fishing news today The ocean of fish that got away
About six years ago an old mate did a very kind thing.
He was shifting house and was having the traditional shifting house clean-out. The great purge. The time when you empty drawers and find the phone jack or the sunglasses you thought you'd lost years ago and given up on.
In this chap's case, most of his purging went on in the garage and the shed.
He came across a stack of fishing rods and boxes of assorted tackle, lures, backyard-cast lead sinkers and rusted hooks.
Would I like a couple of fishing rods and some assorted accessories to go with them?
Oh yes, I replied, explaining that the days of sending out a kontiki were now distant memories only - given the lack of suitable westerlies and the fact that after I rebuilt the thing it would sail out only for about 60 metres before capsizing. Something to do with the positioning of the sail mast, some busybody old fart who wandered down to take a look at my final rendition of the Titanic told me.
After that, and until my old angling chum came forward with his kind offer, I chose the fishing grounds of ice-filled fish market stalls and supermarket chillers. But I missed the live action of pursuing the finned prey in the watery deep.
A hint here ... smear toothpaste over your fingers and rub it in. Then wash with soap and water. Odour of Mr Fishy Wishy will be all gone.
So anyway, he dropped off the rods and I spent an enjoyable afternoon, a week later, assembling them and attaching flash new hook rigs and things I'd bought from a sports shop (making out I knew exactly what I was talking about).
Over that first summer of going for gurnard and seeking the snapper, my son and I managed to actually drag in a couple of the scaley blighters.
He topped the list with two very fine gurnard while I shuffled along (ever the perennial runner-up) with a sort of large herring and a crab ... which for some unknown reason we called Leonard.
That was the first season with our new rods and tackle.
I can't remember if we went fishing last summer, so that clearly means we didn't drag in a memorable four-tonne albacore.
And so, a couple of weekends back, when the mercury hit 32, we embarked on our first seashore expedition of the summer - rods in hand, a little bag of stinky bait, a packet of chips and some fizzy.
I had been prompted into angling action by hearing a radio fishing report a day earlier which revealed "good size" gurnard were "coming ashore" somewhere up Tangoio way, and that "good reports" of kingfish were coming in from some place I can't pronounce.
As it was stinking hot we coupled the hunt for the elusive four-tonne albacore with a swim, and my wife came along for that reason.
It was later, when the kid and I began casting our lines, that she rightly realised what a complete circus our fishing expeditions are ... and how in this age of rare miracles our catching anything at all would easily qualify.
"Any bites?" I would ask.
"Nothing yet," the kid would reply.
Then we'd sit there quietly for three minutes until the conversation would be repeated ... except he would be the one to open it and I would reply.
Three minutes later ... you get the picture.
And then the line did shimmy.
Something was out there at the very limit of my cast. Something was 12 metres offshore and feasting on a piece of bonito which should have been buried, not offered for consumption to an innocent animal.
"Got something," I declared, in a most macho Ernest Hemingway-type shout of bluster.
The tip of the rod dipped ... albeit modestly, as I reeled the quarry in slowly. If you reel too fast the spool comes loose.
And so it appeared, in the shallows.
A crab the size of a slice of bread.
The lad went down to greet it and it's good claw arced up at him ... the other was tangled in the hook.
So I strolled down in a most manly "I'll sort it out" manner and within seconds screeched like a child as the brute clamped on to my left forefinger (where the scars are still visible.)
There was mocking laughter, but I maintained my dignity and determination to pursue the prey of the deep ... and shallow.
For two days later I went to Ahuriri and picked up some tarakihi for a very reasonable price.
Roger Moroney is an award-winning journalist for Hawke's Bay Today and observer of the slightly off-centre.
Read More ...
0 comments:
Post a Comment