Ocean Watch

Friday, February 7, 2003

---

Last week during an early morning stroll, I found a 6-inch-long flying fish, malolo in Hawaiian, lying dead on the beach. Its torpedo-shaped body was still intact, and its silver scales glistened in the sun. As I examined this remarkable fish and spread its large wing-fins, I remembered a flying-fish story told to me years ago by a couple sailing around the world.

The man had been a pediatrician, the woman a stock broker, and they did what most people only dream about: They quit their jobs, sold everything they owned and took off in a sailboat. When I met them in Panama, they had been out seven years and were still enthusiastic about the adventure.

On one of their many stops, the couple adopted a kitten named Tico. Tico adapted quickly to the sailing life and at night liked to sit in the cockpit with the person on watch. This was fine until one rough night, a flying fish landed on the pitching deck. Tico dashed out, grabbed the fish and ran back to the cockpit with his prize.

Boat decks in big seas are dangerous places, and wise sailors wear harnesses that clip to the boat. And so, worried that Tico might fall overboard, the couple made him a harness like the ones they wore, and leashed him to the cockpit.

He despised it.

The following night, the cat refused to enter the cockpit. He lay in his bed below, sulking, the couple thought. The next morning, however, they found the remains of a flying fish in Tico's bed. Since neither had seen the cat enter the cockpit, they had no idea how it got there.

This happened for several nights until the entire boat reeked of fish. Finally, the woman set a trap. She moved near the companionway entrance, sat back and waited.

Soon she heard the familiar thump of a flying fish landing on deck, and seconds later, the cat's head peeped over the top of the ladder. When he saw the woman looking at him, he dropped out of sight.

This happened over and over until the woman dropped her chin to her chest and pretended to sleep. In a flash, Tico shot through the cockpit to the deck, grabbed the fish and scooted down the ladder.

Apparently, each night, when the cat heard the thud of dinner arrive, it climbed the ladder and waited for the watchperson to nod off. When he or she did, as inevitably happens during those long nights at sea, Tico seized the moment.

Whenever I tell this story, people love that clever little cat. My heart, however, goes out to the fish.

Imagine. A school of hungry tuna comes barreling toward the little malolo. It swims like mad and then, with a mighty stroke of its elongated lower tail, leaps clear of the water at 40 mph.

Usually, flying fish soar just above the surface, traveling up to 300 feet by sculling with that strong, rudderlike tail. Some malolo, however, catch more air than others. Flying fish landing on sailboat decks is common, and at least once, a malolo hit a ship's bridge-wing 36 feet above the water.

Anyway, this model of piscine efficiency hurdles from the water and successfully escapes its marine predators, only to land on the deck of a boat and get eaten by a cat. What an end.

I don't know how my beach malolo died, but I gave its body a more fitting finish: I laid it over the hole of a ghost crab.

Then I went home to dream about sailing around the world.