by Robson Green
‘What?’ I say indignantly.
‘Eh, Señor, no sardine. Mackerel. Mackerel,’ he smiles, revealing several missing teeth.
I can hear the blood whooshing around my brain as the pressure increases. I thank our Spanish friend and shoot Jeremy a look that could freeze concrete. Oh, bloody hell! All the filming is wasted, utterly wasted, because I haven’t said the word ‘mackerel’ once. There is no way we can hide this mistake with clever voiceover and editing, and an entire night’s work is now heading for the cutting-room floor. I am furious with Jeremy but inside I chide myself for being a fool. I knew they were mackerel so why did I doubt myself and trust a man who doesn’t even own a fishing rod? I look up at the stars and the Milky Way as we head for shore. My Uncle Matheson appears like Obi-Wan Kenobi with a bright aura around him.
‘You can do this, Robson, but first you must believe. Trust your instincts,’ he booms majestically across the night sky.
Elusive Giant Grouper
Jeremy tries to make amends by telling me the size of the giant grouper I am going to catch this morning. He says, arms outstretched, ‘They grow up to two thousand pounds.’ Wow, I think, totally forgetting the fact that he’s not a marine biologist. Grouper do grow to that size, but not here off the coast of Spain. But off we go into the void, me as trusting as a child. It’s like Living in Oblivion with Steve Buscemi.
We are fishing using glass-bottomed boxes that you put in the water and which act like large goggles. Groupers are stout ambush predators with vast mouths: their jaw pressure is around 800 pounds per square inch; a man’s clenched fist is only 35–40. Their powerful mouths and gills can suck their prey in from a distance, a bit like Simon Cowell. The species are also hermaphrodites: born female, they can turn into males if there aren’t enough cocks in the shoal, so to speak. (And we thought such versatility between the sexes was a modern phenomenon, when fish have in fact been gender-bending for millions of years – and a bit more realistically than RuPaul.)
We submerge the box in the water and wait . . . and wait and wait. There’s bugger-all down there! And after not hours but three days what do we catch? Diddlysquat. It has been a complete waste of time and I have come to the conclusion there’s nothing in the sea. It’s empty. And do you want to know my theory? It’s those damned Spanish fishermen, who, by the way, we pay millions and millions of pounds every year to fish off the coast of Africa whilst our own British fishermen struggle to survive. And then they come and illegally plunder British waters as well. Not to mention the bureaucratic idiots who started the practice of discarding, whereby tonnes upon tonnes of fish are thrown back every year because of the stupid EU quota system. And these muppets get paid like footballers and only work on Wednesdays so as not to spoil both weekends. Don’t get me started! But you can do your bit by supporting Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall’s incredible ‘Fish Fight’ campaign to bring an end to the madness and terrible waste.
Back on the boat, my patience has been tested to the max by the ‘sardine’ and grouper debacles. I talk to Jeremy about how the show is going and he tells me he thinks it’s going swimmingly. I say, ‘But we didn’t catch anything today.’ He replies, ‘Robson, it’s called fishing, not catching.’ I want to strangle him.
Seeing as we have caught bugger-all so far, save the catfish, Hamish suggests we push on to the Canary Islands to see what we can find there. Everyone is winging it and it’s not a comfortable feeling. Behind the scenes, Hamish is foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. He has seen the rushes of Spain – uncut footage that will later be edited into the final programme – and says we have no more than five minutes of a show. This really is our last-chance saloon.
‘Go and catch a marlin, Robson,’ he says on the phone to me.
‘Easier said than done,’ I say. ‘Haven’t you read Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea?’
‘Make it happen. I believe in you.’
Uncle Obi-Wan Matheson echoes the sentiment in my head: ‘Believe.’
But today, much like the rest of the trip, there is plenty of behind-the-scenes drama that the TV audience doesn’t get to see: it transpires that our marlin fisherman in Tenerife, the one we are so heavily relying on to save the show, has had a skinful the night before and crashed his boat! So our first task is to find another contributor. Mercifully the production team manages to track down a Scottish guy called John with a big boat. Crisis averted.
I shake hands with our Scottish fisherman, who is tanned like leather. He has brought his wife and another old seadog along and boy do they all love to drink. It’s like a bleeding episode of Eldorado.
‘How’s it looking today?’ I ask.
‘Looks great. Great weather – nice and hot,’ he says.
‘Fantastic. So what brought you to Tenerife?’
‘The sunshine.’
‘Not the fishing?’
‘Nope, the sunshine.’
It quickly becomes apparent that this guy isn’t remotely interested in fishing; he’s just an old sailor who likes going round the islands topping up his tan.
‘When did you last catch something?’
‘Haven’t caught anything in, er, three years.’
Oh. My. God.1
We end up fannying around with Scottish John for two days and – surprise, surprise – we catch nothing. I’m in mental decline.
After a day of not even catching a sea cucumber, the biggest insult to an empty-handed fisherman is to make him taste another man’s fish, but the team is running out of ideas. I look at the camera and say, ‘It’s called escolar – because it looks like it’s wearing reading glasses like an academic or “scholar”. It’s also called butterfish.’
The escolar is a bottom feeder and scavenger that hoovers up the dead, decomposing things that lie on the ocean floor – a bit like a vulture does on land. Part of the snake mackerel family, it is highly toxic and has to be prepared in a certain way to make it safe for humans to ingest. It’s so dangerous that eating this fish is banned in some countries – but not here. The islanders absolutely adore it; in fact, they can’t get enough of it. Apparently it has a lovely buttery taste – if you get it right . . .
Joni Cejas, a restaurant-owner and chef, is going to show me how to prepare this dangerous fish. He is a silver-haired Spanish Del Boy who has his fingers in lots of pies, and now fish. A large escolar is waiting for me on a butcher’s slab in the kitchen. The leathery prehistoric creature has large, frightening eyes, razor-sharp teeth and an obsidian tongue. I only have to take one look at it to know I don’t want to eat it. It’s as if my response has been evolutionally hardwired to my brain because an ancestor way, way back in time, some 60,000 years ago, once ate one of these fish and puked himself inside out and everyone in the Green tribe was really worried and said, ‘Was it the oysters, Brian?’ ‘No, the escolar [puking sound effects].’ And they all said, ‘Gosh, well, we won’t eat that again’ – and that knowledge was planted in my DNA in an attempt to protect me to this very day. However, today I am going to ignore all of that good sense and eat it for the sake of entertainment on Channel 5.
Enter Joni waving two large knives at me. He shows me how to remove the toxins and cuts the meat away from the spine because this is the most hazardous part of the fish. Although any part of the skin could also send me to hospital with blue lights flashing – it’s like playing a game of deep-sea Russian roulette. I wring the oily poison out of a piece of the filleted fish as if it’s Russell Brand’s bed sheet, and we pour loads of salt on the fillet, just as you do when you spill red wine on the carpet; in the case of this fish, the salt draws toxins out rather than wine.2
Joni fries the escolar without oil or seasoning for a few minutes and lunch is served. We move through to the dining area to taste our handiwork. It’s like being a guest of Blofeld. I put the poison to my lips; like a fussy child attempting to eat broccoli, I open wide and nibble a small piece. It’s like motor oil – but not Castrol Edge, more Mick’s Garage’s own brand. I tur
n to camera and my face starts to lie like a cheap Spanish watch.
‘Mmm,’ I start to say.
I chew some more and have an epiphany: ‘Trust your instincts, Robson,’ I hear Uncle Matheson say.
‘That’s horrible! That is shocking. I’m sorry, I can’t eat that. What is that? The islanders love it? Are you mad? Mmmm, the lovely buttery taste . . . It tastes like shit. Oh dear me, I think you have left some of the toxins in it, Joni.’
But the chef decides that the reason I’m not enjoying it is because I’ve put too much salt on, and, oh joy of joys, he gives me another piece. It tastes a bit better but that’s like saying Hitler was a bit better than Stalin. In that moment, I realise the only way this show has a chance of working is by me being brutally honest at all times.
Rock Fishing
The next day I am rock fishing with my old mate the poisonous-fish chef, Joni, and his brother. Using a twenty-one-foot bamboo pole, we’re hoping to catch some delicious parrotfish, which will make a nice change from the ‘I can’t believe it’s not butterfish’ that tastes nothing like bloody butter – not even close.
I am unravelling fast today as I had little sleep during the night, convinced that I was slipping into a toxic coma brought on by my sampling of the frightening oleaginous scavenger. I clamber over volcanic rock to get into position for our first take and then stand precariously on a craggy lump of ignimbrite and attempt to explain the topography of the islands on camera.
‘The Canaries sit on top of a huge underwater mountain range, causing plankton and lots of fish to well up from the depths below. Argh!’
A large crab jumps out at me from a rock pool, waving its claws angrily. I shriek like a girl and hop across to another rock. Out of nowhere a dog brushes past my leg unexpectedly, which nearly sends me over the edge. The director shouts for me to get into position – bloody easy for him to say from down there on the ground, which is flat. It’s really dangerous on the rocks, especially as I am currently neither physically steady nor mentally sound.
I used go fishing to unwind and relax but now it’s having the exact opposite effect and all I want is to hide in my wardrobe and hug my shoes. As I dangle my hook into the water below, my bottom is like a rabbit’s nose on a spring day: twitchy. I’ve never had this symptom before; my nerves must be shot. Back at the hotel, however, I discover this twitchiness is due to something else entirely: parasites, to be precise (the word comes from the Ancient Greek for ‘professional dinner guests’). That poisonous atramentous bottom feeder, the escolar, has infected me with red threadworms that are now feasting on my bottom and, well, I’m not happy about it. I should have trusted my instincts: I knew eating it was a very bad idea.
I rejoin Joni and his brother on a local beach to eat the parrotfish we caught earlier. It is nectar – just the most amazing-tasting fish. I share a glass of wine with them but I can’t stay long – my bottom’s on the move again. I head back to the hotel and take action. Standing in front of the bathroom mirror I address my behind: ‘I am not food for worms, yet.’ I down a litre of milky nematode-napalm. ‘Hasta la vista, critters!’
Azores Marlin
The Azores aren’t in the schedule. They are Hamish’s last-ditch attempt to save the show, as we have maybe enough footage for about half an episode at this point. We have two days to get some usable footage or we are officially sunk. On the first day there, the heavens open up and it pisses it down. We can all tell it’s not worth heading out to sea but the skipper, Ian Carter, suggests we give it a go. I suppose we have nothing to lose.
We power out of the habour into a two-metre swell. All the other boats are coming back, and fast, but we unflinchingly go against the tide. I remain cheery on camera but off it I am staring into the abyss of my own career. It is in fact the barrel of a gun with a knot in the end. That said, dwelling on my private turmoil is mildly better than staring into my breakfast, which is what Ian Lilley and Anna Hassan are both doing. This is the start of their extreme-hurling-fest that would endure for the next two days.
After what seems an eternity, Skipper Ian finally abandons the trip and we head for home. Not only are the conditions dangerous but also the likelihood of us catching even a sprat in this weather is remote. However, the relief of heading back to land is tinged with searing anxiety: we now have less than twenty-four hours to catch a blue marlin or something – anything – or the episode will have been an expensive cock-up and the series will be panned.
There is a saying in acting circles that actors are paid for waiting around and the acting’s free. This is entirely different. I feel more like one of the British soldiers waiting for his imminent demise in Zulu. The night is a long one and I can’t sleep. I toss and turn as if still on Ian’s boat on the rough seas. Tomorrow is our last chance, our only chance. We have to catch a fish.
The next morning I tear the curtains open. The sun is shining and the sky is blue.
Hope springs eternal in the human breast;
Man never Is, but always To be blest:
The soul, uneasy and confin’d from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.3
We head out in Ian’s boat for the very last time, on the very last day of the schedule, and, well, you know the rest of the story already. Thanks to Steve Hall’s superhuman sense of smell, we are given a deus ex machina ending and we catch a magnificent blue marlin. Steve saves the day, and my career, and the episode is a success. You couldn’t script it.
As we return to Faial Island, our marlin flag flying aloft, Ian says, ‘We don’t go out to catch marlin because it’s easy, we do it because it’s hard. And when it’s hard to do something and you get it, you get so much more satisfaction out of it. You have to put in the time and you have to try.’
It’s a beautiful maxim, and one I’ll take with me on my unfolding adventure.
Chapter Two
COSTA RICA
Frogs, Monkeys and Fish that Eat Fruit
June 2008
After the success of catching my beautiful marlin in the Azores, the producers now want me to recapture the magic by reeling in a sailfish, the fastest ocean predator on the planet. Sure, no sweat! I mean, seriously, where do we go after that? Waterskiing behind a Russian sub? Actually, that would have made one hell of a Bond sequence, but yet again I was overlooked for the job. I mean, what’s Daniel Craig got that I haven’t – apart from Rachel Weisz?
As I board the plane to Costa Rica I’m feeling calm about the journey ahead. The marlin’s given me a massive boost of confidence and I’ve been dipping into my Stanislavski books to help me up my presenting game. The ‘Stanislavski system’ helps actors draw emotional truth into their performance. I’m feeling sure that Hamish is going to be very happy with the improvement on camera.
After a two-hour drive from the city of Liberia, we arrive at Playa Flamingo, the largest marina in Costa Rica. It’s the rainy season so it’s hot and sticky, which would be nice if I were with my wife, but I’m not; I’m with my crew of hairy Brits, who are sweating so profusely they look like human fountains. There will be no romantic beach scenes on this shoot but with the rivers swollen with water, there will be plenty of fish in the sea.
After a quick wash and brush-up at the hotel, we climb aboard Captain Jesse Baletti’s boat to go in pursuit of a sailfish. The magnitude of the task ahead of me is starting to sink in and a wave of nausea hits me before we’ve even left port.
When I started the show I’d been a fisherman for thirty-five years, but the fish I was after were four-pound trout, not ocean predators that can get up to speeds of 70 m.p.h. and weigh as much as 500 pounds. I’m a ten-and-a-half-stone neurotic actor about to go and do something brave – the coward within is screaming. I feel like I’m in the wrong bloody play.
Before I film a piece to camera with Jesse Baletti, I go to the WC to have a firm word with myself.
OK, breathe.
I can’t. My pulse is racing.
Here you are again, caught
up in this madness, about to play with a monster of the deep, a veritable cheetah of the sea, and you’re not prepared at all. Forget Stanislavski, you’re screwed.
But what about the marlin I caught?
Luck, a simple case of luck.
‘Believe,’ says Uncle Obi-Wan. It’s starting to get crowded in my head.
I walk purposely up the stairs to interview veteran fisherman Jesse. The American’s been catching fish since he was five years old, and all his family are fishermen (the list is like the families in the Bible: it goes on a bit). Anyway, the point is it’s in his DNA.
‘If we’re lucky enough to find a sailfish, the fight could be one or two hours,’ he says. I smile and my stomach knots a bit tighter.
‘And what type of tackle will we be using, Jesse?’
‘What really excites me is catching big fish on light tackle,’ he says.
I inspect the rods. If this is light tackle, I wouldn’t like to see what he uses on a heavy day. This is so different from trout fishing it’s unreal. I mean, usually I would spend my day putting a tiny fly onto a tiny hook and trying to cast as elegantly as I can. But Jesse spends his day baiting one-foot squid lures and preparing for a two-hour wrestle with no referee and no bell-ringing in between rounds. It’s like comparing Creedence Clearwater Revival with AC/DC.
First Mate Steve Starbuck (genuinely his name) prepares the lines for trawling. On the lure he puts ballyhoo.
‘The ballyhoo are good bait fish,’ he explains, ‘as they’re thin and move well in the water to attract the big fish.’
He puts the lines out from two rods at the side, one in the middle and one on the top deck for Jesse. As the boat slices through the waves I suddenly become aware we are surrounded by dolphins.
