The good ship Jellyfish is an open fiberglass hull amply powered by a 90-horse outboard. Its home port is Kota Kinabalu, a city of 200,000 on the island of Borneo. The gunwales sport a single rodholder, and the deck behind the console is awash with empty pop cans and cigarette packs.

There are six of us aboard. Paisal, Basiri, and their two cousins are the locals. None has yet to outlive his teens. Larry and I are the tourists. Although we’ve just met, thrown together by an international conference of educators, I can tell by his duct-taped rodcases that we share at least one trait.

I tote a few pounds of tackle wherever I go, and typically much more. Since this week on Borneo is not a dedicated fishing expedition, I’ve brought only five outfits: 9-weight fly, 6-, 12-, and 15-lb. spinning, and 30-lb. conventional. I feel comfortable with this range, knowing I can target everything from big mullet to small marlin. Not entirely secure, but comfortable.

To begin the afternoon, we run north of the city’s high-rises and into a turbid river lined with mangroves. But the tide is wrong there, so we motor back into the South China Sea and tie up to a barnacle-encrusted freighter. When that fails to produce, we anchor over an inshore reef. At any one time at least three of us are fishing, and we utilize all the available technology—everything from handlines and sardines to high-density sinktips and Clouser minnows.

Though he does not own the Jellyfish, Paisal enjoys the captain’s role. He chainsmokes, makes sporadic calls on his cellphone, accepts when I offer to share a roast duck from Big Old Brother Fast Food. We talk about his uncle (a tuna fisherman), about the weather, about the pleasures of fishing and the perils of a global economy. Then it’s time to return to the jetty, where my wife and children have promised to meet me.

I stow the fly gear and rig the 12-lb. spinning rod with a magnum Rapala. Trolling back towards the concrete towers, their windows gleaming under the hard sun, I feel a bump, as if the lure has snared a shred of weed. When I sweep the rod up, a few yards of line slip from the drag. I lean on it again, and there is the unmistakable throb of a fish. All of us peer over the side to mark the flash of blue and silver, fringed with bright gold. A small yellowfin tuna.

I toss the lure back and ask Paisal to take another turn in the bay. The next fish makes a brace of deep runs and we all think: bigger tuna.

After a long fight, the line rises towards the surface. The gleaming flank is long and trim, almost white in the depths. Mackerel perhaps. Then the head looms into view: barracuda. And at least four feet long. Read More...