifle. “You try?” He muzzle loaded powder, wadding, and a lead ball, handing me the gun and pointing to some plastic jugs floating by. I pulled the hammer back, aimed, and fired, miraculously blasting a jug. A small cheer went up in the crowd. I paid the man a few baht, and we moved on. We had asked the Thai guide about getting a little smoke, and he came up with a joint that Dan and I burned on the sunny bank, watching the elephants blast water over their dusty backs. It was powerful herb, and we felt very high. The guides called us back to the group and explained that the last leg of our journey would be a four-mile raft ride. Dan and I stepped onto our wobbly raft, little more than a four by fifteen foot bath mat, and picked up our long bamboo push poles. The two Swiss couples each had their own raft, and the guides shared a larger raft with our bags. My elevated state played nicely to the easy float downriver from the thatch-roofed village under huge trees and some boys checking their fishing nets, but the river narrowed and picked up speed, cascading over rocks and the rusted wreck of a bus. As we bounced over more rocks, the lashings loosened and my feet started slipping between the bamboo. I grew anxious and scared, imagining my ankle snapping off, and I just tried to focus on keeping my feet and watching the river. We pushed off boulders and snags, but the bamboo took some terrifying hits, and I fell to my knees just to stay aboard. Up ahead, the first Swiss couple bashed a boulder and spun out of control. We poled up to them and saw that the bamboo had split and cut the woman’s leg. It looked deep and serious—blood ran down her calf, and her boyfriend was trying to bind the wound with his shirt. I called for the guides who waved us forward. There was nothing to do but raft on. When we reached the next village, our guide ran up to call a doctor. But the doctor was upriver for another emergency, a man had been blinded and badly injured when the breech of a homemade gun exploded in his face.
Thailand was beautiful, freeing, and full of dangers. Arriving that August in 1994 with Eugene and his brother Ken, I was troubled about leaving Aunt Lil and unsure about my work in China. “Let’s get you a drink,” Eugene said and put his arm on my shoulder. We checked into the Phuket Fishing Lodge on Chalong Bay. At $12.50 a night, the clean, balconied waterfront rooms were idyllic. We walked under coconut trees into the adjacent yacht club pavilion—a laid-back Key West sort of scene—and were greeted by the lodge owner, Siri, a neatly dressed Thai man in a crisp Panama hat, and Crazy Bill, a wild-haired American wrapped in sunglasses and a flowery bandanna. Bill, a local charter-boat captain, regaled us with legends of the seventeenth-century Englishman Samuel White, who abused the King of Siam’s favor and became the pirate of Phuket, ravishing women and plundering the island’s riches. When we told him about our booking with English captain John Pearce, he went silent. “Pearce, hah?” he said after a moment.
“Is he a pirate?” Ken asked.
“No.” Bill adjusted his sunglasses. “He’s a serious fucking guy. But you’ll catch fish.”
That evening, Ken, Eugene, and I rented scooters and rode into Patong, one of the stinkiest, craziest, wildest party towns I’ve ever roamed. Bob Marley played over crackly speakers, and we waded through a steamy carnival market of clothing, jewelry, fruit, birds, monkeys, and sex. A transgender woman wrapped in a python invited us to inspect her shapely chest while young women in miniskirts and tiny tops sidled up with, “Come on. Have some fun.” Increasingly thirsty, we broke through to an open arcade with canopied bars and people in various states of intoxication, including a large Buddha-like man, passed-out and completely naked, lying flat on his back on a table while his friends tried to rouse him by pitching peanuts and fried shrimp at his balls.
Nearby, a young Thai boy quietly hand-fed a small monkey, and two German-speaking men felt up a creamy blonde leaning against the bar. We had a couple drinks and just watched. “Well, we gotta big day of fishing tomorrow,” Ken, the older brother, reminded us. Early morning fishing commitments—often waking up at 3:30 or 4 a.m.—have saved me from many nights of overindulgence. There were times, however, when we drank all night and, hearing the first robins of dawn, decided to go fishing. Spirits high on the first cast, the flesh rarely held up for much longer, and we never experienced our best mornings in such a state. Don’t tie one on if you really want to tie one on is my wellness slogan.
That bright morning in Thailand, my head was clear. Brown puddles stretched across the streets from the night’s rain, palms glistened, and we sat on plastic stools at a card table near the beach and met John Pearce at 7 am. Pearce, in his late twenties, was a tall, lean, handsomely clean-cut Englishman with beautiful teeth. Friendly, professional, but not overly warm, he talked briefly about the planned three days of fishing, collected some money, and said sailfish over and over again. I asked about tuna and wahoo. “Sailfish is king around here. You want a sailfish,” he insisted.
We stepped aboard the Andaman Hooker, a trig forty-foot game-fishing vessel, and met his Thai crew: Saron, the pilot, and Don, the tackle mate. In need of live bait, Saron motored us out to Monk Island, and Don and Pearce began jigging sabiki rigs like those used for aji and herring. “We can do that,” Eugene said.
“Yeah, I’d like to fish,” I rubbed my hands together and stepped to the stern.
“I’d rather if you didn’t. We know how to do it,” Pearce frowned.
“We know how to jig,” I persisted. “We grew up jigging for mackerel in New York.”
“These guys are fishermen,” Ken added, happy to lean back in the warming sun.
Pearce reluctantly handed us the rods, grumbling, “You got about twenty feet of water.” We clutched, thumbed, dropped, engaged, jigged, retrieved, and dropped again without a whisker of backlash, bringing in slim pairs of slivery queenfish. Eugene reeled in a seven-inch yellowtail. “That’s what we want,” Pearce rejoiced, carefully placing the yellowtail in a live well. He half apologized. “I get a lot of people who never fish. They screw things up.” When I reeled in another line of dancing queenfish, Pearce cursed, “Damn those things.” Apparently only the crew found queenfish desirable. “Good to eat,” Don smiled at me, slipping them into a plastic bag. We caught six yellowtail for bait, rigged for sailfish, and began trolling off Koh Racha Yai, a lush, steeply cliffed island at the southern tip of Phuket. Only one other boat was in view. While we trolled, Pearce inquired about our evening. “So how many birds did you bag?”
“How many birds?” Ken asked.
“Sea eagles?” I queried, remembering the raptors for sale at the bazaar. Pearce laughed, “Come on, don’t play innocent with me. I recommend two each. In case one’s a dud.” Pearce ordered Saron to steer off from the other boat and then went on talking about Thai prostitutes in the most crude and mercantile manner. “Cheap birds, right?” he nudged
the Thai mate, Don. I felt embarrassed. Pearce then moved on to the “German and Australian bimbos who come down thinking they’re gonna liven up their sex lives and end up getting a sunburn and pussy rot from their blokes.” It was hard talk. A movement over our lines refocused him in silence, and then he cried, “Fish!”
A sailfish bill-thrashed around the inside bait and then bit and bolted across our wake. It was an unlucky moment for a strike with the other boat close behind us, and Pearce yelled for Ken to set the hook. “Now!” he screamed. Ken fumbled a bit with the rod and then pulled up hard. The fish made a magnificent leap, shining through a purple pirouette and crashing back into the water, throwing the hook.
“Bloody hell!” Pearce shouted. He waved a fist at the other boat, “Bugger off,” and glared at Ken. “When I say ‘Now,’ I mean Now!”
We rebaited, and Ken caught what locals call a longtom, a garlike needlefish with a beaked mouth full of teeth. “Good to eat,” Don said, slipping it into the plastic bag. Pearce grew even madder. “There goes another good bait.” We were savaged further by barracuda and a mystery fish. An hour later, I picked up a jumping rod and zinging reel and felt the amazing speed and power of a wahoo, the Maserati of mackerel, that thrilled me with its racing runs and black tiger stripes, coming up finally on the point of Don’s gaff. “Good to eat,” Don said.
At 5:30 we pulled in the sailfish baits and turned home, cruising at fifteen knots and trolling pink and blue tuna skirts. “We’re always fishing,” Pearce repeated. “Always fishing,” I nodded in approval.
When we pulled into the dock, a beautiful Thai woman in a flowered dress with two young children smiled and waved. Pearce hugged the woman, kissed her, and reached over to take the little child from her arms. It was his family. “Let’s make it eight tomorrow morning,” Pearce said. “I’ve got to help my wife with the kids.” I was amazed. Was this the same chauvinist who called women “cheap birds?”
Siri came by and arranged for our wahoo to be cooked and served at the corner restaurant. Wahoo, or ono in Hawaiian, is one of the least expensive fish at world markets, so I’m reluctant to boast of its flavor. Fillets from our fish were soaked for a half hour in olive oil, lime, paprika, and red pepper and then grilled for fifteen minutes over hot coals. It was rich and delicious. While we were eating, Crazy Bill stopped by. “No sailfish, hah?” We told him how close we’d come. “Pearce didn’t torpedo the other boat? He’s gettin’ soft. Oh well, plenty of wahoo around.”
That night Ken went to bed early while Eugene and I returned to Patong, petting a baby elephant and chatting up two Australian women, Monica and Alexa, who told us they were graduate students in chemistry. They had a lot to say about Thailand and the ocean. Alexa grew up in Perth and liked to fish. “Among the aboriginals, it’s the women who do the fishing,” she said.
“Are you an Aboriginal?” Eugene asked.
“She’s an O-riginal,” Monica quipped, and we laughed.
“Why don’t you two join us tomorrow?” I said. “There’s plenty of room.” Monica bowed out, but she encouraged Alexa to go. “All right,” Alexa lifted her hands from the table. “What time do we sail?”
“Pearce is gonna flip,” Eugene grumbled, looking up at the stars on the way back to the lodge. Two cats wandered onto the road, and I reached down to pet one.
“It’s about time he met a bimbo who was smarter than him,” I said, stroking the cat.
“That thing’s probably got fleas,” Eugene walked on.
“Come on, it will be fun with Alexa.”
“It’s fine with me, but I don’t wanna piss off Pearce.”
“I’ll talk to him in the morning.”
“And Kenny,” Eugene said.
Lying in bed, I had misgivings about my offer. I should’ve asked Ken first. He and Eugene were paying for the boat. And maybe it would upset Pearce and the fishing. What was I looking for? Was I that lonely? I thought of Aunt Lil cuddling her cat, slowly slipping away on the other side of the world. What would my family think of me wandering the streets of Patong? What was I doing here?
In the morning over fruit and coffee, Ken liked the idea of having an Australian woman aboard. Eugene said, “Whatever.” Alexa arrived at 7:50 looking beautiful and prepared. When Pearce drove up, I walked over to him.
“Good morning, captain.”
“Hello,” he said without looking at me.
“If it’s okay with you, we’ll have another guest with us.”
“No hookers on the Hooker.”
“It’s my Australian friend, Alexa. She’s a chemist.”
“I bet. Hey, that wasn’t the arrangement. If you guys wanna fuck around, fine. But if you want to catch a sailfish, you need to concentrate on fishing.”
Eugene was correct, Pearce was not happy about our guest. We fast-trolled grass-skirted pink and green tuna lures out to Monk Island. “Always fishing,” I said to Pearce, but he hardly smiled when we picked up two skipjack tuna in the five-pound range. Alexa handled the rod nicely, bringing a black-striped silver bullet of a fish to the transom, where Don swung it into the cockpit. She turned a wonderful smile, and I took her photo. We stopped to jig for baitfish, refreshed Alexa on how to clutch and thumb a conventional reel, and she caught a couple queenfish, a lizard fish, a small snapper, and a trumpet fish. Eugene and Kenny hooked three yellowtail, but that’s the only live bait we had. “Bad luck,” Pearce growled.
Trolling for sailfish in thirty feet of water off the northern end of Koh Racha Yai, we went three hours without a strike. Terns dipped in our wake, and Pearce pointed to some dolphins playing a hundred feet off our bow. Pearce was an excellent captain, in command of his vessel and a great body of knowledge concerning southern Thailand’s waters and marine life. We listened to him talk about his beloved sailfish, how they migrate, change colors, and use their sails to herd squid. “Must be great to work out here,” Ken said. Ken was an insurance agent. He made excellent money, but there were long, sometimes stressful hours in the office. Eugene was a computer systems manager for a large pharmaceutical company. He made great money, but there were long, sometimes stressful hours. I was off to China to teach English for three hundred dollars a month. “A month?” Ken exclaimed. “Hey,” Alexa touched my shoulder, “What an adventure for you.” She was wearing denim shorts, and she pulled off her T-shirt to a blue bikini top. Pearce held the rail at the cabin entrance and watched the lines, finally addressing Alexa: “So you’re a chemist? Like home economics?”
“Sure,” she said. “You want me to bake brownies for everybody?” We laughed. “I'm a biochemist,” she answered again. “Been doing work on lipid metabolism. Maybe save you guys from having heart attacks when you’re sixty.” Pearce, stripped down to his swim trunks and a tennis visor, had a lean runner’s build. “I’ll keep you in mind,” he chuckled.
About one o’clock a squall blew heavy rain and wind across our decks. We retreated to the cabin, and the water turned choppy. In ten minutes, the rain passed, but with the tide ripping out and the wind blowing in, the seas grew rougher. A reel clicked off and Alexa jumped to the far rod. “Fish on,” I yelled to Saron at the wheel. Pearce stepped behind Alexa, coaching. “Let it take line. There’s nothing you can do now.” But the fish got off. “Bloody bad luck,” Pearce shook his head. Ken and Eugene played a game of cards in the cabin, and Alexa and I went up on the flybridge. Now rolling in seven-foot waves, the bridge of the Andaman Hooker felt like a wild amusement ride. We held tight to the rails, laughed, talked, and rejoiced over another pair of glistening dolphins.
At 4:30 a sailfish startled us. Making a play for the live bait, the black bill sliced the waves and turned away. Then the fish struck back, grabbing the yellowtail and running. After many quiet hours of concentration, lapse, distraction, reconcentration, hope, wonder, even despair, a large striking fish feels like a miracle. They do exist, they are here—by God, there’s one on the line!
Line peeled off the reel, the rod bent, and the disciples
stared, wave-lulled and awed, except Pearce, who snatched the rod from the holder, waited, and then arced back on a hook set. The sailfish made an incredible leap, its brilliant blue-bronzed flanks and namesake dorsal glistening cobalt against the gray horizon. And that was all. The hook pulled free, and the fish disappeared. “Goddamn it!” Pearce shouted, looking up at the sky and closing his eyes. “Bugger all. What a fucked up day.”
With the late afternoon seas still beating on us, we turned for home. “What a great day,” Alexa smiled. “Thanks so much.”
“Will you join us for dinner?” I asked. Ken groaned on the edge of seasickness. Eugene leaned back against the padded bench and closed his eyes. “We’ll have some sashimi,” I forecasted, holding a tuna by the tail.
A long day on rough seas can wear out a person. We all felt tired and achy, and dinner was shorter and quieter than I had hoped. I spoke to the chef about tuna sashimi, and with lots of Japanese tourists, he knew exactly what to do. “This is wonderful,” Alexa said, dipping the bright red flesh in soy sauce and bringing it to her lovely mouth. Siri came by to report that a virago monsoon was swirling over India and we would feel her skirts. “No fishing tomorrow,” he said. Eugene and Ken bade goodnight, and I sat with Alexa and ordered a Mekong Mountain, Mekong whisky and Mountain Dew, hoping it would perk me up. A couple German men walked in with their skin and bling Thai dates.