What It's Like...To Be Stung By a Lionfish
What it's like: Stung by a Lionfish
Antonio Busiello
The first lionfish gave up without a fight. As I swam closer, it paced the Utila wall at 110 feet. I aimed the spear of the hawaiian sling and released. Skewered, it hung lifelessly from the metal shaft. The kill made me giddy.
Adrenaline overcame me when I spotted another. I was so focused on hunting this next victim — stalking it as it inched toward an overhang — that I disconnected from the first fish still on the sling.
When I let go of the rubber band to shoot again, I immediately realized my mistake. I felt a needle slide into the index finger of my right hand. I knew the pain would soon intensify. I squeezed my finger to cut off circulation, keeping the poison from creeping upward.
After five minutes, I couldn’t bear the nausea and aborted the dive. As I waited for the others to board the boat, I wanted to vomit. It felt like someone was holding a lit match to my finger. The poison spread, searing my veins. For the next hour, I couldn’t escape the shooting sensations paralyzing my hand.
I was angry at myself — I’ve worked in the aquarium trade for 20 years, handling lionfish countless times and netting them easily. I knew their danger. Back at the resort, the divemaster brought a thermos of hot water so I could soak my finger. Then she disappeared, promising to filet the fish so I could have the last laugh and eat him for dinner. After a 10-minute hot soak, my finger was still swollen, but I was ready to dive again.
by Henry Schultz, as told to Brooke Morton
Antonio Busiello
The first lionfish gave up without a fight. As I swam closer, it paced the Utila wall at 110 feet. I aimed the spear of the hawaiian sling and released. Skewered, it hung lifelessly from the metal shaft. The kill made me giddy.
Adrenaline overcame me when I spotted another. I was so focused on hunting this next victim — stalking it as it inched toward an overhang — that I disconnected from the first fish still on the sling.
When I let go of the rubber band to shoot again, I immediately realized my mistake. I felt a needle slide into the index finger of my right hand. I knew the pain would soon intensify. I squeezed my finger to cut off circulation, keeping the poison from creeping upward.
After five minutes, I couldn’t bear the nausea and aborted the dive. As I waited for the others to board the boat, I wanted to vomit. It felt like someone was holding a lit match to my finger. The poison spread, searing my veins. For the next hour, I couldn’t escape the shooting sensations paralyzing my hand.
I was angry at myself — I’ve worked in the aquarium trade for 20 years, handling lionfish countless times and netting them easily. I knew their danger. Back at the resort, the divemaster brought a thermos of hot water so I could soak my finger. Then she disappeared, promising to filet the fish so I could have the last laugh and eat him for dinner. After a 10-minute hot soak, my finger was still swollen, but I was ready to dive again.
by Henry Schultz, as told to Brooke Morton
