So what’s the catch?

Anthony and Bernard are talking gibberish. Or rather they’re shouting full-volume, their voices roaring across the rolling sea. “Red and black wahoo candy!” laughing manically, in a Trinidadian accent so strong it might as well be the world’s most incomprehensible patois. For a long time there has been silence, broken only by the tearing wind. Then, suddenly a sharp whirring noise and a line unravelling into the deep: the cue for celebration.

“Oh, man, red and black wahoo candy, yeah!” I don’t know what they mean, in fact I haven’t got the slightest clue, but then there’s no time to think. I’m in the hot-seat on Radical, a 36ft fishing boat, holding on for dear life to a fishing rod that is flexing so much it seems sure to break. Eye-blinding sweat is racing down into my shades, my arms are giving way and something nasty has happened to my back. Whatever is on the end of the line, like British politician Peter Mandelson, it is a fighter, not a quitter.

Bernard, the owner of the boat, has put his rum and coke down to give me some real-time fishing lessons. Which is just as well, because I am a deep-sea fishing virgin and have no idea what I’m meant to be doing. “Hold on, pull it up, nice and slow on the downstroke, reel him in quick, take in the slack, then back again.” It sounds like good advice, but I’m flailing around, out of control, trying to bring in what is obviously going to be a record-breaking catch. “Keep going, he’s going to fight you all the way. We got a saying in Trinidad. The hook is in his mouth, not yours. He’s the one in pain, so don’t kill yourself.” Eventually, after what seems like a couple of hours but is probably no more than 10 minutes, my quarry is at the back of the boat, still resisting furiously in the water. The two men take a spear-hook, lean over the frothing ocean and haul in the giant. It flaps wildly on the deck, splashing us in a swelling pool of blood, fighting to the end. “Wahoo, man! Congratulations, you got your first saltwater fish. Don’t go near it, it’s got teeth like razor blades.”

Bernard hoses down the deck like the most house-proud housewife, an incongruous sight in such a large man, then arms himself with a metal baseball bat, taps the wahoo on the head several times, and the fight is over. I’m swelling with pride. Still at last, the fish looks enormous. “It’s a small one,” says Anthony. “Forty pounds.” Order is restored, the deck is cleaned, the fish pushed down into a hatch. After replacing the bait — a long-billed pinfish — on one of the five lines, Bernard tosses over a beer, fixes himself another rum and coke, and smiles in the sun. “Fishing was fixed in my marriage contract,” he says, reaching easily, every inch the languid Trinidadian. “Fishing every Saturday, no questions asked. I can’t remember the last weekend I didn’t go out.” His passion — less tolerant spouses would call it an obsession — doesn’t seem to have done the relationship any harm. He’s been married 23 years.

On the radio, cricket news fades into calypso as we power through the water, the mountain shadows of the Venezuelan coast looming just seven miles away. The Trinidadian idol David Rudder is singing his latest tune, “Trini 2 de bone,” a rousing number that perfectly encapsulates this island nation’s fantastic patriotism. “Sweet, sweet T and T Trinidad and Tobago, caman and big up de country!” he roars, and Bernard lifts another glass of rum and coke in support. Along with oil and gas, self-confidence is the one commodity this country does not lack. David Rudder is by no means alone in suggesting “God is a Trini.” We have been out for several hours now, and it is time to turn the boat around and make for home. Then the ripping noise again. Spinning line. A blur of movement and back into the hot-seat. “Red and black wahoo candy, man, one for de road, one for de road!”

Bernard is on fire. The two men may have been doing this for years but their excitement seems greater even than my own. They’re a pair of overgrown boys. Another frantic struggle and this time my arms and back give way simultaneously. Skin is flaying off my finger and thumb. I recall my earlier question to Anthony — “Once the fish is hooked, what’s so hard about reeling him in?” — and with a profound sense of committing a terrible dishonour to the deep sea fishing community, I hand over to Bernard who effortlessly brings in a 30lb tuna. It lies on the deck, fat and still, a large liquid eye staring inscrutably skywards. “It’s a beautiful fish,” says Bernard. Pelicans glide overhead, plunging steeply into the ocean to make their own, more elegant, catches in enormous pouched bills. Sunspots glitter on the ocean like splashing rain. A fin appears, then two, three, and in an instant we are joined by scores of dolphins, synchronised swimmers porpoising joyously through the water only inches from the prow. Afternoon is giving way to evening and the sun is oceanbound on the horizon. We plough through the waves back towards Crews Inn, popularly known as “Stick City” on account of the thousand or so yachts that fill its marinas. My arms are aching, my back has had it, in fact I’m completely wiped out, but it has been the best afternoon I can remember. As we drift into the marina, Bernard tells me the “red and black wahoo candy” he was shouting about refers to the coloured lure attached to the bait. Interesting, but I’m too tired to take it in. I’ve caught two fine fish and that’s all I care about. And besides, there’s a margarita on the beach to look forward to, and Catch of the Day for dinner.