The Speargun Tradition

By Eric Morris

Many years ago, our small circle of Northwest divers participated in a simple, long-standing tradition—naming our spearguns. The custom produced fearsome titles such as Rib Tickler, Rock Smasher, Bent Tip, and Tail Splitter.

My own gun, an antique Voit/Swimaster 4G44, was named Hair Trigger, after an overzealous filing job on the firing mechanism.

A beginning diver joining our informal fraternity—or an old member who had just purchased a new gun—was bound to uphold the rite. The tradition had only been broken once in twenty years, when a new member accidentally shot his own swim fin. It was decided that while the diver weighed more than 50 pounds, he could not count himself as the catch.

When my good friend Bob Kemper purchased a new JBL 44 speargun, I promised to guide him to a lingcod over 50 pounds. Guaranteed.

Bob had recently moved to Seattle from Montana. He was an excellent dive buddy and no novice, but being new to the area, he needed a nudge in the right direction. It was up to me to act as an underwater pilot and deliver the goods.

The Pacific Northwest is a great place to dive, in part because of a prized bottomfish—the lingcod. Lingcod are the fish divers here dream about. Their fillets cook up white and firm, and to add to their appeal, big lings are powerful and not easily taken. Landing one is a far greater challenge than any other local fish—unless you count a barn-door halibut.

We chose Deception Pass for our hunt, a narrow gap between two islands about ninety miles north of Seattle. From the bridge above, we looked down at the raging current.

Perfect lingcod water.

At slack tide an hour later, we slipped beneath the surface and began searching the rugged terrain. Visibility was six to eight feet—typical for the area, thanks to a nearby river emptying into the saltwater.

The underwater landscape was a maze of rock cliffs and scattered boulders, every inch coated with marine life competing for food in the eight-knot currents. Even at slack, the water moved enough that we had to pull ourselves along the bottom. Out of the gloom appeared a massive rock—bigger than a car. Prime lingcod territory.

I went one way around it; Bob went the other, both of us ready.

Halfway around, I heard Bob’s gun fire.

I sprinted around the boulder and ran smack into him. He was wide-eyed and animated, stretching his hands apart to indicate: That big!

Then I noticed something else.

Bob no longer had his speargun.

I pointed to my gun, then to him. Bob mimed a fish swimming away—taking his gun with it.

“Wow,” I thought. “That must have been a monster.”

We searched everywhere—gullies, ledges, under rocks, through kelp. We crisscrossed the area for fifteen minutes, hoping to spot the missing gun.

Nothing.

Low on air and with the current building, we surfaced and clung to the rocks. Bob pulled off his mask and began recounting the disaster.

“Oh man, I can’t believe I lost my new gun. I didn’t even get one fish with it!” he groaned. “It was huge—at least as big as me. I know I hit it in the head, but it just took off and yanked the gun right out of my hands. I had no idea lingcod were that strong. That fish had to be eighty pounds!”

Bob was crushed.

I consoled him… while quietly considering my own reputation. Would it be tarnished? Bringing a new guy out and letting a fish disarm him? I’d never hear the end of it.

Then a thought occurred to me. Maybe this would help my reputation. After all, I had led Bob to a giant ling. If it was too big to land, that could only add to my prestige.

Yes… I brightened considerably.

After a short rest, we submerged to swim back to the boat. Fighting the current was easier underwater. I had gone maybe twenty feet with Bob right behind me when something crossed my field of vision.

Bob’s speargun.

To be precise, it was being towed through the kelp right in front of me.

I grabbed it without hesitation. My weight stopped its forward motion—and a split second later, a large speckled shape materialized from the murk.

A big lingcod.

Speared neatly through the upper lip.

Suddenly another shape burst upon the scene – it was Bob. He saw that lingcod and charged in like a linebacker and tackled it, wrapping it in a bear hug. The harder it thrashed, the tighter he squeezed.

Planting his fins on the bottom, Bob kicked for the surface.

Just then, the spearshaft slipped free and dropped away.

The ling was almost free—but Bob wasn’t letting that happen.

He wrestled it all the way to a nearby rocky beach and literally walked out of the water clutching his prize like it was welded to his chest.

We still had to get back to the boat.

Bob picked up his recovered speargun, carefully aimed at the ling’s head, and delivered a perfect finishing shot.

Only then did we re-enter the water and complete our swim back.

That evening, we sat down with the gang for a feast of grilled lingcod. The fish was excellent.

My reputation as a guide remained intact.

Bob had landed his fish—and even though it weighed “only” 56 pounds, no one complained.

After all… things tend to get a little bigger underwater.

Bob named his gun:

Boom-a-rang.