Big day! Mom and her son are allowed on the fishing boat. They have to leave very early, but that's no problem for a child who usually wakes up with the birds chirping in front of the kitchen and fighting over the crumbs scattered on the lawn. Standing in his crib, he chirps as loudly as the sparrows, before his mother welcomes him into her bed to try to get a little extra rest. But this morning, it's time to get up and go to the jeep where two giant Americans with stentorian voices are talking to the Major. They are as surprised as they are delighted to see the child arrive for this fishing trip.
The marina for pleasure boats has concrete piers built on the riverbank and other perpendicular wooden jetties. An army riverboat is moored there, and when the Major arrives, the crew and its captain salute him. After a handshake between the officers, the strangers and the young mother are introduced. She is embarrassed to find herself dressed so lightly in the midst of all these sailors. She forgets about the short-legged explorer. He takes advantage of this to slip between the soldiers who are unloading the equipment and takes it aboard a 15-meter coastal vessel.
He stops dead in front of a bundle of huge fishing rods that are walking around like him: at the center of this bristling ball is a black man who is transferring all the fishing equipment from the truck to the boat. Now he looks like a giant porcupine!
After a moment of intrigue, the little rascal trots off toward the end of the pier... Three workers sitting around a brazier are chewing on pieces of grilled food. The scaffolding used to repair these already old structures stops the little imp in his tracks. The oldest of the group gets up, intrigued, takes him by the hand and brings him over to the others. Where could a white baby come from in this port? The little boy points with his chubby index finger at a piece of food sizzling on a long metal rod. One of the men takes it out of the fire, blows on it to cool it down, and puts it in his hand. It's hot but bearable. Curious, he is still wary. Although the story of the trunk is fading from his memory, it hasn't completely disappeared! He sniffs the meatball before licking it with a sudden flick of his tongue. He sucks on a piece of it, then swallows the salty, crispy food. The bite bursts into a rather elastic substance, unpleasant in taste and texture. He grimaces and the whole repair team bursts out laughing and joking.
“What are you doing here?” cries his mother, out of breath from running, terrified to find her son so far from her and in a place so close to the water. She realizes that he has eaten something and looks at the net open on the worm-eaten, oozing beams of the wharf. She almost faints! Rotten fish! Her little darling has eaten a piece of rotten fish! She runs towards the boat, carrying him as if he were about to die, and, on the verge of tears, tells his father. He roars with laughter and recounts this culinary feat to the Americans, who share the mother's concern. The incident is over, the mother has calmed down, her treasure is on her lap, and the ropes are cast off.
The engine starts, shaking the pontoon, blue smoke escapes from the stern, and we set sail for adventure. The morning will be spent fishing on the river, then we will drift out to the ocean. This will allow tourists to witness the amazing catch in a single day in this part of the world.
The estuary stretches as far as the eye can see. We know we are still sailing on the river because of the brown color of the water. Trolling lines, with hooks baited with bloody pieces of meat, hang from tall rods attached to the railings of the gunwale. The man with the pipe discusses his favorite sport with sweeping gestures embracing the horizon. A black man shouts, a rod bends. Leaning on the handle, the tallest of the Americans works on the trapped animal. A curious nose would like to get closer, but maternal arms hold it back. After half an hour of manly talk, comments, and grunts, the fisherman shouts with enthusiasm.
The fish's dorsal fin breaks the surface and its tail lashes the almost smooth water. Its frantic struggle ends along the hull. It is a large catfish, and the harpooners finish it off. Hoisted onto the pontoon amid a flurry of movement and shouting, the animal lies on its side. Its impressive mouth opens and closes with a nerve-wracking hiss. Its convulsions and tail lashes cause the men trying to kill it to dance around. Blood spreads and coagulates into dark pools. Everything calms down. During the commotion, no one noticed that another fisherman, having noticed the jerks of another rod, began to pull a kind of perch called “lutjanus” out of the water, wriggling and silvery in the light reflecting off its scales. A little frightened, the little boy remained buried in his mother's skirts. His grandfather came to fetch him and led him to the gaping mouth of the catfish. Flaccid and rough, it smelled of mud and was still twitching slightly. By late morning, around twenty fish of all sizes were piled up in front of the wheelhouse. Two other catfish had joined the first, one of which measured nearly two meters. The ocean, heralded by a barrier of clouds, gradually replaces the river.
The boat anchors on a sandbank not far from the beaches, renowned for its rich wildlife. The broken-down boat settles facing the current and everyone prepares lunch, except for the mother, who is feeling unwell and has gone to lie down in the shade of the cockpit. The grandfather has the child placed under a parasol and asks the tall black man to watch over the child until his mother returns. After eating the cheese sandwich prepared by his grandmother, the child falls asleep on the lap of his improvised and somewhat annoyed guardian. The child's head rests open-mouthed on the smooth, warm chest. His friends, after a few jokes, start a game from which he is excluded, watching over the sleep of the little angel, disturbed by the memory of a big, oozing mouth lurking in the dreamlike velvet of his sleep.
He wakes with a start. The commotion has resumed on the boat, and the fishing trip begins again. The sailors await their first victims. Schools of barracudas and tarpons come to inspect the spoons glistening at the end of the lines. In a spray of foam, the first fish flutters and is thrown on board. It bounces from one side of the deck to the other, stopped by the railings, bites the tail of one of the catfish and comes to a halt. It's a barracuda! It looks like a very large pike, with sharp teeth protruding from its half-open mouth. Within an hour, a dozen of these ferocious predators are swarming around the sailors' calves as they jump about to avoid being bitten. Two small sharks and a tarpon have joined the dying herd when one of the rods bends to breaking point. “It's a big one!” shouts the organizer, and the men gather around, harpoons or gaffs in hand. A fin shoots up from the depths. This time, the tall black man is uncomfortable. He grabs the child and stands in the center, leaning against a chest containing equipment and ropes.
It is impossible to enter the cabin: it opens to the rear and people are jostling to prepare for a possible attack by the shark. He no longer wants to stay there because once on board, this large beast will roll from port to starboard, crushing everything in its path. Agile, he climbs up to the cockpit and holds on to the handrail that runs along the roof. The kid finds this very amusing and his laughter attracts the attention of the men. His grandfather, who had his back turned during the climb, shielding his eyes from the glare of the sun with one hand, looks up and appreciates the sailor's reflexes: “That's good, stay there and hold on tight so it doesn't move!” Then he rudely shooed away his daughter, who had come to see what was happening: “We're going to be shaken up.”
This prediction was immediately confirmed when the shark suddenly lunged at its tormentors, bumping into the boat and tangling the lines that had not been reeled in time. With a pocket knife in his hand, the Major cuts the unnecessary lines while one of the Americans slides to the other side to prevent the rope from rubbing against the keel, from bow to stern. The sailors have raised the rudder and anchor, and the boat is slowly drifting along the coast. The fish has taken the bait: the calm before the storm!
Comments are flying thick and fast. It is estimated that this shark is too big for traditional methods, and it is surprising that the line, designed for less powerful jaws, held. The officer goes to the cabin to fetch a large hunting rifle and finds his grandson there. He was brought back during the lull. His daughter greets him with a questioning silence.
The shark returns to the surface and remains motionless, its head under water. Everyone holds their breath as the Major takes careful aim. As if sensing danger, the animal briefly reveals a cold eye to locate its adversaries. A thunderclap! It is the weapon used against the old loner who ravaged the village. The little boy cries out in surprise when he hears the gunshot. The sound reminds him of the big cat. “Opar!” he says to his intrigued mother...
The shark strikes the sea with its tail and blood gushes from its forehead in vaporous clouds that dissolve into the blue water. The heavy dead beast is pulled out of the ocean by all the men working together. The boat rocks during the operation and other sharks approach, attracted by this potential prey. When the officer gives the signal to depart, six fins circle around the bloody site. The animal lies in front of the pile of other victims: its hideous mouth is full of teeth and its jaws are covered with wounds. It seems to be watching with its one eye the appetizing little man being carried at a safe distance from its corpse.
It dwarfs all the other catches combined: it measures almost four meters. “The limit was exceeded for our lines,” the grandfather assures his daughter in a learned tone, but she doesn't care, happy to have found her little one intact and to be able to breathe without feeling like she has to vomit all the time.
Usually, it is after docking that the fishermen have their photos taken for souvenirs, standing next to the fish hanging from tree branches or threaded through the gills on sticks carried by two men. But the officer advises taking the photos on board: the return will be late and night will have fallen. The people from the riverside villages wait to witness the sharing of the spoils, done by the light of electric lamps and fires lit on the shore. It is good manners to be generous and leave this mountain of protein to the locals. It will be shared by the local potentates, so as not to disadvantage any family, under the silent supervision of the soldiers who will receive their share. One barracuda and one perch will be kept for home.