The International Underwater Spearfishing Association

International Underwater Spearfishing Association

World Record

6.9 kg. , 15.2 lbs.

Trevally, Golden Gnathanodeon speciosus

Record Category: Men Sling / Polespear

Diver:		Brian Allemeier
Date:		1/19/2026
Location:		AUSTRALIA

The Daintree had been bleeding fresh water into the sea for weeks. Summer rains turned the inland reefs milky, then cleared them to eight to fifteen metres of green-tinged visibility—a gift in croc country, where you don't linger at the surface. Captain Rob and Andrew, had built the pole spear themselves. Ikigai Marine, they called the brand. Machining the components, testing different setups. Both men moved through the water like they'd been born with gills, and I was still learning to breathe. Day one had been dryland. Rob correcting my elbow, my grip, the way I loaded the rubber. Smooth pull. Don't punch it. Day two, I was in the water with the thing for the first time, firing practice shots at nothing, switching hands, trying to make the motion second nature. We'd dropped on two spots already—empty blue, just current and the occasional reef fish scattering from our shadows. The third spot was a pinnacle. Fourteen metres to the sand. Andrew and Nikki had already put fish on. A shark had charged twice, Nikki turning on it, spear forward, and it peeled off into the murk. Above the structure, a school of giant barracuda orbited like chrome scaffolding—a dozen of them, each as long as my arm, watching with those dead black eyes. I was at the surface when I saw the shape. Dark. Solid. Moving slow atop the coral. Couldn't tell what it was. Big enough to warrant a dive. I duck-dived. Equalised. Kept my movements slow, the Ikigai spear at the ready and tracking the shadow. The fish didn't bolt. It turned, showed me its flank—a trevally, thick through the shoulder, the kind of fish you dream about but never actually meet. I loaded the band, shouldering the spear like Rob had trained me. The shot was clean. Centre mass. The slip-tip buried and the fish exploded toward the reef. Then the line went tight. I kicked for the surface, and felt the jolt as the dyneema caught under a rock ledge below. Freeing it with a quick tug, I continued upward, alert to the shimmering, silver bodies still circling our group. I started hauling line, hand over hand, trying not to think about what else those vibrations might attract. A lone cuda got close to the exhausted fish, itching to take its due tax. Then it turned—some signal I couldn't read—and widened their orbit. I got the trevally to surface, got my hand in the gills, and it was over.
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