Questions, such as ‘Why was fishing considered to be better in the good old days?’ underpin much of this book; some recur throughout. The first is: ‘Why write a book like this?’ I decided to do so when I realised how much I enjoyed the stories my father, Jack Kearney, and several of his mates would tell of fishing in ‘the good old days’. It wasn’t just the descriptions of catching fish that captured me; the rate at which things were changing as more people used our coastal environment intrigued me, even then. Naturally these stories were dominated by events on days or nights when it all came together. Stories about the days that were uneventful, and nothing was caught, do not hold an audience. Nobody remembers them anyway. There is always a bias towards what was good about days gone by.
I enjoyed all of Dad’s stories and their messages, many of them immensely. The more detail he provided of circumstances and events, the more I lapped them up. He was an excellent raconteur, as were all of his ten siblings. His abilities in this field were honed to an incredible level by being a publican in a NSW country town, Murwillumbah, in the days when conversing with your clients at whatever level they chose was a prerequisite for business success. He and his siblings were brought up in hotels.
As my father aged, he tended to repeat some of his fishing stories too frequently for my brother John. John was a good fisherman, but not an addict like me. I never tired of Dad telling his stories, particularly the ones he found special.
When my father passed away in 1998, I realised that my library of the fishing stories I loved was gone. I had not recorded any of them. Dad had not written any of them down. I hope this book makes it easier for my children and grandchildren to remember some that I found special, including even a few my father treasured. I also hope that by blending fishing experiences with the basic principles of fisheries and environmental science I can provoke some readers to think a little more broadly about what will affect the quality of their future fishing experiences, and even those of their grandchildren.
I know my fishing experiences have greatly benefited my understanding of fisheries and environmental management. I believe my science experience has helped my fishing. Questioning the science of fisheries assessment and why we do not understand more about fish behaviour has at the very least helped pass the time when nothing was biting.
I am most grateful for the privilege of a lengthy university education, predominantly at taxpayer expense. The last four years allowed me to work full time on fish and things fishy. Then for fifty years I had the great pleasure of researching and managing fisheries in many countries. In combination, these qualifications and experiences have given me insight into the science of fisheries assessments and what determines how much fish can be taken from a system without over-stepping. I have been reminded frequently by colleagues how fortunate I have been to have had the opportunity to combine my passion for fish and fishing with my career. They have used this to stress that I have a responsibility to record my experiences and conclusions. This book represents my acceptance of that responsibility.
For all my university training and laboratory and office research I believe I have learnt more about the way fish behave and their reactions to changes in habitat and climate from being a fisherman, both commercial and recreational. I was, however, as a university student formally taught how to gather and process information objectively. As a scientist and academic the need to question even the obvious was repeatedly reinforced. I have, to the best of my ability, applied these principles to the contents of this book.
I have tried to combine my fishing and professional experiences with what I have learnt from textbooks and scientific papers and from writing a multitude of government submissions on fisheries and environmental management. In the story-telling I have concentrated on my recall of what actually happened, and the expressions individuals used to describe their involvement. My interpretations of what has changed over the years, and why, are more subjective. They are influenced by analyses of the evidence, with the evidence gathered while fishing dominating.
The geographical focus in this book is the far north coast of NSW, particularly around the township of Kingscliff, where I spent most of my childhood and where I learnt to become a fisherman. My good old days began in the late 1950s and most of the events described in detail occurred in the 1960s.
Many species of fish are mentioned in this book. There is debate about the names of some of them. For those species that frequented the Kingscliff region in the good old days I have, in the main, used the common names as they were applied there at the time. These are aligned with their scientific classification in the appendix. It is noteworthy that there is conjecture over some of the common and Latin names. Even the accepted scientific classifications of some of the species listed have changed in the sixty years under consideration. Inconsistency in common names of the most popular species has, in the last two decades, been effectively, but not definitively, addressed by the Australian seafood industry, to the benefit of seafood consumers. Minor inconsistencies in naming should not detract from this narrative.
One name that does needs special consideration is jewfish. In the 1960s nobody around Kingscliff used the now accepted name of mulloway, even for bigger fish. Smaller individuals commonly went by more specific titles. Jewfish up to about 3 pounds were called ‘soapies’; from about 3 to about 9 pounds they were called ‘schoolies’; from about 10 to about 19 pounds they were called ‘big schoolies’ and from 20 up to about 40 pounds, they were called jewfish or jewies. Over 40 pounds they were called ‘big jewies’. Slang names for fish over about 20 pounds included ‘smellies’, ‘grubbies’, or more simply ‘grubs’. These somewhat derogatory names were only used by fishermen who caught quite a few: my good friend Billy Smith never referred to bigger jewfish as anything other than ‘grubs’. Those who rarely caught one would be far more reverent; the word ‘beautiful’ would usually get in the title somewhere and ‘big’ would creep in whenever possible.
I have been extremely fortunate in that my work in fisheries has taken me to many countries and introduced me to many of the world’s most eminent fisheries scientists. I have had the pleasure to work closely with stock assessment legends, such as John Gulland and Sidney Holt, and many outstanding tuna fishery specialists including Jim Joseph, Gordon Broadhead and Akira Suda. To all of them and many others I owe a great debt for what they have taught me about fish and fisheries. Many of the scientists I have known and worked with were also avid fishermen, or at least knew people to whom they were more than happy to introduce me. These knowledgeable individuals may well have taught me more about fish behaviour and the factors that affect it than did the scientists! Of course, to all of them I am most grateful.
The many encounters and opportunities they helped create allowed me to experience some of the best fishing the world has to offer. When coupled with the learned explanations I was given about the species and their habitats that are not available to many people, the collective has been enlightening. The many highlights of these experiences include, in no particular order: fishing for white sea bass on the beaches and rocks of Baja California with Jim Joseph and Carl Robbins; giant halibut and salmon in Alaska with Keith Jefferts, Lee Alverson and Sandy Argue; tuna and other pelagic species in almost twenty countries in the south Pacific with Barney Smith and Tony Lewis; trout in New Zealand with Johann Bell; steelhead in British Columbia with John Harris; giant lutjanid snapper and rooster-fish in Panama with Jim Joseph and Bob Wettle; and bonefish in New Caledonia with Johann Bell and John Harris.
I have wonderful memories of all of these and many more. But my response to the frequent question, ‘What has been your most memorable fishing experience?’ remains: fishing for jewfish in the middle of the day on The South End of the rocks at Kingscliff. When I am fishing anywhere for anything and nothing is happening, this is where my mind still invariably takes me, even though I have not done it for more than twenty years.
The rocks at Kingscliff are not even the best jewfish spot I have fished. There are many areas further south on the NSW coast where jewfish are far more abundant and easier to catch. The South End is not even a spot you could always go to and be confident you could fish there. Often the rocks are so sanded up that there is not enough water to fish profitably, even at high tide. This is particularly so since the devastation of the natural rocky environment caused by the construction of the training walls at the mouth of Cudgen Creek in the mid-1960s. So why the pre-eminence in my mind of fishing there, particularly for jewfish? And why in the daytime when my catch rate was considerably higher at night? In this book I answer this question and consider the answer from the perspective of the changes over time in recreational fishing and in coastal aquatic ecosystems more generally. I also address a few other questions, like was the fishing really better in Australia sixty years ago (chapter 23)? And how will it be in the next sixty years (chapter 24)?
Finally, a word about terminology. When describing the good old days, I refer to recreational fishers of the time as fishermen. Even Mary Pearce, Kingscliff Amateur Fishing Club stalwart, was in the good old days referred to as a good fisherman. I raised this issue with her and I was assured she considered the comment more a compliment on her fishing ability than a sexist slur. ‘Fishermen’ was a generic term, not dissimilar to the term ‘batsmen’ in cricket, which has taken a long time to be replaced by ‘batters’. But fishermen was not only what all serious fishers were called at the time, it was at least for those who fished the rocks, with one, only occasional, exception, what they were. In this book I progressively adopt the term ‘fishers’ as I discuss more recent developments. In a similar vein I use the imperial measures of the time for weights and distances. A 50-pound jewfish, a 10-pound tailor and a 4-pound bream were expressions that carried a reverent respect for a benchmark that is not matched by current almost arbitrary numbers of centimetres of fish length.