This was one of those all-too-rare days when conditions for what you want to do were about as good as you can reasonably hope for. It was late January 1964. The strong south-easter of the previous three days was abating and the sea was settling, but still big enough to produce the dense foam cover around the rocks that is essential for successful daytime fishing for jewfish. The tide was dropping, and in combination with the four days of southerly had resulted in the hard-gut mullet (the smaller, summer version of sea mullet, named because of their empty, compact stomachs as they fast, while migrating north) running in good numbers. I knew jewies were about. For a keen jewfish fisherman the day had excitement stamped all over it.
Mullet had been easy to get. I had about twenty swimming around in my favourite pool on The South End of the Kingscliff rocks. The first hour and a half of jewfish fishing had resulted in three bites. Two beautiful fish of just over 40 pounds each were swimming in the larger pool below the one that contained my mullet. I still had several hours of perfect fishing conditions in front of me. Life couldn’t get much better.
I had had the rocks to myself and wanted it to stay that way. So when I noticed another angler had crossed the creek and was clearly heading in my direction I was not thrilled. As he reached the rocks my suspicion that he was a tourist and not a local was confirmed. He was about ten years older than I. Because of what happened this particular afternoon I can still vividly recall a picture of him, including his curly blond hair and sky-blue jumper. Clearly by the gear he was carrying, he was not an experienced fisherman. He was not going to worry the jewfish I was fishing for. He was not a threat.
The canvas bag he carried was not uncommon, but the give-away was the six-foot, white Jarvis Walker rod that was in his other hand. It was designed to capture novice anglers rather than a specific type of fish. It was certainly not the right implement for rock fishing. Attached to the rod was a four-inch, extremely deep-spooled, bakelite Alvey reel. This was not an inappropriate reel for this rod, but what was on it was: very loosely coiled, extremely heavy, blue nylon line; at least 70 pounds, I estimated. The only blue lines available in those days were American: this one was powder-blue. It had to be DuPont. So heavy was the line and so loosely coiled that I could see from 20 yards away the odd loop protruding way beyond the lip of the reel.
The total package of gear was obviously a concoction that had been borrowed from a number of different friends; no self-respecting retailer would sell this combination to any one person. But perhaps it could have been assembled by pure chance following a trip to a second-hand shop!
It was hard to imagine a set of gear that was so out of balance and so inappropriate for fishing off the Kingscliff rocks. I could not imagine a use for it anywhere. There was clearly no need to worry about competition from its owner. I went back to concentrating on the school of mullet that was holed-up in the corner about 40 yards from where my live mullet was trying in vain to rid itself of the 10/0 hook that connected it to my 33-pound line.
‘By Jove, you’re doing well.’ I was a little startled by the sudden intrusion into my space. The disruption to my fantasy about the big jewfish that was about to eat my bait was also a little off-putting. The new arrival had found his way out to the rock just behind the one on which I was standing. He was obviously impressed with my success. ‘Yeah, I got a couple.’ ‘A couple! There must be nearly twenty in that pool.’ What could I say? To proclaim that he had only seen the bait would be more boastful than even I usually was about my fishing prowess. So I muttered something like, ‘That’s the luck of fishing.’ He appeared to accept this and left me to my fantasies.
‘Do you know there are two sharks in a pool over there?’ My acquaintance had returned and this time his excitement was palpable. ‘They are not sharks, they are jewfish. They are what I am fishing for.’ ‘By Jove, they are huge! I have never seen fish so big. How on earth could you pull them in?’ A not very informative and very brief explanation of the need to have good gear and appropriate experience was all he got. The subtlety of my inference that perhaps he was not equipped to pull in fish like these was, as I should have known, completely lost on him. It was silly of me to even contemplate that it would not be. My excuse now, for my being somewhat abrupt then, is that I was seriously distracted by the very real possibility that I could get another bite at any moment. Regardless of the paucity of my explanation it seemed to serve its purpose; he withdrew back to where he had deposited his gear.
‘How do you catch fish that are so big?’ In spite of the slight irritation of the intermittent, but continued, interruptions and the repeat of a question I thought I had dealt with, there was something about the man’s big smile and his genuinely friendly and excited manner that I began to find disarming. Why not take the time to show him? After all, my mullet had been swimming around untouched for almost half an hour and a fresh one might well produce the bite that had of late eluded me. So I wound in. I explained the basics of fishing for jewfish with live mullet, returned to my mullet-pool and selected a replacement, returned to my rock with my student in tow and demonstrated the rather cumbersome art, even with my specially selected and well-balanced gear, of casting a sizeable mullet and 4-ounce sinker separated by a yard or more of leader. My new acquaintance seemed impressed. He thanked me for the demonstration and withdrew to do whatever with his gear.
‘I would really like to fish for those big fish.’ Before I could express my opinion on the futility of this impossible dream, he followed with, ‘I don’t suppose you would lend me one of your mullet?’ Once again, my new-found colleague had attracted my attention, but this time his request was more than slightly irritating; it was bordering on outrageous. As any experienced and self-respecting angler would know, you simply do not ask anybody for a ‘lend’ of live bait, certainly not something like a pound-weight mullet that can take considerable effort to collect. The question was about as outrageous as asking a friend for a lend of his wife for an hour or two. But what was it about this guy? Was his unbridled enthusiasm, fuelled at least in part by disarming, complete ignorance, simply infectious? After all I did have more live mullet than was usual. Could I not spare one? Nobody I knew was watching, so I was not creating a precedent.
Of course, it was not simply a matter of ‘lending’ him a mullet; the biggest hook in his bag was a number 4 long-shank specimen that might be suitable for catching fish of the size we were about to use as bait. In any case I doubted if his 70-pound line would even fit through the eye of the hooks he had. He clearly hadn’t tried to assemble his gear before leaving home. I selected him a mullet and gave him a 10/0 Sealey hook. After his repeated assertions that he could tie the hook on, and no, he did not think he needed a sinker, I left him to his own devices.
Shortly afterwards he arrived on the rock on which I was standing (see the cover photo) with rod in hand and the mullet duly attached to his ‘rope’ swimming in the wash behind us. He had noted my demonstration cast and like a baseball batter stepping up to the plate he rather boldly took up his position about a yard from the surge and about 6 or 7 yards to my right. The smile on his face had to be seen. But it faded when he realised that his extremely light, 6-foot rod would not lift the mullet without bending double, thus completely eliminating the possibility of a cast. He was clearly perplexed. But as his audacious request for the lend of a mullet had shown, he was nothing if not resourceful. The look of pride he displayed as he put his rod down on the rock and proceeded to pull the loose coils of 70-pound line off the reel and lay them at his feet was again infectious. He had a plan and he would show me he was up to the task. He then picked up his mullet by grasping it behind the gills and emulated the other primary player in a baseball game by pitching it seawards with his best attempt at a high ‘fast-ball’. As the mullet flapped its way through the air he quickly grasped his rod. As he resumed his upright stance he could not resist giving me a huge smile that was clearly meant to provoke appreciation of his ingenuity. He had overcome adversity at numerous levels and was now fishing for jewfish. He was doing what the experts do, or at least his version of it.
Anybody who has ever fished with large mullet in foamy water around rocks knows that most mullet are aware of the danger and do not like to stay out wide; they swim back in close to the rock searching for cover; that’s why we use big sinkers to keep them out where we want them. This mullet either had delusions or it was simply deranged. To my amazement after its unceremonial flight, on landing in the water it immediately set off for New Zealand.
‘By Jove, these mullet are strong. They pull so hard.’ He had hooked his mullet much closer to the tail than was my custom and his Jarvis Walker rod was pounding rhythmically with every beat of that tail. The bend in the rod was what you would expect of an implement designed to catch fish even smaller than the one attached to it at the moment. My newest jewfish-fishing colleague was having a ball. I was truly pleased for him. I also enjoyed the feeling of having done someone a favour. I had fulfilled his request and thus completed my task. I went back to concentrating on the school of hard-gut mullet that had built up at the junction of the rocks and the beach and was contemplating making a dash around the rocks for the relative safety of the long beach to the north. But the unexpected sight of the unweighted mullet swimming so strongly about 20 yards from the rock raised the question about an event I had assumed was impossible: what if he gets a bite from a 40-pound jewie? Or perhaps even a bigger one! No, it won’t happen! After all, I have my mullet much closer than his to where the action will be.
The school of mullet had made the fail-safe decision. They had left the protection of the corner of the beach and were now heading east at full migratory speed about 20 yards from the rocks. They were making the 60-yard run through the foam before they would find blue water, turn north, and skirt the headland. As they entered the heavy foam just to my right they began to lift higher in the water and their backs began to break the surface. They were getting considerably agitated; they knew danger was at hand. They passed us by about 20 yards, then just before they turned the corner to the relative safety of the clear, deeper water of Snapper Hole 200 to 300 mullet erupted through the surface. Many were completely airborne. The ambush had begun. The school fractured and individual mullet and small groups took off in all directions. My heart was racing. A bite was virtually certain. My friend’s bait was still doing its thing, but it too had sensed the danger and was now thrashing even harder on the surface. The guy attached to that mullet was oblivious to what was going on, except that the extra exertions of his mullet were clearly increasing his feeling of immense well-being. This fishing caper was great fun! At the expense of breaking the spell I thought I should warn him. ‘Get ready! You might get a bite now.’ He was already having a ball playing his mullet; his lot could not get much better! If he did hear my warning he did not understand its significance. He certainly did not heed it. Getting ‘a bite’ was not something that needed to be even thought about.
My mullet was not visible, effectively anchored by my sinker as it swam about 3 feet from the bottom, so I continued keeping an eye on his as I took in the action. Suddenly his mullet appeared to accept the futility of trying to swim east. There was clearly impending danger. So a different tack was required. It wheeled and swam as fast as it could for the rocks on which we were standing.
The splash as a big jewfish inhaled it was one of the most memorable I have seen, or heard. Even above the heavy churn of the surf the sharp ‘chop’ was attention-grabbing. The speed the mullet had been able to attain without the impediment of a large sinker was clearly a factor. Seldom have I had the exhilaration of having such a large predator take a bait so voraciously off the surface so close to me. But as thrilling as the visual and audible effects were I suddenly feared the consequences of what had just happened. As it turned out, so I should have.
I shouted my repeated warning to my colleague, much more loudly this time. But the vacant smile as he turned to me said it all. What was the problem? What could possibly interfere with the fun he was having?
The mayhem that followed transpired in slow motion. His rod had stopped its rhythmic palpitations from the mullet’s tail beat; the line had gone slack and the rod had lost its bend; it pointed skywards, at least for a moment. As I watched it took on an increasingly more serious bend as the line steadily tightened. The jewfish on the end of his line had not yet detected a problem so the pull was slow and steady; it had eaten his mullet and was simply swimming slowly away. But the pull, while slow, was very firm and my colleague became aware that something different was happening. So he jerked his rod. It seems to be instinct! So was the defence reaction of the jewfish on the end of his line; it sought deep water as a matter of life-saving urgency.
The 4-inch Alvey spun in reverse at great speed, constrained only by the rattle of three or four knuckles, which did little to dampen the increasing rate of revolutions. The loose coils of line became even looser as they spun out of control and jumped off the reel. Inevitably one, or more, of these loops flew around the handles and another around the back of the reel. No more line could go out, and this was a very strong line. My friend’s grip on the now horizontal rod tightened even more. Something had to give! But what?
To this day I remember vividly the new look on the face of a man who had already demonstrated considerable talents with expression. His balance had shifted from standing upright lightly on his feet to a quick step or two forward and then almost flying as he was pulled virtually horizontally off the rock. The look came from under his left armpit. It contained a multitude of emotions, including, ‘You’re my mentor; tell me what do I do now? Do something!’ He landed in the foamy, surging water and disappeared; fortunately for only a second. ‘Can he swim?’ was only one of the many questions that were racing through my head. Another was, ‘Has he got the sense to let go of the rod?’
I assumed he would let his rod go, but he had already demonstrated that his actions were unpredictable. He began to splash about on the surface and while he was handicapped by having a rod in one hand he obviously could swim, or at least keep himself afloat. Then some more news, and as he clearly would not let his rod go it was good news: the jewfish was obviously no longer connected to the end of the rope that he regarded as a line; he was not being pulled out to sea. I got down as close to the edge of the water as was safe and made sure to set my feet before poking my rod towards him in the hope that he may be able to get hold of it and I may be able to pull him out. But his swimming abilities were more than up to the task, even if his lack of rock-hopping experience meant that he had no idea of how to get out of the water with minimum damage. But to my huge relief, after several buffetings and falls among the rocks and multitude of barnacles, he did scramble out. The Kingscliff rocks are low (see image section, p. 1) and relatively forgiving of those who make mistakes.
Anybody who has seen somebody standing in running water with bleeding cuts will be aware of the overstatement of the extent of the injuries that usually occurs; blood flows extremely freely and is excessively visible in such circumstances. My friend’s legs were both so red with blood that I was greatly worried about the extent of his injuries, but he could walk and he was not wailing in pain. I helped him back up the rock, at which point we both took stock.
He was shaking but he did not appear to be critically injured. It took a few seconds before he managed a very poor attempt at his usually infectious smile. ‘I think I am all right. A few cuts and scratches but I don’t think they are too bad.’ By the look of his legs I would need some convincing. I offered to help him back to his gear but his refusal and growing good humour were insistent. I walked behind him as he made his way back up the rocks. I had pulled my line in during my efforts to help him, and the lack of care in retrieving my mullet meant that I now needed a new one anyway.
I waited by my gear for a few minutes and watched as he attended to his cuts and bruises with a small towel retrieved from his bag. He did appear fine and he greeted me with another infectious smile as I walked over and enquired. He showed me the two or three sources of the blood on both legs and they were indeed more scratches than serious cuts. I doubted any would need stitching but I was very glad they were not on my legs. We had a brief discussion about his adventure after which I inspected his gear. The ‘pig tail’ on the end of his line confirmed what I had expected; his knot-tying skills were consistent with his general angling abilities and the hook had quite simply come off in the heat of battle. Just as well! After a few shared laughs about the experience I picked up my rod, a fresh mullet and went back to what I had come for.
‘By Jove, that was exciting.’ He was up and about and standing right behind me again. ‘I can’t remember ever having done anything so exhilarating.’ My reply, that it was extremely exciting for me and I was only a spectator, had him beaming from ear to ear. Then followed a rather lengthy silence. Still I could not get a bite and my frustration was growing. The patch of mullet in the corner of the beach was again growing and another push to get around the rocks could not be far away. Surely that would get me some action!
‘I don’t suppose you would lend me another mullet?’ Dumbstruck, is the closest I can get to my reaction at the time. Did this guy have a death wish or was he simply a fruit loop? It obviously had not occurred to him that his survival had been seriously threatened, let alone that I had been extremely worried about his chances. The fact that he had almost certainly already cost me one jewfish bite that I would have had a good chance to land was certainly not in his reckoning. I had been batting at 66 per cent—three bites for two fish landed—before he came along, and if he had not had a mullet in the water then the jewfish that had caused all the excitement would most likely have taken mine. I thought it wisest not to raise my selfish concerns but to discuss with him the likely perils of a repeat performance, in the unlikely event that I did relent and ‘lend’ him another mullet. Try as I might, I was unable to convince him that to throw another mullet in the water attached to his line was not a wise option.
Ten minutes later another 10/0 was being affixed to his line. Against my protestations of the benefits of the safety valve of his poor knot-tying skills I was the one tying the knot. What was it about this guy? He had survived being pulled in, so what else was there to worry about? His infectious innocence and good humour was what I used to convince myself that there was a rational explanation.
His second mullet did not have the kamikaze addiction of its predecessor. It swam back into the rocks no matter how hard or often he pitched it out. Naturally he had trouble keeping his rope-like line free of the rocks, and inevitable tangles in the slack line occurred. Twenty minutes of undoing tangles in his rope then followed. At least he was busy and most of the time his bait was in the water behind him and not in the ‘bite-zone’, so he was unlikely to have an impact on my fishing.
He was completely oblivious of the extremely substantial school of hard-gut that had been building about 40 yards away, resisting the urge to charge north until their numbers were such that individual risk was reduced to an acceptable level (chapter 9). The safety-in-numbers threshold was finally reached and they began the surge east, level with where we were fishing, or where in my opinion one of us had been fishing for some time. The brown ripple of the collective backs of more than a thousand mullet passed me. They were riding increasingly high in the water and I knew action was not far away. My adrenaline levels were extreme and my heartbeat rocketed when I saw the shower of mullet followed by the panic of individuals going in all directions, including back to the safety of the corner of the beach. It was at exactly that instant that my friend, completely unaware of the intense action in front of us, emerged from his latest tangle. He pitched his now only-just alive mullet seawards. It landed head first in the middle of its panic-stricken colleagues, disappeared briefly and then surfaced, belly up, exhausted. It was hardly moving and was only about 15 yards out from the rock. Surely any self-respecting jewfish would prefer my extremely lively alternative; they always do!
The swirl as his mullet was inhaled was minimal and certainly not audible; his bait had been moving little and a strenuous ambush by this very versatile predator was not necessary. This take was more like a ‘sipping rise’ of a brown trout to a well-presented dry fly in slow-moving water. But the mullet disappeared below the foam just as surely as had his first offering. I called a warning. This time he understood what I meant. He got ready for the onslaught. At least he got as ready as he could. But his preparations were almost as inadequate as the complete surprise that had followed his first bite. The rod was pulled horizontal at about the same speed, the reel spun with about the same acceleration once the jewfish sensed the trap, the frequency of the rattle of the handles and his knuckles was about the same, the coils of line flew about the same distance from the reel and the tangle around the back of the reel was equally predictable and effectively identical. One change was that his feet were locked on the barnacles, so surely he would not be caught off guard and fly into the tide. Hopefully, he knew the consequences and would let the rod go if all else failed.
But no, the only improvement on round one was that when the rope refused to break he was pulled to a run down the two steps of the rock-face, rather than the far more theatrical arabesque of his first encounter. But the end result was the same; he wound up in the tide.
My colleague was indeed born under a lucky star, or perhaps fortune does favour the brave, or naïve; the jewfish did not stay attached to the line. Wiser from his previous experience, my colleague washed around for a while without panic and then took advantage of a lull in the wave action to clamber out, not without a fall or two and the inevitable abrasions. And he still had his rod, and his hook, and his bleeding legs. We looked at each other, but said little. He rather sheepishly headed back to his gear.
‘I just want to thank you for an amazing experience.’ Again, the pounding of the rather heavy swell had concealed any noise and I had not noticed him come up behind me. Twenty minutes had passed since his second adventure, the bleeding had stopped and the smile had returned. He came and stood alongside me on the rock. No fishing rod this time.
‘I’m off home now, but I want you to know that I have had a truly wonderful day. I want to be sure you know how much I appreciate your help and generosity.’ My help? He could have been killed! Or at least more seriously injured than he had been. But he obviously saw only the positive side of everything. ‘Well, you may not have caught your dinner but at least you will have a great story to tell your family’ was my obvious retort. He fell unusually silent, his look uncharacteristically sullen. Then, ‘I have been thinking about that and I am afraid I will have to make up a story.’ ‘Make up a story?’ I bleated, ‘You have just been the centre of one of the most thrilling and memorable fishing experiences anybody could possibly witness, and you tell me you will “make up a story”!’
‘My family knows I am a terrible fisherman; I have never in my life caught a decent fish. If I tell them I hooked two fish so big they pulled me in, they will think I really have lost it this time. There is no chance they will believe the truth.’ We smiled at each other. ‘Well, I can assure you I will be telling people about what you did. It is too great an experience not to share.’ ‘I’ll think about it’ were his final words. We shook hands and parted ways. To my knowledge our paths never crossed again. I never did find out his name.