Around midday, we heard several shots from less than half a mile away. I was pretty sure they’d come from Bob’s lever-action 30-30 rifle, so we headed back to the dirt road and toward the barn to find out if he’d gotten something.He had! It was a young boar of around sixty pounds — old enough to have put on some size but still young enough to be free of the “boar taint” (an unpleasant smell to the meat) that is reported in older, uncastrated pigs. We carried it to a wooden platform that was built for the purpose of butchering, and I set to work.
I had never butchered a pig before, so I approached this one in the same way I would butcher a deer. First, I gutted it, noting the various similarities to and differences from deer viscera. Kiera watched with interest and never shied away from what was happening. After it was gutted, Bob hung the pig from a hook and skinned it. (Skinning a pig is, by the way, fairly hard work; the hide is tightly bound to the body compared to how it is with most other mammals.) We put the carcass on ice in a large cooler and did most of the final butchering when we returned home.
In the end, neither Kiera nor I shot a pig on that trip, but we were happy that our expedition was successful and that we had meat to bring home. As far as I know, she’s still a vegetarian, but before we parted ways, she carved off a forequarter of her own and cooked it up for dinner.
I did a lot of cooking with that pig and with other pigs, wild and domestic, that I’ve killed since. What I found is that the flavor of a wild pig is just about identical to that of a pig raised in the open on a small farm. The difference is in fat content: Domestic pigs put on a lot more fat, which makes for thicker bacon that’s easier to cook in the usual ways. There’s also more consistency in the size of hams and pork chops from domestic pigs, because they’re slaughtered at a specific point in their growth, when they’ve reached a standard weight. I found no gaminess and no toughness to the meat beyond what happens to any animal as it ages and collagen builds up.
As food, wild pigs are superb. Hunting them takes work and skill, but once a hunter gets to be as good at it as Daniel Gentry is, a lot of mouths can be fed (and wildlife habitat saved).
Lionfish
“I know that if I come back every couple of weeks and kill every lionfish I see, the other fish are gonna come back,” Mojo said. “So that’s what I do, man. And that’s my little corner of the ocean, where we still see the wrasses and the damselfish and the baby grouper and everything else.”
My lungs felt as if they would burst as I swam to the back of an underwater cave at the bottom of a cliff. I readied the steel trident in my hand and launched it through the murky water into the body of a reasonably large lionfish. The angry mass of venomous, needlelike spikes twitched and flopped, impaled on my spear. Desperate for air, I swam backward as quickly as I could while trying not to bang my head against the roof of the cave.
Suddenly, just as I was inches from a breath of air, the lionfish managed to wriggle off the end of the spear and dart toward me. Alone and hundreds of yards from the nearest point along the cliffs where I could get out of the water, I wondered whether I would be able to make it out if the lionfish chose to give me a dose of venom.
What the hell had I gotten myself into?
Having gotten a pretty good taste of how invasive species are being dealt with in the United States, I wondered what was happening differently in other countries. This curiosity coincided with coming across the work of Maurice “Mojo” White.
Mojo hunts lionfish around the island of Eleuthera, which is in the Bahamas. He hunts them with an evangelical passion. I think Mojo, an American who’s been spending most of the year on Eleuthera diving and surfing since the late 1980s, feels possessive about the reefs: They’re his reefs, and the lionfish have invaded them.
The lionfish is a species native to the Pacific and Indian Oceans and is so named because of the manelike array of long, venomous spikes extending from its fins. It reaches no more than sixteen inches long, but the lionfish brings trouble out of proportion to its size. Each of those spikes works like a hypodermic needle and is capable of pumping deadly venom into anything that picks a fight with it.
The danger to humans can be compared with that from the bite of a black widow. A lionfish’s sting on land isn’t usually lethal, but if you get poked while you’re handling the fish in a boat or in the kitchen, it’s going to ruin your day. Some people are all right within an hour; others describe a blinding pain that rendered them unable even to stand, followed by the affected limb swelling to twice its normal size and a recovery process that lasted months. The effects seem to vary depending on what part of the body is stung, the dose, and whether or not medical attention comes quickly. Only a very few people succumb.
In the water, however, the sting of a lionfish could mean death. If the pain and swelling prevent you from swimming back to land, drowning is on the agenda unless you have a very alert dive buddy.
This was on my mind as I helplessly watched the wounded lionfish decide whether to seek revenge. I was lucky that day. The fish retreated into the underwater cave. I surfaced rapidly, gulping for air.
Lionfish have shown up in the Caribbean and surrounding waters only recently. It’s widely believed that the lionfish were in an aquarium in a coastal Florida home when 1992’s Hurricane Andrew smashed it into the ocean, and they escaped into the Gulfstream. This doesn’t explain how the lionfish showed up in the waters around Eleuthera some five years ago, but the locals have a theory: They think lionfish eggs were accidentally released to the open water when a high-end resort, boasting what’s billed as the world’s largest tropical marine aquarium (including a population of lionfish), discharged water from its tanks into the ocean. Apparently, it was only after the resort stocked its tanks with lionfish from the Pacific and Indian Oceans that they also began appearing in local reefs.
The effect of these fish on the reef ecosystem has been rapid and profound. Lionfish will eat just about anything they can fit into their mouth, which isn’t unusual for a fish. The trouble is that there isn’t much in the Atlantic Ocean that finds them worth fighting. Their deadly weaponry discourages most advances. A big, mature grouper will from time to time suck down a whole lionfish, but lionfish seem to eat a lot of immature grouper and are gradually reducing their numbers. Reefs that were once teeming with a broad variety of life only a few years ago are now almost deserted. In some cases, there’s not much left except for lionfish and corals.
Mojo started a blog and a show on YouTube devoted to teaching people to hunt lionfish. Hunting is definitely the word for it. It isn’t efficient to drop a hook and line and wait for one, as you would with most other kinds of fish. Lionfish hide under rocks, reefs, and other underwater structures, on which a fishing line or a net is apt to snag. They pick a good underwater ledge or alcove and then spend most of their time defending it, and not swimming in open water. You could sit there in a boat all day and not know whether a lionfish was there or if you need go to twenty yards away to the next ledge. The way to really get things done is to get in the water with a mask, fins, a snorkel, and a spear.
After a long phone conversation with Mojo, it became clear that I had to get myself out to Eleuthera to work with him and learn about how the Bahamians are dealing with the lionfish invasion.
I figured it would take two or three days to get what I needed, which meant I had to budget at least a week. That’s the funny thing about tropical islands: No one is in a hurry. Ever. Why should he be? The advantage of living on a tropical island in the first place is that things get done when they get done, and maybe they don’t get done at all.
The day before I left for Eleuthera, I got a phone call from Mojo informing me that he’d be tied up for a few days in Nassau and wasn’t sure when he’d be getting back. This was a bit of a snag in the plan, as I didn’t know a soul in the Bahamas other than Mojo, and with nonrefundable tickets I was going to be on that plane the next morning no matter what.
I wouldn’t be landing completely cold, howeve
r. Mojo arranged for a friend of his, Julian, to rent me a car and to meet me at the airport. The thing is, there are no big rental companies on Eleuthera. If you need a car, it’s a question of who you know. Mojo’s parting tip before hanging up was that Julian was the fixer. If I needed guns for a goat hunt, information on where to find lionfish, a boat, Julian would be the guy to talk to. Mojo also said that what Julian loved more than any other material thing was venison, which is in short supply on an island with no deer.
Although I was short on money, I had plenty of venison. A whole fridge full, in fact. In the midst of packing, I found time to butcher a couple of hindquarters that I’d been aging from a deer I had shot. I chose the best cuts and prepared them as carefully as I could. I packaged the meat in Ziploc bags, then froze the steaks, roasts, and medallions overnight so that they would stay fresh for the journey.
My first few flights en route to Eleuthera were uneventful, but once I got to Nassau, Delta couldn’t get me any farther. Pineapple Air, a local carrier, would take me the rest of the way. I climbed up the steps into a very small prop plane and took one of the few seats.
The cockpit and pilots were right there in front of us, no door or divider. This was handy later in the flight, because I got to watch and listen as various alarms and warnings went off. Something would start beeping or ringing incessantly and a light would blink rapidly. In every case, both pilots appeared to be ignoring the alarm. I couldn’t make up my mind whether to find that reassuring or terrifying.
The ride became turbulent to roller-coaster proportions. I decided not to worry about it too much. My seat belt was buckled, I don’t tend to get airsick, and I figured that what with the many islands and cays I could see from the window, it probably wouldn’t be too bad a swim if the plane went down in the water.
The plane approached the runway at the North Eleuthera airport shaking, and with some type of alarm going off, as the back end of the plane shimmied in a brutal crosswind. The actual touchdown, though, was surprisingly smooth.
Mine being the only white face in the airport, it wasn’t difficult for Julian to spot me. It was a good thing I had someone to drive me around for the first few hours because, as it turns out, the Bahamas are one of those odd places where people insist on driving on the left side of the road. I had been unaware of this fact and, if left to my own devices, probably would have plowed straight into the first oncoming vehicle.
Julian was quiet at first, though later he opened up. He drove me to Mojo’s place, where it turned out Mojo’s friends from the States, Jon and Jordan, were staying. Jon and Jordan are semiprofessional mixed-martial-arts fighters who came to Eleuthera to surf. Jordan also models and has worked as a paralegal. They’d been on the island for a few days and knew their way around by now. In spite of being extremely nice people, each had a certain predatory air, which made sense for semiprofessional fighters. Their quick eyes reacted instantly to any motion, and they moved with a wary balance, as though they were ready to leap in any direction on a moment’s notice and jump-kick someone’s chest. This was a great relief to me; I’m a professional predator myself, and it was good to have people to talk shop with who understand where I’m coming from.
Mojo’s house is a classic surf shack that no Hollywood set designer could improve on. Built from whatever materials Mojo could scavenge or repurpose, it resembled Pee-wee’s playhouse. Squiggly walkways were built of scrap two-by-fours; lush palms and tropical plants grew over old surfboards stacked haphazardly in odd corners of the yard; weird detritus had been picked off the beach and nailed up wherever it would be useful or decorative. There were pieces of driftwood, mysterious skulls, fan coral, parts of buildings that had been washed into the sea and retrieved. I immediately fell in love with the place.
I dropped my suitcases and Julian suggested a bar where we could get a drink and something to eat. I invited Jon and Jordan to join us, and we left in our respective cars. Julian drove my rental to the Bottom Harbor Beach Club, which, it turned out, he was part owner of. Bottom Harbor was full of American ex-pats, locals, and the odd vagrant surfer. It also had WiFi access. After a couple of drinks, I decided it would be absolutely necessary to become a regular here.
I offer this as tried-and-true words of wisdom: If you find yourself alone in a strange place where you don’t know anyone but you’ve got important things to get done quickly and you’re going to need help, find a good bar and show up repeatedly. Buy people drinks with abandon and tip the bartenders lavishly. This is the fastest way to make friends and get information.
Bottom Harbor became my watering hole for the next eight days. Even when it meant going home to eat nothing but hot dogs and stale bread, I showed up at Bottom Harbor and spent money. This ended up being a wise move. Julian and Jon introduced me to a number of people at the bar: Double Dee, an American ex-pat bartender and co-owner of the bar, so named for her massive bosom. Abe and Allie, bartenders and brothers from Oregon with whom I would later go spearfishing.
One night I met a very young Bahamian man named Smith, who wore a red shirt and black pants. Julian and I got to talking to him about drinking and driving on Eleuthera, which is apparently legal and appeared to be almost a national pastime.
“Just don’t hit nothing and nobody cares,” Smith advised, displaying his melodic Bahamian accent (sort of a Jamaican accent, but softer and with a whole other dictionary of slang). He took a pull on his beer and continued: “Whatever you do, don’t get into an accident, especially after dark, mon. You run into something or go off the road out here and you’re f**ked, mon. Ain’t nobody coming. Go ahead, you call the police. After eight at night, no police officer coming out there. Nobody’s coming and you’re just f**ked. So don’t get into no accidents, mon.”
I didn’t know if Smith was exaggerating, but the next day I told Jon what Smith had said and asked if there was anything to what the kid had been telling me.
“Smith? You know who he is, right?”
“Not really.”
“Smith is the f**kin’ magistrate, man. He runs the police department for this whole part of the island.”
“That kid looked about eighteen years old! He didn’t have on a uniform, just a red shirt and black pants.”
“That’s how they roll, man. Smitty is all hooked up through his family. I don’t know how old he is, but Smitty is the law around here. Hell, he was on duty, too.”
That first night, I ended up at the octagonal home of a friendly American ex-pat attorney named Sherman, whose wife somehow knew who I was. When it was time to leave, neither Jon, Jordan, nor I had any idea how to get back to Mojo’s place. Someone suggested that Julian’s shorter and quieter brother, Basil, guide us home.
One of the biggest mistakes of my life was letting Basil drive my rental car. There wasn’t much choice, however, given that Eleuthera doesn’t have reliable street signs and I had no clue where I was in terms more specific than “somewhere in the Atlantic Ocean.”
Anyway, Basil was mind-bogglingly drunk. I suppose that someone driving a car can perhaps swerve a bit or drive extremely fast, but doing both at the same time is really pushing one’s luck. I contemplated my own death, and seriously considered opening the door and making a jump for it. After fifteen minutes of the most terrifying journey of my life, much of it spent off the road, Basil let himself out in a town close to Mojo’s place. I gratefully took the wheel and followed Jon’s borrowed Jeep.
I spent my first full day on Eleuthera driving around with Jon and Jordan in an open Jeep with holes in the floor and a twelve-pack of the local Kilik beer in the back. We met up with Double Dee and the brothers from Oregon and arranged to caravan to the north end of the island to explore some caves. Later, we found ourselves stranded by the side of the road with an overheated engine and a leaking head gasket.
The bad news was that none of us had a cell phone that worked on Eleuthera, and there’s no Bahamian equivalent to the American Automobile Association. The good news was that we still h
ad plenty of beer and we were broken down in a tropical island paradise. We applied ourselves to the beer until Double Dee drove up and pulled over to help. Tow trucks are in short supply out there, so we towed out the Jeep with a hemp rope tied to Double Dee’s SUV. The day disappeared on us, and plans to get a boat and hunt invasive goats on a nearby island were scrubbed in favor of conch fritters and rum at a wonderful roadside dive.
We stayed up late into the night at Mojo’s shack, drinking grog and talking rifles. Sadly, Jon and Jordan had to fly home the next day. Being as close to saints as mixed-martial-arts fighters can be, they left expensive surfboards, board bags, fins, and wetsuits behind at Mojo’s place for future visitors to use.
I’d been having a good time so far, but as I drove back from dropping off Jordan and Jon at the airport, I knew I had to spear some lionfish. I drove out to Bottom Harbor to talk to Abe.
Abe is a big, broad man who turned forty the day I arrived on the island. He had wanted to be a physician and had actually started medical school, but left after becoming frustrated with how poorly his patients cared for themselves. He is so agreeable, with such a tendency to be satisfied with the simpler things in life, that it would be easy to assume he’s uncomplicated, which would be dead wrong.
Abe offered to go spearfishing with me, but first he had a lot of work to do around the bar, even in the late morning. The kitchen was full of dishes and the bar needed straightening up. I can’t bear to sit and watch someone else do all the work, so I ended up spending most of the afternoon washing the previous night’s dishes in the kitchen of Bottom Harbor. This wasn’t too bad, though, as Abe kept the rum and Coke flowing.
Finally, everything was done. As we considered where to go, Allie, a charter-boat captain, bartender, and real-estate investor, walked in and offered to take us out to a piece of land on the water that he’d recently bought to subdivide and resell. He’d just gotten a road cut out to the water by Julian, who owns and operates a bunch of earth-moving equipment in addition to renting cars and owning a bar. Apparently nobody on Eleuthera does just one thing.
Eating Aliens: One Man's Adventures Hunting Invasive Animal Species Page 6
