A couple of years ago, my friend Paulo (he goes by Paul now) invited me to accompany him to Fort Wetherill in Jamestown for one of his favorite pastimes: spearfishing. Eager to flee the ennui of Covid claustrophobia, I jauntily agreed. We had played tennis together for a few years, but this new adventure sounded fun and exotic to me, even if I was only called upon to be a handy assistant to a seasoned spearfisher.
When we arrived at the parking lot, I became intrigued when I saw someone in a wetsuit clambering onto the back of his pickup truck to gather some equipment. I also saw a van marked University of Rhode Island; I suspected it carried a marine biology class or a diving club from the college. Perched upon sublime granite cliffs, Fort Wetherill State Park showcases a picturesque cove that attracts scuba divers, kayakers, swimmers, and anglers, including the atavistic spearfishing breed, like my mentor Paul.
Paul’s pre-immersion preparations resemble the punctilious ritual of a medieval knight, donning his armor for battle. With his fishing spear, he earned the moniker “Sir Lance-a-lot.”
After strenuously stepping into his wetsuit and slipping into his fins, Paul turned his back to me and asked me to zip up an awkwardly inaccessible section and affix a velcro ribbon across the nape of his neck. I carried out this tidy task with the solicitous care of a nurse assistant, punctuating her surgeon’s donning regimen before entering the operating room.
Before Sir Lance-a-lot pulled his scuba version of a knight’s chainmail hood over his head, he doused his head and face with a mug of water; this moment felt like an apt ceremonial ablution to complete the pre-dive ritual.
We descended the launch ramp with a kayak in tow. While wading in the water, Paul meticulously arranged his array of equipment for the dive, including a speargun, weight belt, knife, buoy with a dive-flag, floatline, fish stringer, and his snorkel and diving mask. I begin to admire Paul’s patient attentiveness and coordination of all of these elements of spearfishing. A professor of Italian for many years, Paul has taught Italian literature and language, including grammar. Clearly, having built an impressive acumen for this invigorating aquatic sport, he has also mastered the grammar of spearfishing.
After a while, I slowly kayaked alongside Paul as he steered me toward jutting rocks near the left entrance to the cove where the shorebirds sojourned above and the stealthy tautog hovered below. Paul said that this is a choice spot for spearfishing.
While I steadied the precarious kayak from the erratic, lapping waves, Paul disappeared, having plunged to the ocean floor for his first foray of the day into the murky depths. I stayed near his buoy flag and functioned as a type of spotter, in case he was down there too long or if he needed to call me soon after surfacing. As I knew from our prolonged tennis matches, we are both prone to cramping the night after a vigorous match in the summer heat. If he were to cramp while 30 feet below the surface of the sea, he could endanger himself.
While I savored the aesthetics of the cove-scape, I also reveled in the suspense of Paul’s possible catch. In two-minute intervals, Paul surfaced to say that he had seen several tautog and some small stripers down there and that he barely missed a large tautog. He also reported that it was strangely turbid down there today and it was a challenge.
Still hugging the bouldery shore, Paul moved a bit farther out toward the mouth of the cove and plunged again. My back turned to his dive-flag while I watched someone polefish on the opposite shore, I suddenly heard splashing and Paul calling my name.
I paddled over to him and he smiled and held up a large tautog, impaled almost exactly in the middle by the spear. I effusively congratulated him and then almost capsized from another abrupt burst of small waves. Paul placed the prize of the day into a styrofoam-encircled net that he had set up. He said that he was cold and wanted to head back to shore; the clouds were building and rain looked imminent. Overall, observing Paul spearfish that day gave me a vicarious thrill. However, after a few more outings with him, I grew more hesitant about the inhumane nature of the sport.
I recently asked Paul what spearfishing means to him. He emphasized that the source of his passion for the sea and spearfishing comes from the culture of his birthplace: Milan, Italy. “Like many Italians, we love the sea and spearfishing. I love spearfishing because I love the ocean, its marine world, and plunging into the depth of the water, exploring, viewing, swimming with the creatures that inhabit this mysterious and wonderful aquatic world.”
Again, he alluded to the “grammar” of the sport: “it requires knowledge and intuition, as well as watermanship, that is, the knowledge of marine life.”
In light of my evolving squeamishness about spearfishing, Paul noted that since ancient times, spearfishing has been a source of food for humans. He further asserted that spearfishing presents an appealing alternative to fish sold commercially in supermarkets.
To reinforce, unwittingly, the sacramental ritual of pouring water over his head before diving, Paul fittingly alluded to the psychologist Carl Jung’s insight about one’s search for identity: “Jung describes the search for personal identity as a swimmer venturing below into the perilous journey of self-discovery.” Clearly, the professor embodies Jung’s noble quest: “I enjoy spearfishing because of the joy and inner peace it brings to me.”
