It had been one of those crazy type of days that reared its ugly head now and again.

A whole bunch of RE’s were due to depart the Island in a few days so the beers were flowing, and the goodbyes were taking place. A bit early for goodbyes really but if it could be stretched out all the better. That gave you more than enough reason to see a drop off.

It was a tradition to ensure that a large departure of personnel received a good send off. I can’t recall who was going, but it was sufficient to warrant a decent farewell party.

On these occasions a Send Off Party was always arranged. Different people were given various tasks to carry out. These varied from arranging the location, which could be any of the Clubs, organising the food and drink, and laying on the entertainment.

One of the delicacies always harvested for a farewell was a good supply of “Pacific Crayfish”. These were unbelievable. Not like the tiny things you get in the UK that pass for lobsters, these were huge beasties that had to be treated with a lot of respect. The tail portions of one of these crayfish were like a series of miniature guillotines. One wrong move and rolling your own fags wasn’t an option.

The equipment required for a Crayfish session was as follows:

1. A Tilley Lamp.

2. A pair or more of heavy-duty Rigger’s Gloves.

3. A couple of Army Kit Bags.

4. Half of a 45 Gallon drum.

5. A couple of Gilbertese men. (expert Cray Fishermen)

6. A couple more of us. (navvies, for the use of)

As I said earlier, it had been one of those days.

Yorkie and I had been round to the Navy Lines for our Grog. It must have been someone’s birthday because it was definitely a “Gulpers” day. I, uncharacteristically, must have over “gulped” because I’ve been told that I went out like a light. This was not a good thing to do. Why? Because I was one of that evening’s Crayfish Crew.

My next recollection was being unceremoniously “loaded” into the back of a truck with the drum and other bits of kit.

We eventually arrived at the chosen spot. It was just behind the A.W.R.E. (Atomic Weapons Research Establishment) buildings. There was a lovely stretch of beach to work from. The reef was far enough out to sea to not cause too much concern, so we were ready for a good night’s work.

I say we, but I was still in a condition that left a lot to be desired. Because of this I was nominated to be the one to “Get the water on”.

This involved collecting vast quantities of old coconut husks and digging a hole to put them in. On top of these was placed the half drum, and into the drum went the seawater. This procedure took in the region of 30 – 45 mins. Light the husks, get the water boiling. No, it wasn’t bath night, it was scoff night.

The first dozen or so crayfish went in the drum for our supper.

The first crew went out into the water, lamp held high by one of the navvies while the expert eye of the Gilbertese scanned the crystal clear water for the green and blue body of an unaware crayfish.

Crayfish spotted, quick lunge under the water, grab the target and drop it into the kit bag being held on the back of another of the navvies. Simple.

Simple until it was my turn to be the kit bag man. Still hallucinating I put the strap over my shoulder and entered the water. By the time we were ready the water was lapping round my armpits. My only thought was sharks. Although the edge of the reef was still a long way off I was not taking any chances. 

My eyes were like radar, my pupils must have been the size of plates. Every ripple was scrutinised, every movement was checked out with extreme caution.

The Gilbo with the Glove was having a great night, in, out, crayfish, in, out, crayfish. He never missed a single one. Soon the bag was fast approaching full (about 15 –20 ‘fish). Suddenly I spotted it, an enormous fin cutting through the mill-pond surface of the water. It was heading my way.

With a screech and holler that a deaf man could have heard I divested myself of the bag of goodies and ran on water until I reached the safety of the beach. Safe at last, what about the others? Had they survived the razor sharp teeth of the hunter?

“Bloody poof, what yer doing?”

“What was I doing? I was looking after No 1, mate”.

“Yer’ve lost a whole bag full.”

“I was getting away from that shark.”

“What bloody shark? That’s a bloody King Fish, yer tosser. Sharks can’t get over this bit of reef, that’s why we come here.”

Don’t they have a lovely turn of phrase, these matelots?

Needless to say, my punishment for losing the bag was to be bag man for the remainder of the session.

The moral of this story is “Don’t go Cray fishing after a Gulpers session”.

There was one good thing that came out of that night’s session. We broke the record and got 147 crayfish.