Team Diver Alex Reynaud
r o t i d E e Th Welcome to Vol. 3 of our digital publication. In this publication we take a look at hope, ideas and expectations… and the reality that usually comes crashing through to bring us back to earth. Good things take time….good things require hard work and dues paid….good things are usually never given to you and are most likely hard earned. Sometimes the final products coming out of Sea Sniper are ‘so finished’, and so well thought out that their beauty and design almost overshadow the hard work and dues paid to produce it. I see the similarities in the guns that Chris Chaput produces and the fish that end up on the boat – once they are there, it all seems so easy, makes perfect sense and we can’t figure out why this didn’t happen so much sooner. This issue is to remind us to reflect on the time spent in preparation and the effort that goes into all good things.
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Redemption
in Baja A story of dreams humbled & an epic return
A Sea Sniper Customer Memoir Words by: Ryan Woods Pictures by: Alex Reynaud
To say I was unprepared for my first trip to Baja was an understatement in every sense of the word. . . I got a call from Sea Sniper Team Member Alex Reynaud, inviting me to participate in the DVH Invitational at Sea Sniper Baja. It took only seconds to run through my mental checklist: Bluewater experience – minimal; Bluewater Equipment – none; Knowledge of Mexican species – negligible, but being unprepared did not stop “Hell Yeah, I’m absolutely in!” from tumbling out of my mouth. Since the majority of my diving is typically in Central California, the race was on to beg and borrow the equipment I needed for the trip. So, with a SSPC 60 borrowed from Alex, and a cobbled up SporTube of equipment, good friends Alex, George Scheidt and I boarded the plane destined to conquer Baja. As the clouds parted, I was captivated by the contrast of the bright turquoise water against the rugged and inhospitable desert of the Baja coast. From 30,000 feet the excitement started to build. Had I known then, that the view from the cabin of the plane would be a metaphor for my week of spearfishing, I would have ordered several more drinks. From the moment we met up with the rest of the group, it was clear this was going to be a great week. Beers, stories and laughter were flowing freely. At our first dinner that evening, there was a quick overview of the rules and specifics for the week ahead, and then everything got pretty serious as priority #1 for Chris Chaput, Owner of Sea Sniper, was to establish the “Shit Talking Award”, and how that would be determined at the end of the week. It was clear from the beginning this was a talented group of spearfishermen. Weigh-ins were a parade of monster after monster Amber Jack, Pargo and Wahooo. It was also clear, that the groups ability to land fish, was matched by their ability to talk shit. Afternoons quickly devolved
into trash talking about standings and jockeying for the next day’s boat captains over beers, pool and ping pong. Before the trip Alex, George and I had discussed how we were going to tackle our assured problem of having too much fish to fit in the ice chests. We ultimately determined that since we were limited to 50 or so pounds to check in, we would only be bringing home the prime sushi cuts. Drift after drift, it was clear that despite diving yards away from others, my section of the ocean was significantly less productive. My dreams of having too much fish for the ice chest, quickly gave way to an ever more pressing challenge just to put “a” fish on the boat.
Drift after drift, it was clear that despite diving yards away, my section of the ocean was significantly less productive than the other’s . . .
One evening, well into tequila and beer, JP Castro interrupted the laughs and stories to read a poem he had published titled “It’s not about the fish” in a recent Spearing Magazine edition. For the first few days that was true in my world. Waking to a panoramic view of the Sea of Cortez; free from work, the wife and kids, no cell phone service, no email, just soaking in the idyllic surroundings with new friends was amazing. On the afternoon of the third day, I started to doubt that JP knew what he was talking about. Each drift it became more about the fish. Each drop an ever more focused and frantic search for something of size to shoot. And then the week came to an end. I packed up my bags and left Baja with only the memories of an amazing event, new friends, and an education in Blue Water Hunting that was going to take some time to sink in and process.
I came to conquer Baja, and left with my tail between my legs.
4 agonizing months later In mid September, I returned to Sea Sniper Baja, to conquer my demons on Cerralvo Island. But this was a different kind of trip as we were celebrating Alex’s 40th birthday with our wives, our close friend Sean Martin and Alex’s Parents. For the first few days it was not about the fish. It was about sharing the beauty of Mexico with family and friends. It was about enjoying the disconnect from the real world, soaking in vacation, Mexico, and being back in the warm, clear waters of the Sea of Cortez, thousands of miles from the cold, murky waters of CenCal. After a day or two of getting the wives and family out snorkeling, getting my wife her first taste of spearfishing, we were back focused on the task at hand.
As the sun set on day three, the frustration became palpable. Baja was no longer a place to enjoy; it was a place I had to conquer or never return to again. The more drops I made, the more of a predator I became. Intently scanning the blue for any signs of movement, seeking the faintest silhouette, my mind made shadows, plankton and bubbles into hopes of a target to shoot at. There was not an apex predator within 50 miles of Cerralvo Island more intent on finding fish than me.
Optimism, turned to resolve, then frustration, and finally to resignation, and then at what felt like my breaking point . . .
that’s when it happened.
Resolved there was no way I would be getting Alex and Sean out of the water, I decided that I would work on technique, and bottom time. Dejected, I did my normal breathe up, and started my dive to the bottom. Lying on a fishless reef flat at 73 feet, I pushed off the bottom and began my ascent. Since there was no fish, I was surfacing at an angle to cover some ground during the ascent. I was lazily looking around, as I began to clear the murk layer at about 50 feet, my gaze fell off to the left with nothing to see but blue, then nothing to the right, but when I turned my head back to the left again, there it was‌ a Wahoo.., no
Wahoo, swimming parallel with me about 5 feet away. At that moment
hundreds of thoughts start clicking through my head‌
My world went into slow motion, seconds ticked by like minutes. As I slowly rolled and brought my gun up for a cross-chest shot, a smooth pull let the shaft fly. There was nothing more satisfying as watching the float go ripping past my head. As I broke the surface, it was a compilation of frustration, relief, elation, and validation that manifested itself as the loudest WAHOOOOOOOO yell my burning lungs could muster. For the next 5 minutes as I was working the fish in, my mind started clicking pieces into place. All the conversations, articles, and Roman Castro podcasts that all drummed the same message rang clear,
. Like a kid touching the stove after being told it’s hot, the message
sank in. The remainder of the trip, the waters around Cerralvo Island became much more fishy, and my hunts much more successful. I came to Baja to conquer my prior demons, and left as the self proclaimed “Wahoo Whisperer”!
That evening was like many of the others I had spent at SS Baja, Sitting around the table with family and friends, playing pool, telling stories, laughing, joking while eating the days catch. Only this time it was
different, this time it was my fish, and success never tasted so good. As we finished eating on the patio overlooking the Sea of Cortez, with the sun setting against Cerralvo Island, surrounded by good friends and family, it suddenly hit me, JP was right all along . . . . . . . . . . . . . it’s not about the fish.
During the flight home, the first Wahoo replayed over and over in my mind. Blue water hunting had sunk its proverbial hooks into me. Shortly after the trip, I made the call to the boys at Sea Sniper to order my first blue water gun, a SSPC 67 in Blue Kryptic that will be aptly named
e c n e r e f f i d e h “In T o T ” h s Fi
.
Ryan Woods “First Wahoo”
Sean Martin on the boat enjoying the moment.
The End . . .
n o i t a v o n The In & Artistry Of r e p i n S a Se
A Photo Spread Dedicated to
Sea Sniper Pro Customs
Contact Sea Sniper And start the build of your Dreams
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BROADSIDE
Words by: Roy McDennon Photos by: Pete Moore
As my fin tips slipped beneath the surface, I felt my heartbeat thumping in my chest. "Relax" I reminded myself, "Slow everything down". It didn't matter that I had just spent a few minutes on the surface breathing up properly, cleansing and restoring my body's O2 level to normal. The thought of tuna had made me excited. In this moment, the exact same scenario I dream about constantly was unfolding in front of my eyes.
I was with close friends, Pete Moore, Greg Minobe, and my father Roy Sr. We were diving a spot located far offshore in a remote area of Mexico. Our target was the prized Yellowfin tuna. The conditions were perfect! Water temp, current, baitfish density, everything one looks for when hunting bluewater game fish.
“Relax�, I remind myself, As we drifted through the zone where we hoped to see fish, we released chum from the surface, watching in hopes that a hungry tuna would come flying through, scarfing up a free meal. In the clear blue water, we focused on the small glimmering pieces of chum as they fell slowly, sinking into the abyss. I have learned that often it is not the fish you see at first, rather you'll notice single pieces of chum disappear in a flash. The coloring of a Yellowfin is the perfect camouflage for their bluewater environment.
All of a sudden, a swarm of baitfish came through in a fury, devouring the chum. Mixed in with the smaller mackerel and runners, were skipjack, a member of the tuna family, capable of choking down pretty large pieces of food. Worried that our chum would soon be diminished before any tuna would catch a whiff, we tossed another handful and I began a dive.
BROADSIDE
As I made my descent, attempting to relax, I began to peer around. The dozen or so skippies that we watched from the surface were nothing but a mere fraction of the fish congregated below. A school of skipjack as far as I could see swam by, turning into a giant vortex schooling around me. The visual was amazing!
I turned to my left, looking away from the last remaining pieces of chum that were too large for the skippies to swallow. I watched as the wall of fish divided, opening a clearing into the blue. Seconds later, a lone tuna appeared, swimming mightily towards me. Its yellow sickle fins stretching out towards its tail, swimming like a puffed up weightlifter, shoulders out and waddling.
“Slow Everything Down” A fish like this demands and easily get his due respect.
Not altering course, the tuna continued to swim in my direction. I thought to myself, "This doesn't happen to me!" I feel like so often I hear divers describe their big fish encounter like it was a stroke of luck. A giant fish just swam up, offering a shot. Well that's never my case, especially when it comes to tuna. But wouldn't you know it; the fish swam closer, then even closer, and turned.....BROADSIDE!
Presenting the perfect angle as it swam past, I extended my SSPC 67” and let the shaft fly! It pierced the muscular flesh just behind the tuna's head, and I saw the sliptip exit from the gill plate on the opposite side. Perfect! The shaft penetrated a few feet out of the other side and the fish took off with a burst of speed, the shaft bowing in the middle.
As I reached the surface, Pete yelled, "I saw the whole thing"! Remembering my recovery breaths before I did anything else, I completed them and high fived my friend. Yeww!!
The battle had just begun, so we kicked hard to catch up with the buoys as they plowed their way out to sea. I clipped the discharged speargun off to my second float, a 3 atm Ocean Hunter as it tomestoned straight up and down. I excitedly began pulling while I watched the first buoy; a foam-filled Rob Allen slowly rise from about 30 feet to the point where the bungee had stretched out. I quickly grabbed a hold of it on the surface.
The next 15 minutes I worked the fish towards the surface utilizing the "Pull and Clip" method. Before I knew it, Greg was placing a second "kill shot" in the fish. A lively tuna on the surface connected to shooting line while swimming circles around divers is very dangerous and should be avoided. It’s always best to ensure the fish has expired or is close to it before getting within arm’s reach.
We pulled the magnificent fish into the boat, packed it on ice, and celebrated our success. The long run back to the beach flew by as I replayed the experience over and over again in my head. An unforgettable day with a crew I’m thankful to have shared it with!
The end . . .
& l e r p a p a t a l s o m l n c a r . g u e e r p a i S e e n s s p a s e . w w w
The “Wahoo Collection”
www.seasniper.com
From all of us at Sea Sniper & the Sea Sniper Team, Thank you for your Support And remember . . . .
Chris Chaput Sea Sniper
Dreams do come true . . .
@SEA_SNIPER_LLC