All serious fishermen have been exposed to the philosophy of ‘it is the ones that get away that lure you back again’. Obviously, the more spectacular the fish and its escape and the closer one got to actually landing it, the more likely it is that individual experiences are consistent with this sentiment. In more than sixty years of serious fishing I have lost many battles with some truly magnificent creatures in some amazing places. These included a 70-plus pound Spanish mackerel that I watched following the bait on three successive casts before it finally took it just 5 yards out from the rock I was standing on in New Caledonia. In this battle I had about 600 yards of 12-pound line out. It ended with the ‘Spaniard’ simply getting off while clearly visible only about the same 5 yards away from where we started. Or the 100-plus pound lutjanid red-snapper in Panama. This one escaped right next to the boat because we were being unusually cautious as we tried to keep it in the best possible condition: we wanted it as brood-stock for an aquaculture program I was in charge of at the Achotines laboratory of the Inter American Tropical Tuna Commission. There are many other similar escapes, but from my Kingscliff experiences four stand out.
The first was memorable more for its conclusion than the fish itself. It happened on a beautiful calm day in late April in 1965 or 66. The day itself was the more memorable from a fishing perspective because there were multiple large schools of froggies all around the rocks and down the south beach. Fishermen who have experienced schools of froggies are aware of the excitement and action they can initiate.
On this occasion large predatory fish were periodically creating havoc, while big sharks would occasionally make an appearance. As is the norm when the schools of froggies are big, tailor were notable by their absence. This surprised me for several years, but I came to accept it. I assume tailor are put off by the bigger predators that are attracted to big schools of froggies. Tailor are bullies when they rule the roost, but they appear to be wimps when challenged. This was peak season for Spanish mackerel, and they were well known to hang around the back of balls of bait when they were close to rocky headlands. I assume tailor also knew this!
Sea birds were in very large numbers that day. Many of the gulls had eaten so many froggies they could do little more than float on the water, or waddle around on the beach. Several had eaten so much they had difficulty taking off from the water or the beach.
There were lots of schools of froggies, but most were not enormous, about 20 yards or so in diameter. There was only one huge school and that was down the beach 100 yards or so. One much smaller aggregation had been cornered out the back of The Alley, inside the reef and in front of Hill 60. It was low tide so this was the obvious place to spin for something of size, most likely a mackerel tuna. We only saw this species within casting distance when froggies were about in big numbers, but in such circumstances they would very aggressively take a spinner.
The retrieve of my first cast from The Hill had only progressed a few yards when I became connected to something of great speed and considerable size. It turned out to be a mack tuna of about 8 pounds. The next cast produced a GT of about 7 pounds. The fishing was great and the scene spectacular! My next retrieve was hardly underway when it was unceremoniously arrested. My rod had been pointed straight at where my line was coming from, so it provided no cushioning of the hit. It was one of those grabs that almost pulled the handle of my reel from my grasp. GTs are famous for it. Off the perpetrator went at considerable speed and with great power.
Some 200 yards or more of line later, the cause of the ambush halted for a breather. A small head shake and then it was off again, changing direction to head south. Soon my line was pointing straight over the reef behind The Alley and the fish had not yet ceased its claim to more of it. If I was to land this fish I would have to get off Hill 60 and try to get across the rocks and down the south beach. I had never done anything even remotely like this from Hill 60 before, but I did not have an alternative if I wished to land this beast. Surrendering was not on my menu.
I headed off to follow my fish; slowly at first, as it was not easy to climb down from The Hill with most of your body preoccupied with something other than rock-climbing. But I eventually made it and rather slowly crossed the 200 yards or so of the rocks, past The South End and then back to the beach.
As soon as I had a stable footing on sand, I began in earnest the task of getting my line back. My fish was now more than 100 yards down the beach and still at least 200 yards out, but it was obviously tiring, and I was taking line off it, even if I had to ‘pump’ my rod to do so. I headed off down the beach to make this task easier and also to minimise the chance the fish would run back towards the rocks and cut me off.
There was a gutter in the beach beginning about 100 yards from the rocks and running south for about another 100 yards. Just inside the closer end was the one huge school of froggies. They were quite agitated and were swirling about continuously. Something had them excited, but I could not see any obvious predators. This was a source of interest but not of excitement for me as I had enough of a predator on my line. I could see that the gutter shallowed a further 50 yards or so south. This offered a good spot for me to cross to the outside spit where I should be able to wash my fish up and grab it. I made my way about 30 yards past the school of froggies and waded, more than waist deep, out onto the spit, holding my rod up high.
I had assumed soon after establishing contact with this critter that it was a big GT. It was not fast enough for a ‘Spaniard’ and it did not feel like a long-tail tuna. It was too big for anything else I could think of. When I had it in to about 50 yards behind the surf zone at the front of the spit, I started looking intently to see what it was. As the face of a good swell lifted towards vertical I got a good look. It was indeed a GT and it was bigger than any I had caught up to that time. My estimate was between 40 and 50 pounds. It had turned around and was now headed back towards the rocks, but it had no real power left and I could guide it quite comfortably. I had had it on the line for well over half an hour. It definitely was not going to cause me grief by making it back to the rocks. I decided the best course of action would be to allow it to swing around the spit and into the calmer water of the gutter behind me. I could then beach it quite comfortably.
As it came over the spit it was only about 40 yards from me. Between us was the bulk of the black school of froggies, which still appeared quite agitated. As the GT came up the gutter it quickly disappeared into the blackness of the froggies. This caused me no immediate concern and I proceeded to lead the fish through the school. Then it surfaced in little more than 6 feet of water and no more than three rod lengths from my position on the outside bank of the gutter.
It was only on the surface for a second or so when my outlook on life changed considerably. A big black shark, my guess was close to 9 feet long, rose relatively slowly out of the black mass of anchovies and swam over my GT. Then with what had been my fish wedged between its jaws it sank back out of sight.
Three or four seconds later I lost contact; my line had been bitten. I was not all that upset. I had lost interest in landing this fish a few seconds earlier. My mind had rather suddenly become singularly focused on where and how I was going to cross the gutter in order to get back to terra firma. Maintaining all limbs intact was now the only priority. Incidentally, in all the time I fished the Kingscliff rocks this was the only time I ever had a fish taken by a shark. Big sharks were rare.
I have always had more than a healthy respect for sharks, at least when I am in the water. I deliberated over the pros and cons of charging across the gutter as quickly as I could, regardless of how much splashing this caused, versus trying to creep across without drawing attention to my presence.
I walked the 20 yards or so to the narrowest point of the gutter, where the water was little more than waist deep. There I tried to run to the beach on top of the water. This was not pretty, but I obviously made it.
The second escapee was the more memorable because it was an unusual type of fish.
It was about 9 p.m. and it had been a quiet night. I was just about to go home. The South End was badly sanded up, so my rather large live mullet was anchored in Snapper Hole, which was as deep as I had ever seen it. Much of it had rock bottom. Then I felt a pronounced bump on my line. It was not the normal sharp tick of a jewie, but it was a similar sensation even if less defined. I waited for the characteristic good heavy pull that normally began about two seconds after the tick. Nothing happened. I waited another five seconds or so then began to put extra tension on my line. Yes, something very heavy had begun to swim seawards. I struck, hard. The movement out to sea continued unaffected by my action. I had assumed the strike would have induced panic. It didn’t. The speed at which I was losing line did not change. It was considerably less than half that with a decent jewie.
After this ‘thing’ had taken about 50 yards of line I decided I needed to assert my authority. I had recently graduated to 33-pound line and I had 400-plus yards of it. My armoury was the stronger because I was using my short five-wrap Sportex rod; it was powerful. I could handle virtually anything. The emphasis on this occasion was virtually anything.
I put more and more pressure on my line, but the speed of this critter’s departure did not change. The second 100 yards went out at the same speed as the first. No head shakes, nothing but relentless progress seawards. I clamped down on my reel even harder and allowed my rod to be pulled lower. The time for the third 100 yards was, as far as I could tell, the same. Running out of line was now a real possibility. I had lost plenty of big fish but not since I fished in the Tweed River with 40 yards of 8-pound line as a ten-year-old had the reason been that I ran out of line. With the wonderful heavy-duty gear that I had in my hands this should not happen! But it did. And the speed at the finish was, as far as I could tell, exactly the same as it was when the encounter began.
What was it? I have no doubt whatsoever it was a Queensland groper, often called giant groper. But how big? In the 1980s I caught two Queensland groper fishing from my friend Kevin Church’s boat in New Caledonia that were very big fish; in fact the biggest teleosts I ever caught. One was over 200 pounds, the other only fractionally smaller. But these were not outsized for this species. When hooked, both behaved in almost exactly the same way as what I hooked in Snapper Hole that night.
The biggest Queensland groper I ever saw was 700 pounds. This was in Jack Evans’ Porpoise Pool at Tweed Heads in the 1960s. I was told it had been caught on a handline on the reef off Cook Island. In the 1940s one of 300-plus pounds was caught in the Tweed River, off the jetty at the Condong sugar mill. Really big groper do occur in this part of the world. How big was the one that was too big for me? From my experience it was certainly more than 200 pounds. How much more I could not even guess. I have some evidence on which to base an estimate of groper up to 200 pounds but no reference at all for the upper limit of one that was quite clearly bigger. I didn’t even manage to get this one to change stride. This rather telling statistic suggested to me it was probably at least 500 pounds. How can you estimate the size of something that is outside the dimensions with which you have experience? How long is a piece of string, the only description of which is that you know where one end is?
The third and fourth of my most memorable lost battles on the Kingscliff rocks actually occurred a day apart. The first was on a day when the southerly that had been blowing too hard for almost a week finally dropped. The sea quickly settled down enough to enable The South End to be fished. The water was beautifully blue and foamy, but the surge still made it difficult to keep a bait in place. I knew it would also make it even more difficult than usual to stop a big jewie making it around the corner into Snapper Hole. That is if I was able to hook one. But the challenge was there and the agitation of the few mullet that were travelling made it apparent that jewfish were around.
The instant I felt the strength of the tick as my rather large live mullet was inhaled, I suspected it was from an unusually big fish. As soon as I hooked up, this suspicion was confirmed. No more than two seconds later it was obvious that I would not be able to stop this fish before it made it around the corner of Snapper Rock. This it duly did with relative ease. The grating on my 33-pound line that resulted from this transit left me anticipating the cut-off at any moment. But luck was on my side, at least for now. The split-second of angst as my line went slack after coming free from the corner of Snapper Rock was quickly followed by one of relative euphoria as I realised that I was still connected to this fish. My line had come free from the rock rather than been cut. Furthermore, my fish was now in the middle of Snapper Hole, well away from rocks. I still had a lot of work to do but by far the greatest obstacle had been overcome. By my reckoning the odds were now well and truly in my favour. I very seldom lost jewfish in Snapper Hole.
I managed to stop the fish’s progress north as it headed towards the danger of the rocks on the left side of The Hole. The powerful head shakes at that point confirmed that this was indeed a jewie of way above average size. I knew my line would have been chaffed to some extent by the earlier contact with Snapper Rock, but I had to assume it was not too serious. I still had to stop this fish from progressing much further north and behind the reef. A second run was to be expected. It came, but I managed to limit its extent. Two minutes later my fish was back in the middle of Snapper Hole and I was clearly gaining the ascendency.
After several minutes of my patient pulling and manoeuvring, the fish surfaced. I had known all along that it was very big, but when I saw it my heart missed a beat. It was definitely over 60 pounds, and possibly over 70 pounds. I kept telling myself, there is no hurry, there is no danger, so long as it stays towards the middle of The Hole. It was getting tired and it was already intermittently on the surface.
I knew the hard part would be getting it out over the rocky lip of The Hole. The more exhausted it was at the point that I attempted this manoeuvre, the better my chances would become. I knew I had been lucky so far and this was now the best chance I had ever had of landing a really big jewie. Don’t blow it by unnecessary haste!
I played that fish for what seemed an age. I waited until it was floating almost motionless before manoeuvring it into the southern corner of The Hole where experience had confirmed I had the best chance of getting a wave to lift it over the lip. Unfortunately, it was very close to low tide, so this step was not going to be easy. I simply had to wait for the biggest swell and pull as hard as my best guess of the strength of my weakened line would accommodate.
On no fewer than three occasions I managed to take advantage of bigger swells to get the fish over the lip and onto my side of the greatest danger, only to have the receding swell suck the fish back into The Hole. The fish was simply too heavy to hold against the drag back out. If my line had not been weakened, I knew I would have been able to hold this fish on my side of the lip on at least one of the chances I had had! How weakened was my line? Was I being overly cautious?
I spotted a particularly big swell coming; this is it! The suck-back of the water immediately in front of the big swell exposed the cunjevoi on the lip of the hole, but the unusually large swell soon covered it with foam as the wave crashed up over the lip, carrying my motionless, huge, floating fish to my side. But I knew immediately all was not well. In the process of pulling the fish over the lip my sinker had pulled my line down and around one of the pieces of protruding cunjie. Even though I slacked off the pressure to the absolute minimum that would maintain contact, I could feel the dreaded rub on my line. With each swell the weight of the fish repeated the grating. On several swells the fish washed up high and dry on Snapper Rock, but there was nothing I could do. The sea was too big. It was simply too dangerous to try to run down and grab a 60-plus pound fish.
I had been lucky to get this fish from The South End into Snapper Hole in the first place, but once I had done so I had every reason to be extremely confident. You need a little bit of luck to catch most exceptional fish. I had had a little, but I had done everything right since then. Surely my dream was not to be shattered now? And in a manner that did not normally cause me insurmountable problems! After three or four more swells my worst fears were realised; my chaffed line parted.
The fish was free of my influence, even though it was high and dry on my side of Snapper Rock. I no longer had any means of influencing what happened next. This huge fish that I had spent years pursuing was completely motionless and only 10 yards or so in front of me, but there was nothing I could do. The next wave sucked it back into Snapper Hole where it floated for about ten seconds before realising it was free. One kick and it disappeared under the foam.
It would be thirty years before I would catch a jewie that was possibly as big; it was weighed by David Barker at the NSW Fisheries Research Institute at 32 kilos (about 70 pounds). But catching that one off Garie Beach, south of Sydney, was nowhere near the same for me as landing one of that size from The South End of the Kingscliff rocks.
The last of four!
The day following the loss of the monster jewie the wind had dropped almost completely; what little there was had swung around to the north, or even north-west. I knew that because the wind was northerly, conditions would not be good for jewies, but I returned to the scene of yesterday’s disappointment just the same. You never know. I went there almost every day during university holidays anyway!
As I walked on to the rocks just after lunch my spirits lifted. There were two reasons; yes, the northerly wind meant that the foam was too inconsistent for jewfish on The South End, but Snapper Hole looked terrific for snapper. It was deep and blue with moderate creamy foam on the southern side and the current across it looked manageable. As soon as it was fishable after a big sea was always a good time for snapper. Second, Cec Higgins was fishing in The Alley. Although Cec was my father’s age—his son Graham was my age—he was a good friend of mine and a delight to fish with. He was, in my opinion, the best fisherman of all the Murwillumbah guys who frequented the Kingscliff rocks. He was unquestionably the most versatile. He was very experienced, knowledgeable and deliberate. He had his own distinctive way of doing things. He never appeared to hurry. He was too methodical to waste time hurrying! His way had proven effective.
In all the years I fished with Cec I never saw him throw a spinner no matter how many tailor were ‘chopping’. His response to the obvious question was that spinning was ‘all in a hurry; wham bam, thank you ma’am’. This was not the way he liked to fish.
Cec seldom brought bait with him; occasionally, he would buy a mullet at Jenner’s Corner on the way past, but never pilchards or garfish, which had become the most popular bait for tailor. He preferred to catch a rock crab or very occasionally an octopus, or cut some cunjevoi, with which to catch a fish of some sort for bait. Drummer were his absolute favourite bait; ‘Tailor and jewies love a piece of drummer, and it stays on the hook, even if the bream have a bit of a chew on it.’ Luderick and wirrahs were his next favourites. They also stayed on the hook. He acknowledged that a slab of tailor was an excellent bait for jewies, but if the bream or butterfish were prevalent, as they often were around Round Rock, or in The Alley, its value was greatly reduced. Pulling in frequently to put on a new bait was not something Cec enjoyed.
On most days Cec would casually fossick about for bream and drummer, mainly in The Alley, until just before sunset, when he would switch to tailor fishing. He seldom fished for snapper. In further contrast to most of his Murwillumbah colleagues, he did occasionally fish for flathead in No Hopers and around Round Rock, on low tide. He would first catch mullet in No Hopers, then put one on alive, throw it out in front of Round Rock with only a light sinker and let it swim about. The mullet he used were much bigger than were popular for flathead bait, so the flathead he caught were big. I remember one of 13 pounds and I know that while he did not get a lot in numbers, 8 pounds or more would have been the average size.
Unlike most tailor fishermen of the time, Cec always took the possibility of a jewie into his assessments of where and when to fish. His first-choice location most evenings was Round Rock, but the beach just south of the rocks, the area called Foyster’s (it was right in front of Foyster’s sand-mining works), where the reef came in almost within casting distance from the beach, was another favourite.
One limitation on Cec’s versatility was that he used the same rod and line for all species. Early on I noticed that this cane rod had a peculiar slight bend to the right about 6 feet up from the reel, and another smaller one to the left a little closer to the tip. I had assumed it was just a peculiarity of that particular piece of cane; the blanks we made our rods from varied enormously and being less than straight was common. Then one day I was fishing with Cec’s son Graham and I noticed his rod had exactly the same profile. Noel Wylie had also detected this peculiarity. He eventually solved the riddle: when Cec and Graham returned from fishing they both lay their rods on the ground at the back of their house. Their yard was not completely flat so the rods gradually reflected the ‘lay of the land’. Looking after fishing rods was not a great priority in the ‘good old days’; possibly a hangover from the handline era?
Cec seldom caught a lot of fish; that was not his goal, but it was extremely rare for him to miss out completely. A couple of bream, a drummer and a couple of tailor would typify his bag. But a sizeable jewie was far more common in his catches than it was for almost all other anglers. He caught more big jewfish than did any of the other Murwillumbah fishers I knew. Why? Primarily because he fished for them, at least sometimes. Or at least he thought about catching them and took this into the calculations of where he should fish, what he would use for bait and how much bait he should put on the hook. Of course, the fact that as time went on he had practice landing big jewies around the rocks was a huge plus. He had developed exceptionally good control of his gear when he had a fish on.
Cec came to the rocks almost every Wednesday at least, and fished until well after dark, even in the face of weather that would deter all but those of us who were seriously afflicted by the fishing bug. He was great company in all conditions.
I loved Cec’s laconic, understated stories. He spoke as he fished, methodically. He smoked incessantly and spent an enormous amount of time ‘rolling his own’, which he did even with his line in the water while he was waiting for a bite. This later practice frequently resulted in much merriment for his colleagues, who saw the humour in his attempts to respond to the sudden aggressive movement of his rod a large fish would cause without dropping either or both his packets of tobacco and papers. In all the time I fished with him I never saw him drop his ‘makings’, even though he came close many times. Knowing Cec’s commitment to fishing I found it difficult to reconcile that his smokes were more important than any fish!
Ces smoked ‘roll your owns’ almost exclusively; ‘Those ready-made things do not do it for me,’ he explained. I do remember, however, one night when he and I were fishing side by side on Round Rock in the most miserable weather imaginable. It was blowing at least 30 knots and the rain was truly pelting down, or across, would more accurately describe it. Only serious fishing addicts like us would be out in it. I am certain the reason we persevered was because neither of us wished to be the first to admit defeat. Conditions were so bad that Cec’s pack of tobacco got wet without him dropping it. This was the only time I saw this happen. I only found out because I noticed that Cec did not have a cigarette in his mouth and he was looking at me as I huddled to light a Rothmans. I had kept my packet dry, along with my matches, in my waterproof rain hat. I didn’t offer him one because he had on all previous occasions I had done so, made it abundantly clear that he was made of sterner stuff: he smoked only the real thing; roll your owns. But on this occasion he came clean and admitted that somehow he had failed to keep his dry. He succumbed to my second offer. As we persevered in the terrible conditions, catching an odd big tailor, Cec and I were to demolish most of my pack. To my great regret, in the longer term Cec’s heavy smoking was to get the better of him; he died of lung cancer not many years later. This was a big factor in me giving up smoking shortly afterwards.
Back to the day at Snapper Hole. I had been told by many locals that snapper did not like sand mullet as bait, an urban myth that was based on much less than a poorly designed experiment. But even though I had previously caught three or four large snapper on a sand mullet fillet I still suffered from the impact of the ‘words of wisdom’ from those more experienced. Had my father been one of those who had told me they were not good bait for snapper I would probably still believe it. The following event may well not have happened.
So on that day, even though conditions were perfect, I was not overly confident that the 6-inch section of sand mullet fillet, folded lengthwise so it was flesh out on both sides, on my 7/0 Sealey hook, would help to further expose the misconception. There was a moderate covering of foam, even if a little inconsistent, in parts of The Hole so I had put on a bigger bait than I would normally use for snapper just in case a jewie got a sniff of it. I also had in the back of my mind a concern that Sealey hooks, while being noticeably sharper than others available at the time, were at times brittle; I had had two 9/0s snap at the base of the barb when I was playing particularly large fish. The sharpness and excellent design of Sealey hooks, and the influence of my father’s rather extreme fondness for them, albeit in smaller sizes, swayed my decision.
The degree of west in the light breeze made conditions perfect for long casting out the back of Snapper Hole. On my first cast my heavy sinker had taken grip about 10 yards to the north of where it had landed on the extreme right-hand side of The Hole. I settled in for the long wait that was the most common ingredient of snapper fishing off the rocks. After tiring of holding my rather heavy fibreglass rod and 6-and-a-half-inch Alvey reel, I adopted standard snapper fishing posture. I rested the tennis ball-covered butt of my rod on top of my left foot; the rod itself was held almost vertical by my left hand. Resting the butt on my knee was the other option, but it did not reduce the weight of the rod as much. I stood, in military parlance, ‘at ease’, hoping, but not overly confident, something rather serious would happen. In any case it was a beautiful day and it was great just to be there snapper fishing and thinking about the one that got away yesterday.
I waited for more than half an hour, the last five minutes of which I had spent chatting to Cec. He was trying to catch a wirrah large enough for cut bait. He was fishing the foam-covered crevice about 5 yards in front and to the left of the rock I was stationed on. We were laughing about his inability to catch anything bigger than about 4 inches. Then it struck. In an instant my outlook on my immediate future changed.
It was not a regular bite but an act of spontaneous and unbridled aggression. It remains to this day the most spectacular bite I have ever had. There was absolutely no warning from a slight slackness or tug on the line that can come as the bait is lifted. The speed, and perhaps more the power, of the line racing seawards, coupled with the inertia of my rather heavy reel, were such that the tip of my rod was pulled down with such force that the butt flew up from resting on my foot. It struck me a heavy blow in the crotch. I doubled up in pain while struggling to use one hand to keep my rod up and the other applying enough pressure on my reel to prevent an over-run: my reel had overcome its inertia and was now spinning at a speed I was unable to slow by the pressure I was able to exert on the top of it.
Cec found the whole pantomime immensely amusing. The same as cricketers do when an opposing batsman is felled by a blow similar to the one I had just received. Unlike cricket, this match did not pause because of my predicament. My opponent, the cause of my discomfort, was not the least concerned for my well-being. It certainly was not giving any indication of an intention to call a temporary halt to proceedings so that I could recover.
I was dealing with mixed emotions in the extreme. I was now well aware that I was connected to an enormous snapper; from the performance so far it couldn’t be anything else. At the same time, I was in serious pain. Following the hot flushes that accompany this type of injury, I was a really good chance of throwing up. While Cec was obviously a little concerned for my well-being he not surprisingly continued to smirk and make jokes at my expense. Anybody, other than one in my predicament, would have seen the funny side. Cec’s amusement was the least of my problems.
Eventually my condition improved and I got back to standing upright and resuming the battle in earnest. I was not sure how much line I had given to my opponent, except that it was a lot: more than 100 yards beyond my original cast, at least. My fish stopped, shook its head twice then took off on a characteristic fast but short second run, followed by an even shorter third. But all the while my contact with this snapper was clean, there was no tell-tale grating on the line to indicate a problem with rocks. Finally, I was sure my fish had stopped. Furthermore, my health had improved. At least to the point that I was now close to being fully functional.
I began to get line back, progressively more easily once the fish began to lead virtually straight back in my direction. When I had retrieved all but about 30 yards, my quarry realised it was getting close to where it definitely did not want to be. It initiated a series of short sharp runs but as it was now in the clear middle section of Snapper Hole these were easily countered. A see-sawing battle continued for what seemed like ages but was probably not much more than a minute or two. The fish was obviously tiring. Finally, it surfaced about 20 yards out from the rocky lip of The Hole.
The combination of the sparkling silver and brilliant pink-red of a large snapper on the surface in sunlight has an electrifying impact on any rock fisherman lucky enough to have witnessed it. My emotional response on this occasion was taken to a totally different level by the visible enormity of this fish. It had to be very close to 30 pounds; perhaps it was even more! At that time the biggest snapper I had landed was just over 18 pounds. Since then, I have landed several over 20 pounds, but this fish was much bigger than any of these.
The tide was considerably higher than it had been later on the day before, when I had had so much difficulty pulling the monstrous jewie over the lip of the hole. Furthermore, my 18-pound line was not chaffed, so I was very confident that getting the fish over the lip would not be an insurmountable problem, provided I was patient. This I was. A couple of minutes later, a suitably large swell gave the perfect opportunity to apply a little more pressure and guide the fish over the lip; it was now floating almost motionless. It came up over the lip as it was supposed to, if you did it correctly. This accomplished, the enormous snapper was now little more than a rod length in front of me on the surface. I waited for another large swell and pulled it gently up the slope on the side of the rock on which I was standing. It was completely exhausted and motionless. As the swell receded, it was left high and dry. But my mission had not been quite accomplished.
Had this magnificent fish been even 2 feet further up the rock I could have grabbed it, but getting closer to where it was would create the risk that I might wind up in the tide. And there was no hurry. I could see the 7/0 hook firmly embedded in the side of its jaw; it was not going to come out, so I waited for another wave. As the next swell started to lift the fish the changing angle of the line altered the direction of the hook in its jaw. As the swell reached the head of the fish, water filled its gills. It opened its mouth as it gasped for oxygen. It then shut its powerful, bony jaws. The sharp ‘crack’ was barely audible, but for me it had the same impact as an explosion. There was only one thing it could be. It was the sound of my sharp, but brittle, hook snapping.
No longer constrained by my line, the snapper slowly slid down the rock backwards into the water. It was still on my side of the lip of Snapper Hole, floating. I contemplated going in after it. But sanity prevailed. In the ten seconds or so it took to realise it was no longer hampered in its swimming, this huge snapper remained clearly visible on the surface, a rod length in front of me. Then as it realised it was free it turned and slid slowly out over the lip and into the depths of Snapper Hole.
As I held the shank of the hook in my hand Cec and I looked at each other in silence for a long moment. I was speechless. Finally, in his calm, considered way, Cec said, ‘That was twice as big as any snapper I’ve ever seen.’ To this day it is the biggest I have seen.
At that time my sense of disappointment was all-consuming. With more time the vivid memory of the occasion and the details of the event have more than compensated. This was likely my fish of a lifetime. It was undoubtedly one of my most memorable fishing experiences. I had lost, but I had not done anything wrong. It was, more than any other, the embodiment of the contribution to my addiction to fishing by ‘the ones that get away’.