Two small black birds shoot up into the air from behind a wave, twisting around each other before disappearing again, temporarily hidden amongst the moving folds of the ocean’s surface. I look to see where they have gone but it’s impossible to find them. There’s so much movement out there, and the birds skim so close to the water you can only see them when they rise and are silhouetted against the sky.
Out of the corner of my eye I see a sparkle. Silver shapes skitter away on the surface, desperately trying to get away from us as we invade their wave. The flying fish are back! I’ve been surprised at how few we’ve seen over the last couple of months. There were loads on the first crossing from Mexico, along with dolphin and whales … but then almost no sea life on the open ocean until just a few days ago. This morning a small pod of dolphin came to say hello just after dawn, too.
The bigger flying fish seem solitary, powerful, confident, professional flyers, sometimes flying so far that they are too small to see before they disappear under the surface. The smaller ones scatter in panicked shoals as we approach, their immature wings and obvious lack of skill getting them over only one or two waves at best. Does a shoal of flying fish become a flock as soon as it takes to the air? For the impressive amount of time they manage to stay airborne, in the transition zone of moving wind and water, they seem as capable as any sea bird. Navigating the rise and fall of the waves just millimetres off the surface, fish or bird – the big school of the sea has taught them the same flying lessons. Except where the bird ends its dance along the surface with a swoop into the air, as though it had just been catapulted into the sky, the fish just disappears into the face of the wave with a little explosive splash. Sometimes there are so many, it looks like a machine gun being fired into the sea. When the sea is rough, their blue and silver bodies are lost from view over a blue and silver ocean, only the re-entry detonations showing that they were ever there at all.
They are amazing creatures, with huge see-through, spiny pectoral fins that act as wings, and a large lower rear fin which works as an engine to get them going. Flick flick flick, back and forth underneath them drawing lines in the sea for a few yards as they build up speed. The line stops and then swoooosh, they are in the air.
Fish becomes bird.
Sometimes, the flight ends too soon, at a distance the fish decides is not yet far enough away for comfort. Still skimming above the surface, his tail connects with the sea and flick-flick-flick, he’s off again. Sometimes he’ll make a sudden change of direction as soon as his engine touches down, his silver and blue body darting off across the waves for another fifty yards, going completely the opposite way. Amazing.
In the early hours of this morning I was lost in thought, mind wandering with the stars, enjoying the first peaceful night watch for a week. Then WHUMP! Something collided with the spray hood just behind my head. Then quiet again. Just the sound of the wind and the waves. I cautiously poked my head around the corner and a huge glistening flying fish lay stunned on the side deck, motionless. He was a monster – perhaps 30cm long, wedged between the diesel cans and a porthole. I dashed below for a camera and tried to snap a photo, just as the would-be kamikaze pilot came to his senses and started flapping about. His back was an incredible, almost iridescent blue, unlike the dark navy blue ones I sometimes find dead on the decks in the mornings. Do they change colour when they die, like mahi mahi, or perhaps there are different species? I opened out his wings to take a good look, amazed by the perfection of each spine and curve. The thick bullet shaped body was pure muscle, evolved over millions of years for explosive speed.
I was tempted to keep him for breakfast, but as he started to flap around more frantically, his mouth open gasping for water, I decided he was better off back in the sea.
Road and Ocean 