The number of fishermen who fished off The South End for jewfish in 1960 was surprisingly, to me at least, small. Even those that did, like Cec Higgins, had other preferences. They did not do it often.
I was surprised that most of the good fishermen of the time knew that jewfish chased hard-gut mullet. They also knew that the best place to observe this was off The South End. The accepted wisdom was, therefore, that live hard-gut mullet was ‘the bait’ for jewfish, and that The South End was the best place to cast such a bait. Much was said about this, but very few of even the best fishermen ever did it. Why?
The difficulty of getting live hard-guts was definitely a factor; jagging reasonable numbers of mullet was beyond the capability of most fishermen, even many of those who thought they were good. The majority of the fishing ‘gurus’ claimed that sand mullet were grossly inferior as bait, not really worth using. Several purists hid behind the claim that using whiting or luderick was somehow not in the spirit of the contest. Many were aware that their gear would not cut the mustard in this location. Others suspected this but never tested the hypothesis. It definitely was not that the fishing was slow and they would not get many bites; these were the same guys who would fish all day for snapper and be delighted if they got one bite. Every now and then there would be a new kid on the block who did not know enough to be blinkered by whatever prejudices there were. I had been one of these.
In about 1964 another new arrival appeared on the rocks. Mick was five or ten years older than me and he did not know a lot about fishing, but he was extremely enthusiastic and eager to learn. He hounded everybody for more information, preferably in great detail.
He took up spinning for tailor with much gusto and became quite proficient, even though he was a bit rough. He wanted to be really good at all types of fishing. Everything Mick did he did at full speed, and with great intensity. Finesse was not his long suit.
The first time Mick saw me catch a sizeable jewfish in the middle of the day his goals in life changed. He stood beside me as I played and landed the fish. He got more excited than I did. That in itself was an achievement. This was clearly what fishing was all about. It was his type of intensity. He had to be part of it.
After hundreds of casts Mick finally became moderately proficient at jagging mullet. At least sufficiently to procure enough baits to begin his quest for a big jewie. Fishing for sand mullet with light gear was not Mick’s speed. He had probably been told they were no good for jewfish bait anyway.
Mick may have normally been good fun, but he quickly became a bloody pest in the constricted environment of The South End. He had no idea. And he did annoying things, like cast as far as he could, which was a considerable distance, and allow his line to wash across everybody else’s. Plus, when he did hook a fish he ‘butchered’ it. Another one frightened away!
I remember the first jewfish he hooked. It was on a day when there were lots of mullet running and lots of jewies doing their thing. He was connected to his first jewfish for about three seconds. The ping of the 20-pound line as Mick refused to let his fish run was the source of considerable merriment for the rest of us. It was to happen at least twice more in the next couple of days. Together with the two or three times he was cut off on the rocks, it built obvious frustration. The fact that I caught a couple of beautiful fish on each of these days turned Mick’s frustration into serious anxiety.
Mick was not one to give up. He suspected his gear was one of the limiting factors. He sought my advice. I explained to him, in a manner that I thought was constructive and considerate, that indeed it was. Mick was a fun guy and I wanted to help. I told him that I had bought all my gear from Noel Wylie and he should seek his help.
When Noel opened his barber shop on Monday morning there was Mick. He was not after a haircut. ‘I want a set of jewfish gear, rod, reel, line, hooks, the works, exactly the same as Kearney’s.’ That took care of my criticism about his gear! Noel was grateful. He told me it was the best single sale he ever made.
A complete new set of gear exactly the same as mine was not something you walked into the barber shop and bought off the shelf. Noel knew my gear well: I had bought it off him. The rod, in particular, was not a line item. This was before fibreglass was heard of in Kingscliff and graphite rods were not even in people’s fantasies. Noel had to find a ‘Rangoon’ cane pole with a particularly heavy butt and as savage a taper as possible. It could not be too long, 10 to 11 feet would be perfect. If the taper was right, the length was easily fixed by taking 2 or 3 feet off the tip of a good tailor blank. Often, sticks that had been rejected because the tips had been broken made excellent jewfish rods for the type of fishing that characterised that off The South End. Noel then had to make it up, leaving Mick only to affix the tennis ball, with a hole cut in it, to the butt. That was what I did with all my tailor and jewfish rods, so that was how Mick’s had to be.
A few days later, Mick was back in action. The one advantage Mick had was that he was strong, much more so than I. He could pull so hard I was envious. I had always believed that not being big and particularly strong was one of my limitations when it came to trying to man-handle big jewies.
The first fish Mick hooked on his new gear I almost felt sorry for. But when he lost his grip on the handles of his reel it did manage to pull enough line off him to make it into Snapper Hole: end of the connection.
The next one, though, did not make it around the corner, and Mick was ‘up him’ for all he was worth. I did not know that a 33-pound line was that strong. Mick’s action was not pretty but it was effective; sort of. In less than twenty seconds a 40-plus pound jewie was thrashing at the base of the rock we were standing on. I was repeatedly telling him to slow down, as by stopping the fish getting around the corner he had already won the defining battle. But Mick’s adrenaline levels were off the scale. I remembered my first big jewie and completely understood. With one more mighty heave Mick pulled 40-plus pounds of jewfish halfway up the rock where we were standing. It wouldn’t come any further, but as it was out of the water it did, as stranded jewies do, remain motionless for all to see. The temptation was too much for Mick. He dropped his rod behind him and jumped down to the lower rock. He dived on his fish, effectively embracing it. He immediately thrust his hand into its gills. He was not going to let it get away. This was all occurring just as the next big swell was arriving.
Immediately it was covered in water the jewfish snapped out of its torpor. Its long muscly body arched fully as its massive tail generated great power. It swam off. With Mick in tow. He did not want to let go. I was not sure if he could. I was sure he would have put his hand into the fish’s gills the wrong way (chapter 7). He had never done it before.
Fortunately, Mick was a very good swimmer and as soon as he became disconnected from his fish, which seemed to take ages but was probably only a few seconds, he was on his way back to the rock. He did not handle his exit from the water particularly gracefully, but he was always going to make it. A few scratches on his leg and those on the back of his hand were nothing to Mick. I rescued his now christened rod and reel. The whole exercise had not taken more than a minute.
‘Shit, that was exciting!’ blurted Mick. ‘Even for the spectators,’ I added.
The next day, Mick ran up to me as soon as I arrived at The South End. The smile on his face gave it all away: ‘I got one.’ Indeed, he had. It was not as big as the one he had gone swimming with the day before, but it was still a good fish: about 30 pounds. My only regret was that I had missed the spectacle.
There had been no witnesses, but there can be no doubt it had been exciting. Mick had won, but even he admitted it had been a pretty even contest. And there was evidence: Mick had been pulling hard when the handle of his reel slipped out of his grasp. He responded, as most novices would, by immediately trying to grab it back. Of course, having come free the spool of the reel was now spinning at great speed. When Mick’s strongly presented thumb made contact with one of the handles on the reel, the handle immediately snapped off. His timing could not have been great, but what he lacked in finesse he made up for in strength. A badly bruised thumb was little more than an occupational inconvenience for Mick. More importantly his reel still had one handle. That was enough.
So it was proven to be. Mick conceded that he had been a little more cautious with this fish than yesterday’s. He played it out a bit more before dragging it up the rock. As it was a fair bit smaller, it came further out of the water anyway. He had won.
Breaking a handle or two off a reel was not that uncommon for those new to close-quarters jewfish fishing. Particularly when they had little experience with relatively heavy lines on side-cast reels. We all used Alveys that did not have drag mechanisms.
I shall always remember the morning, Stan, or Sluggo to his mates, hooked a significant jewie off The South End, only to break off both handles of his reel. He had a particularly heavy line, at least 50 pounds I think, but very little experience with the acceleration and power of big jewies. But Sluggo did not give in easily, and he was strong and reasonably resourceful. In spite of the rather severe damage two handles had done to his right thumb he managed to clamp his hand across the top of the spool hard enough to completely stop his reel from turning. Even though his situation was now severely compromised two factors were in his favour: first, the fish had used up a lot of its energy in the burst of speed and power that removed two handles, and second, he had a very heavy line. Provided he could keep his rod pointing skywards, his line was unlikely to break. Sluggo was probably strong enough to keep his rod up even when the fish attempted any additional runs. This fish was tiring and any further efforts to dictate the terms were not likely to be anything like those that initially overpowered him.
So Sluggo began backing up the rocks towards the beach. A few pauses to accommodate the relatively half-hearted, ‘pig-rooting’ runs of his fish had only temporary impacts on his progress. He reached the beach and quickly headed south along it. Once he had pulled the fish away from the rocks he was able to back up the beach towards the sand dunes. This he did. Now, as he was on the beach, if the fish did manage a really hard charge for freedom he could walk or run forward to ease the pressure on the line. He was just about to disappear over the top of the dunes when his fish came out of the water. It was about 40 pounds.
Of course, Sluggo was delighted; he had caught a jewie off The South End. Even though he realised his fishing was over for the day (it is a bit hard to fish without handles on your reel, even when your thumb is functional), he could not keep the smile off his face. Nor could I, off mine.