First published in June, 1991, in NZ Fisherman, now merged in 2000 with Game Fisher to become NZ Fishing News. This is an enlarged version of the original one published in Column 8.
We used to be able to get into our car without having a fishing rod poke us in the ear, or a fishhook catch us up the nostril. The car never smelt superfresh, but now it smells of super fish, what with tackle boxes, buckets and nets.
We used to be able to go to the freezer, take our an
icecream container and be sure of finding icecream in it. Not anymore. It’s
just as likely to contain dozens of sprats, bait for future salmon.
Since my wife had her ears pierced about a year ago, I used
to expect, quite reasonably, to see earrings dangling from my wife’s ears. Now I’m
just as likely to see a couple of swivels, those little coupling devices that
allow the hook to turn freely.
My wife has had a number of hobbies over the years but
fishing is definitely number one. She says she’ll stop going out when it gets
cold and go back to sewing but, to be honest, I can still see her out there in
the sleet and hail, keeping her hands warm round a cup of hot soup from her
flask.
I suppose I should have read the signs, considering who her
forebears were. She comes from English Norfolk stock – a true Norfolk broad –
and was brought up on the coast, where fishermen are two a penny, and winkles, mussels
and crabs part of the regular diet.
Since the middle of last year, I’d been getting NZ
Fisherman sent to me each month. I’d begun to find her reading it. In the Christmas
holidays I picked up Take a Kid Fishing at Whitcoulls. That was the
straw that broke the camel’s back.
We discussed buying a fishing rod to encourage the kids. My wife
decided to justify the expense by having one as an early birthday present. Supposedly
it was for all the family, but it soon became my wife’s alone.
At first we took everybody out fishing. That soon sorted out
the enthusiasts from the apathetics. My wife was definitely an enthusiast.
After a few outings she found the rod wasn’t big enough to
catch salmon – I mean, no one wants to catch sprats for the rest of their
fishing days, do they? So she had her 1992 birthday. (No wonder I’m so hard
up.)
And catch a salmon she did. From the Dunedin wharf, which
has become her second home. The first I knew about the catch was when she
arrived in my bookshop with her bucked and pulled out this limp creature,
nearly two kilos in weight and 40 centimetres long. The bookshop had a lingering
fragrance for some hours.
Before my wife got into fishing, I had this false picture of
fishermen as a breed that kept pretty much to themselves. And definitely not friendly.
The attitude may have been based on stories I’d heard of fishermen up north who
were likely to toss their neighbour into the water because they’d got their
lines crossed, or someone had invaded their personal space. Fishing etiquette
seemed to have gone out the window with chivalry towards women.
Both my wife and I have been pleasantly surprised to find
that in Dunedin, at least, this isn’t the case. Instead of the more experienced
fishermen ignoring this novice, they’ve helped her again and again.
When her hook caught round one of the wharf supports, taking
a length of line and the float with it, her first reaction was to be a bit
peeved and go off and buy another float.
On returning, one of her fellow fishermen asked why she’d
bothered. At low tide he used his net to catch hold of the float and pull the
rest of the line up, with the sprat that had been bait still attached.
When she caught her first salmon, one of the fishermen was
there with his net to hoist it up out of the water for her. (She’s caught two
salmon in her short time of fishing, including one just after the weekend
competition held in March. We might survive the recession yet.)
When the second salmon arrived, she was off on her own. A firm
yell for help brought a fisherman running right round the perimeter of the
wharf. Someone else told her how to gut the salmon after scaling it, preferably
under running water; how to remove the head properly, particularly since by the
lack of a dorsal fin it could be seen to be a tagged specimen; where to take
the head for recording; and how to tell the sex by the shape of the mouth; the
male has more of a hook on the lower lip.
Fishermen are just as helpful about telling her when to
throw something back because it’s too small, or what to do with the
razor-toothed barracouta that occasionally turn up on her line.
By watching other fishermen, she’s been able to gauge where
to put her sprat jig, and how deep. And no one’s charged her for the advice. They
haven’t even made her pay for the odd sprat they’ve handed over when she’s run
out.
She’s been really encouraged by the support she’s received
down at the wharf. I guess it’s worth having a smelly car as a trade-off for an
occasional salmon that’s big enough to invite the neighbours over to help us
eat.
My only concern is that she’s now got her eye on a fishing trawler…
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| Fishing Trawler, UK, photo courtesy Peter Jemmett |
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