THE SLIGHTLY more glamorous fishing boat bobbed leisurely off the coast of Sanur, under the warm Balinese sun. At the bow, Mr. Arman—clad in an expensive polo shirt, a premium fishing hat, and a motorcycle-priced reel—had been standing tall for three hours, displaying the “master angler” posture he’d seen on YouTube.
“Hah! This ocean, Maya, this ocean doesn’t appreciate imported, A-grade silkworm bait!” he grumbled, dramatically reeling in his line.
His wife, Mrs. Maya, who was sitting in the back enjoying the sea breeze, was busy taking selfies with Mount Agung in the background. “Maybe the fish know, sir. They know you’re better suited to fishing in a koi pond than in the Indian Ocean,” she replied without looking up from her phone screen.
“Your sarcasm isn’t helping, ma’am! I’m the record holder for catfish fishing in our neighborhood!” Mr. Arman snorted. He then turned sharply to Captain Gede, their boat’s captain.
Captain Gede, who had been sitting casually behind the mini-steering wheel, wearing sunglasses that covered half his face, was busy opening the third package of nasi jinggo.
“Captain Gede! Where do the fish gather?!” shouted Mr. Arman, frustrated. “I paid a lot for a supposedly premium fishing tour! My reel hasn’t been touched! My bait hasn’t been respected! We’re going home now if we don’t get any results!”
Captain Gede chewed slowly. He swallowed his rice, then pointed to the horizon with an oily finger. “Be patient, sir. You have to be patient at sea. If you keep shouting like this, the fish are scared away. They think you’re demonstrating.”
“I don’t care! I have to catch some fish!”
Captain Gede sighed, as if dealing with Mr. Arman was the hardest job of the day. He then threw a small piece of chicken skin from the rest of his nasi jinggo (small wrap of rice with side dish) into the sea, like throwing a coin into a wishing well.
Three seconds later. BLARR!
A small, but sizable tuna, with lightning-fast reflexes, leaped out of the water, snatched the chicken skin in midair, and, due to its momentum, plunged into a freefall and landed flop-flop-flop right on the boat deck, just a few feet from Mr. Arman’s feet.
The fish looked confused, as if it had just realized it had betrayed the entire fish community for a piece of fried chicken skin.
Captain Gede very casually, without even removing his sunglasses, scooped up the gasping fish and placed it in the fish basket.
“Oh, I got it,” he said flatly. “The fish here are friendly, sir. They know you’re hungry. It’s a shame to see you so tense.”
Mr. Arman stood frozen, his mouth wide open like a freshly landed fish.
“THIS… THIS IS NOT HOW TO FISH!” he shouted, his face reddening. “This is called flirting! This is coercion! I need a real duel! Not a fish that surrenders because of your chicken skin skills!”
“Okay, sir. Just think of it as a sympathy fish. The important thing is that it yields results,” Gede replied as he began unwrapping the fourth nasi jinggo.
Just as Mr. Arman was about to launch a strong protest about fishing ethics, the jukung boat was hit by a small wave—as small as a wave in a children’s pool.
However, that small wave was enough to shake Arman, a skilled angler who was hiding a big secret: acute seasickness.
Mr. Arman’s face immediately turned as white as his imported silkworm bait. He let out a muffled scream, staggered, hugging the boat mast like a lost lover, and then…
Yuck!
Mr. Arman vomited his sumptuous breakfast, not into the sea (which would be clean), but onto a more tragic target: the bright white YETI cooler containing their expensive picnic supplies—truffle sandwiches and sparkling wine.
Mrs. Maya dropped her phone, but not out of disgust. She laughed so hard that tears welled up in her eyes. She quickly picked it up again and snapped a photo of her limp, wet husband.
“Oh, Bro Arman! You really are a master angler!” Mrs. Maya shook her head. “Captain Gede has proven that the best fishing in Bali is about relaxing, eating, and letting the fish come to you out of sympathy, not showing off your reel and then throwing up all over your sandwich.”
Captain Gede simply sighed, started the boat’s engine, and turned back to shore.
“We’re back, Ma’am. Fish sympathy has been enough. You didn’t catch any today, but you learned a lesson: the Balinese sea doesn’t need arrogance, it only needs chicken skin.”
Mr. Arman could only whimper weakly in the arms of the boat’s mast. He returned home with only one “sympathy fish” that smelled of nasi jinggo and a solemn promise to cancel all his fishing lessons. He decided that from now on, his hobby would be growing bonsai. At least the bonsai wouldn’t jump and force itself into the basket. (*)
