Roni Essex
Freediver, Spearo, Creator
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Roni Essex
Freediver, Spearo, Creator
There is a moment right after you miss the shot. A brief pause in the water, as if the ocean itself is waiting to see how you will respond. The fish flicks its tail and disappears into the blue, unbothered. You remain suspended, heart pounding, jaw tight. You exhale slowly through your snorkel, but you are not really breathing. Not yet.
Most spearos don’t talk about the ones that get away. Not really. You’ll hear a quick mention in passing, maybe a joke about a shaft gone wide or a fish that ducked just out of range. But rarely do we let ourselves sink into the disappointment, frustration, and the strange hollow that comes from losing something you never really had. It is easier to count what you land. It is harder to admit how deeply a miss can cut.
The truth is, missing a fish doesn’t just bruise your ego. It disrupts the quiet order you’ve built underwater, the narrative you’ve rehearsed in your mind. You saw it, lined it up, made your approach with textbook patience. You knew where the shot needed to land. Maybe it was a slight twitch of the wrist, or a miscalculated breath-hold, or a bit of surge you didn’t notice. Whatever it was, the result is the same. The fish swims away. And you are left alone with the weight of intention unfulfilled.
Why does it sting? Why does something as simple as a missed opportunity underwater leave such a lasting imprint?
Part of it is control. Or the illusion of it. Spearfishing offers a specific type of mastery. You train your body to move efficiently, hold your breath longer, read the water like a second language. You sharpen your awareness until the smallest movements feel monumental. All of this discipline funnels toward a single moment: the shot. When that moment goes wrong, it can feel like your entire system of preparation has failed you. That is a hard pill to swallow for people who have built their identity around precision.
But it is not just about control. There is also attachment. Not to the fish itself, necessarily, but to the story you were telling yourself about what would happen. You had already imagined the weight in your hands, the photo you might take, the taste of it on the grill. You had folded that fish into your day, your narrative, your reward. So when it swims off, you are not just losing a catch. You are losing a version of yourself that was built on a quiet, private certainty. The story you were writing just got erased mid-sentence.
And then there’s resilience. Or rather, the test of it. Because what happens next is everything. You could reload in frustration and push harder, faster, sloppier. Or you could sulk back to the boat, brooding and bitter. Or you could let it go. Not forget, but release. Let the miss become something other than failure. Let it become part of the process.
This is where the real learning happens, although it rarely feels like it in the moment. Losing a fish reminds you that you are not owed success, no matter how much you prepare. It teaches humility in a way that no trophy photo ever will. It asks you to revisit your motivations: Are you here to dominate or to connect? Are you measuring your day by kilos or by presence? Are you hunting for food or for affirmation?
Some of the best spearos I know carry more stories of missed fish than landed ones. They remember the ones that darted, dodged, vanished. They remember the ones that taught them something. About currents. About patience. About themselves.
I remember one particular dive, warm water, perfect visibility. I had been watching a school of Dentex break off at the edge of a reef ledge when a massive one cruised in from the shadows. It was the kind of fish that makes your heart stop and your hands suddenly feel too big. I held steady, slow-kicked once, aimed, fired. The shaft glanced off its back. Too high. Too fast. It barely flinched as it faded into the blue. I floated there, cursing my grip, replaying the angle again and again in my mind.
But over time, I came to appreciate that moment more than many of the fish I did land. That miss taught me more about trigger control, about timing, about staying calm under pressure. It reminded me that in the ocean, nothing is guaranteed. And it humbled me. Which is something the ocean does best.
If you stay long enough in this sport, you will miss. You will lose fish you thought you had. You will second-guess your instincts. You will feel that gut-deep sting of almost. And you will keep going. Because beneath the pain of the miss is something essential. A call to refine your craft. A reason to return. A relationship with the water that is not based on success, but on respect.
Spearfishing is not just about hunting. It is about becoming. Every dive is a mirror. Every shot, a measure of where you are and where you still need to go. Missing a fish hurts because it matters. Because it reveals you. Because it strips away the bravado and leaves you raw enough to grow.
So the next time you miss, let yourself feel it. Let yourself grieve the fish. Then let it go. Reload not with anger, but with awareness. With humility. With the quiet determination that the next shot is not about revenge. It is about rhythm. Presence. Practice.
And maybe, just maybe, the one that got away was the one you needed most.