I had just set out at a very brisk clip to walk along the beach from the carpark near the bridge over Cudgen Creek to the rocks. The sound at the water’s edge was little more than the faintest rustle as each tiny swell casually found its way back across no more than 3 feet of sand. There was not a wave, so none could break. The full moon at about fifty degrees confirmed that the tide was just turning, as it does at Kingscliff a little more than three hours after the full moon rises. The air was crisp in the light westerly drift and the visibility was extraordinary for 10 p.m., particularly against the background of the white sand. A lengthy calm spell had resulted in the water being wonderfully clear. Conditions were close to perfect for big tailor in The Alley; only close to perfect because perhaps the second week of September was too late in the tailor season. Had it not been for the incredibly calm seas for the last month or so, it would have been.
As anticipated, I had the rocks to myself. The lack of swell made it easy to wade out to my favourite rock for casting access to The Alley. The risk of ill-informed casts was effectively removed by the incredible visibility into the water; the narrow strip of sandy bottom that constituted The Alley clearly defined the target.
The first few casts of my unweighted pilchard had been disappointingly uneventful; it was time to let the bait sink a little more before the gentle retrieve. Halfway back with the third, the unmistakable tick of a jewfish sucking in the bait sent my heart racing. Contact revealed it was not a big fish. Shortly after, a 9- or 10-pound schoolie was in the pool, which was my favourite when the tide was really high and lots of rock was exposed. Three or four more casts and the complete lack of action from bites of any sort and even wave action became almost eerie. At the end of the next as I sped up my wind to help the pilchard clear the rock in front of me, I thought I had a glimpse of a large fish moving across the path of my retrieve. I had been relying completely on the feel through my line as an indicator of the presence of fish and had not been looking carefully into the water; it was, after all, night-time!
The next cast I retrieved slightly faster and kept my rod vertical to keep the bait as high in the water as I could while still retrieving it slowly enough to encourage a night-time feeder. When my bait arrived about 30 feet in front of me, I saw the first silhouette against a patch of white sand. A second parallel shape appeared about a yard later and a third before my bait was only little more than a rod length in front of me. They were clearly visible; each was about 3 feet long and rather slender. They were moving incredibly slowly and had their snouts at times as close as 3 or 4 inches from the bait, but none had touched it. I had fabulous bait—local blue pilchards that had been frozen for less than a week—so what was the problem?
Their large size, slender shape, slow movement, social behaviour and reluctance to bite led me to conclude they were kingfish. Schools of kingies were common in The Alley on calm nights in August and early September. Two casts later and the number visible behind my pilchard had grown to eight or nine, but still no action. I tried a fast retrieve with the bait flapping on the surface, a proven strategy for most large trevally and sometimes for kingfish. There were not even any followers! A slow retrieve, and my relief that I had not frightened them away with the fast one was palpable, but they still showed no interest in biting. What to do? The complete lack of a wave of any sort meant that the tried-and-true tactic of pulling the bait into the foam was not an available option.
I noticed that when what swell there was receded off the rocks there was one place, about 6 or 7 yards to my right, where a few bubbles were formed every thirty seconds or so. Here the water fell about 4 inches off the rock platform. The result was hardly foam, but at least there was a couple of bubbles that represented what little energy there was in the water around me. I cast well out and further to my right and quietly moved over, closer to my target. I stood on a relatively high rock (almost all of the rocks were under water) so that when I pulled my bait in to about a rod length the pilchard would enter the area where the dozen or so bubbles would hopefully appear, if I timed it right.
My pilchard arrived close to the target no more than a rod length to my right about five seconds before the next round of bubbles was formed. The good news was there were at least six big fish behind it. I waved my rod very gently, first left and then right, and managed to keep the pilchard from sinking and thus maintaining the interest of my prey until the swell started to recede. I gently eased the pilchard into the target zone and held it there. My adrenaline was flowing, but I was not overly optimistic; these fish were big but they were hard to do business with and I had had no encouragement. I waited. Ten seconds later I was beginning to wonder what plan D would be. Then I saw the swirl at the same instant I felt the tap on the line. I lifted the rod-tip quickly. The tranquillity of the night was destroyed in an instant as a massive tailor leapt into the air shaking violently, no more than 10 feet in front of me. My hooks were firmly attached to its jaw.
Tailor do not fight as well at night, particularly around the rocks on dark nights, but this was not a normal night. I could not remember ever having caught a tailor that fought harder, certainly not at night. And I could not remember ever having caught one of that size in the daytime. It did not jump again, but it did raise its head out of the water twice and shake violently in attempts to dislodge the hooks; it just fought long and hard, taking line from me repeatedly. As my quarry began to tire, I worked my way back the 40 yards or so to the sand at the base of the rocks and beached it. It was a beautiful fish of just over 11 pounds. It was of slender to average proportions and I could not help but wonder what it would have weighed had it been one of the disproportionately rotund, fully roed fish that were common in late winter. I slid it into the pool next to my jewie then stopped and looked in admiration, certainly appreciation. But this was not time for sentimentality; there were others to be caught and I had good reason to believe that I had worked out how to do it.
The next cast resulted in three followers, and as soon as I pulled the pilchard into the ‘bubble-zone’ one of them opened its mouth and swam over it. After a brief fight this one threw the hooks; tailor have brittle mouths and a lot get off, even when fishing without a sinker. Another pilchard was soon on its way out. It had only been retrieved about halfway when I could already see a number of large fish moving far more excitedly around it than they had been. The mood within the school was changing. One took up the challenge represented by my pilchard. A minute or two later I noticed as I pulled it close to the rocks that there were two or three swimming with it that were noticeably bigger than it was. It weighed more than 12 pounds, so my excitement mounted even more. The next one I hooked was of very similar size. What did I have to do to hook one of the much bigger ones I could see?
Just after joining battle with my fourth fish, including the one that had got away, I noticed another fisherman arrive on the rocks. At close to midnight there were not many people it would be and my first guess, that it was my good friend Billy Smith, proved correct. Billy was not one for haste or overt excitement, but when he saw the size of the tailor in the pool and the effort I was putting into playing the one with which I was connected, even he was hurried in his greeting and his preparations.
Billy cast just as I was landing my third tailor and, almost immediately, he was hooked up. He shouted his enjoyment about the ‘horse’ he had hooked. After putting my latest addition in the pool, I quickly joined him and prepared to cast. We both had confidence in what each other was doing; we had fished side by side on many occasions. There was little risk of either of us causing the other grief. I had no hesitation in casting, having noted where Billy’s fish was and allowing plenty of space. I turned the reel, wound up the slack to find a serious competitor for my 18-pound line on the other end; the feeding frenzy was now in full swing. I joined Billy in a loud expression of sheer joy; to both of us this was why we were silly enough to be knee deep in rather cold water at midnight in the first week of spring.
Billy had had his fish on for more than a minute longer than I, but he was not making a lot of progress. He was an excellent handler of big fish; if anything, he was a little more aggressive than I was, so unless his fish was foul-hooked, if it was a tailor it was a monster. I thought it best to give him some encouragement. ‘Come on Billy, if you don’t pull the bastard in soon he’ll rot off.’ His retort about where I should go was shorter and even less original. We exchanged a few more pleasantries while remaining extremely vigilant about keeping our two fish apart. I knew mine was big, I suspected the biggest of the night, which would make it the biggest tailor I had ever caught, so I was not dropping my guard. Then I saw my fish and confirmed that it was indeed a wonderful specimen. Billy was inshore of me but his fish was still further out, so we discussed the possibility that I go under his line to land my fish on the beach. Billy was having so much trouble getting line off his fish we thought it probable it was foul-hooked. It was then that Billy suddenly made up considerable line. We both saw his fish at the same instant. Both our fish were clearly visible against the sandy backdrop; they were only about 3 yards apart and only about 5 yards in front of us. Every fin was clearly visible. Mine was a magnificent tailor. I later weighed it at 13 pounds. Billy’s was also unmistakably a tailor and it was not foul-hooked, but it was more than a foot longer and a great deal deeper. It was a truly monstrous tailor.
I immediately told Billy I would keep right out of the way. We both wanted to see that fish landed. It was very obviously a fish of a lifetime. I reduced the pressure on the top of my Alvey and allowed my fish to swim about 20 yards back into The Alley. At the same time, I moved about 5 yards around the rocks to my right, away from the beach. Billy eased his way to the beach and then about 20 yards away from the rocks. I saw his fish splash only 4 or 5 yards away from him out on the open sand. He was well on top and the fight was nearly over, so I went back to concentrating on trying to get my fish closer to the beach.
I was not looking at Billy when the loud, single expletive realised my worst fear. He was standing motionless looking out to sea; the battle was clearly over, and he had not won. About a minute later he walked slowly past me as I was landing my fish. In response to my commiserations he merely replied, ‘That’s fishing.’ We were both well aware of the significance of what had happened. We did not speak for some time.
We were ready to cast again at almost the same time, and we did so. Bites were instantaneous, and we landed both. Mine was a little less than 9 pounds and Billy’s was about the same. Both were extremely stocky fish. If the previous four I had caught had been built like this one they would have weighed at least 15 pounds each. The next casts produced one more each, but they were both a little less than 4 pounds. Tailor continued to feed ravenously for as long as we cast at them, but no other fish landed that night was bigger than 5 pounds; most were almost exactly 3 pounds. The opportunity to catch a trophy tailor had passed.
The subject of ‘that tailor’ came up many, many times in the discussion Billy and I had over the next thirty or more years. We kept in touch regularly, even though we only managed to fish together once or twice after about 1990. Apart from agreeing that it had to have been 20 pounds or more, Billy was reluctant to discuss in detail that particular fish and how it got away. Then I phoned Billy one morning in October 2004 to enquire how he was progressing with the bad cold that he had told me he had a week or two before. He sounded very ‘croakey’, but in his usual chirpy spirits. He said his cold was more stubborn than most and he had an appointment with his GP that afternoon to get some antibiotics. Not surprisingly our discussion then turned to fishing.
Billy had recently caught a 44-pound ‘grub’, the term he almost always used to describe big jewfish. It was derived from the white worms that were inevitably present next to the spine of any jewfish over about 20 pounds. Billy’s alternative name for jewies was ‘smellies’. Anybody who has caught a jewfish of even modest size knows the basis for this name. Billy’s latest conquest was taken off the beach just south of the Kingscliff rocks on a bream fillet. As he did not fish for jewies a lot anymore, he found this particular one noteworthy. We then turned the discussion to tailor fishing, particularly how it had changed over time. Billy spent considerable time lamenting the passing of our good old days when we commonly had the rocks to ourselves, and almost always did so if we went late at night. He was adamant that the schools of big tailor did not congregate out the back of The Alley on winter afternoons as they use to. He was equally adamant that he could pinpoint the time when they stopped doing this to the commencement of boardriders surfing the rocks area, and particularly out the back of The Alley. His summary of the way tailor avoided areas where there were boardriders was completely consistent with my earlier observations, including those at Cabarita (Bogangar) and Snapper Rocks at Coolangatta, when each became hot-spots for surfing.
Of course, that special night jumped into our discussion, as it did practically every time we settled into a serious discussion of tailor fishing. To this day I cannot think about catching big tailor and not think of it. Even without Billy’s contribution it was a most memorable occasion; I caught 102 tailor that night and the first four of them contributed more than 48 pounds to one of the biggest hauls I ever made. But one fish completely dominated the significance of the event. I made a comment like, ‘I still feel the disappointment over that tailor getting off.’ Billy went silent. Then the revelation, ‘He didn’t get off. I stuffed up!’ It was my turn to go silent.
For the first time ever, he told of how he had pulled that fish to within a yard of the beach where its belly was on the sand and its back was out of the water. But it was facing the wrong way. There was no swell at all so he knew he could not rely on assistance. Then he pulled hard to ‘beach’ it just as it decided to make one final thrash for freedom. Billy had successfully responded to this challenge from large tailor, and jewfish much bigger than this tailor, many times; he was one of the very best at it. But as he explained, the excitement brought on by the relativity of the size of that tailor was too much; he had caught many much bigger fish of other species, but tailor were not supposed to grow that big. This was the fish of a lifetime. As a result of his excessive sudden pressure either the line broke or he pulled the hooks out. Billy did not elaborate, but as he openly accepted responsibility for having ‘stuffed up’ I assumed the former. But in Billy’s mind it did not make much difference.
For Billy to tell me this after all this time left me with seriously conflicted emotions. We both knew that unless a rock was involved there was never an excuse for breaking off a fish accidentally. He did not have to tell me that what he had done constituted a mistake! A big one. Even the very best do make mistakes. Just not often. I had always assumed the hooks had simply pulled out and I was happy with that. It was the only logical explanation for why a fisherman as good as Billy would lose a big fish that was almost exhausted and in the clear of rocks.
Billy was almost certainly the best tailor fisherman I ever had the joy to fish with. He may not have been as fast as some with smaller fish, such as Arthur Holt had been in his hey-day, but he was definitely the best with bigger fish. Nobody I knew handled their gear better than he, nor in my estimation put as much thought into the assessment of where fish would be and when. He was also at the top of the list of true gentlemen and wonderful friends that I have had the pleasure to fish with.
The cough that Billy told me was being persistent that day in 2004 was not caused by a cold. Years of the dust associated with being a cabinet-maker had taken their toll on his lungs. Billy never returned home after his doctor’s appointment that fateful afternoon. I lost a very dear friend a little more than two weeks later.