The tackle was good. A top of the line 10
to 15 kilo jig stick, the best 5:1 reel, a fill of good line,
and a tackle box full of all the goodies, all gleaming shiny new
on the counter
The card was good too. The figure of $750.oo rocketed
along the phone lines to the big computer in Wellington, and returned
bearing the ‘approved’ sign on the card machine. I handed over
the docket for the customer to sign, under the watchful eye of
his wife.
Her face puckered into an ‘I just bit into a lemon’
look, and the tart remark shot out, "You will have to catch
a lot of fish to cover that."
My observation that the purchase price was only
15, two kilo snapper at fish shop prices, was greeted with the
special look some people reserve for smart ass salespeople. Icy
is too mild a description. The fact that every brass monkey for
miles around was clutching their part’s privy, will give some
idea of the frostiness of the glare.
She, and then he, began a vigorous discussion on
the merits or otherwise of fishing tackle purchases. There was
some emphasis placed on much needed, but not yet purchased kitchen
appliances, a roof that needed painting, and the like. Discretion
being by far the much better part of valour, I retired to the
back of the shop to become busy doing something, anything.
‘Anything’, turned out to be some deep thought on
the economics of fishing tackle purchases.
The first, and perhaps obvious train of thought
that rattled through this, then, tackle store owner’s, brain,
involved the purchase of fishing tackle. Purchasing heaps of expensive
tackle seemed an excellent hypothesis to me.
This thought passed, replaced by an enquiry. Why
do I spend so much time fishing? What is in it for me?
On the face of it, fishing makes no economic sense
at all. If I added up all the money I have spent on tackle over
the years, all the money I have spent on travel and fishing trips,
the money on boats, fuel and repairs, I could find no return on
the money, in terms of the value of the fish caught. Economists
would laugh themselves silly.
Then, the pain of some of my fishing, sprung from
my memory.
The times I have spent up to, and over, my testimonials
in the Tongariro, in the middle of winter, ice on the rod guides,
and my top lip. The times in the tiny tinny, rain lashing down,
no cover, less fish. Again in the tinny, bouncing into a building
wind, pushing up the tide against wind waves, drenched from the
spume and spray, and still too many miles to go.
Another time, rounding Cape Karikari into the teeth
of a south east half gale, in a now very small feeling fifty foot
boat. Faced by the prospect of, and then enduring, smashing and
bashing our way for six jelly legged, soaking wet, hours to the
Bay of Islands.
Then there was the long, hour and a bit, walk up
the river to the secret pool, rounding the bend, and emerging
from the bush to find four anglers filling the water. This particular
episode has been repeated, more than once. Secret pools, indeed.
The only secret about these pools, is the name of the one person
on the planet who does not know about them.
Different times, different places, four days into
a marlin trip, two metres of swell, another two metres of wind
chop on top, and not even a bird in sight.
Frustration time, standing on the rocks, land based
game rod rigged and ready, kingis in plain sight, and not a live
bait to be had.
The waiting time. Twenty five years from the first
time a marlin felt the prick of one of my hooks, to the first
time I landed one. Forty years on from the day a small trout first
glinted on the bank of the Avon river in Christchurch, to the
day I caught my first ten-pound trout. The long planned, long
longed for, quivering in eagerness and anticipation, first trip
to the South Pacific islands, to sit and watch the rain being
blown off the bure roof for five days by a gale.
Crazy stuff. Year afteifty years of utter lunacy.
Why? For heaven’s sake, why?
For heaven’s sake? Maybe.
Two hours into the first light of an icy cold, icy
clear Tongariro morning, and then the tell-tale nudge of a fish
on a deeply-sunk fly. The first rush upstream, followed by the
mad downstream race. One jump, then another, then the slow grudging
pull to the shore, and the sight of an icy-bright silver trout
panting on the sand. More casts, and soon another fish, and then
later, another. The weak winter sun, now warming, the heart at
least.
For an hour or more the rain pelts down in sheets,
collecting in the bottom of the tinny, running down inside the
inadequate wet-weather gear. Icy tongues of rain tickling down
arms and back. Then the light pull on the bait, slow movement
of the line, and sudden rush. Winding the line up tight, and pulling
up on the rod to set the hook, feeling the nodding pressure of
a good snapper. Finally a red-hued silver fish melting into view.
Another bait another fish, another bait another fish, another…….
And still it rains, but now barely noticed.
Four days watching the sea, the swell, the white
caps, the lures, and no fish. Then the first glimpse of two neon
lit wings swinging under the starboard lure. A beak slashing out
of the water, a lunge, a splash, a hole in the water, all in slow
motion, and then the screaming of a reel. The controlled pandemonium
at the start as gear is pulled in, then the fight.
The long walk through the bush, out onto the rock
strewn bank, and there they lie, four good trout at the tail of
the pool, swinging softly, white mouths flashing as they feed.
Further up the pool three more trout, feeding more frantically.
The first cast at the tail, the indicator bobs,
and the line rooster tails up the pool, but not far enough to
scare the top fish. More casts, more fish, witnessed only by the
birds.
The walk out to rocks at the point, just after dawn,
took an hour. Pre-caught live baits churning in the bait bucket.
The first look over the edge, and there they are, kingfish everywhere.
The first bait goes out, no balloon needed, and is instantly engulfed
by a dark-green backed monster. The drag pushed up to strike,
and the kingi slashes into the deep, over the rock ledge, and
gone.
More baits, more fish, some landed and released,
most lost. Baits gone, poppers come into play. More fish, few
landed. Sheer exhaustion finally calls a halt to the action, mine
not the fish’s.
The rain and wind that had lashed the Fijian resort
finally eased. Enough to wander along the sand flats casting to
coral bombies. Trevally, barracuda, long toms, small Gts, in fact
all small fish, but it was fishing, fishing somewhere new.
The next day out in a boat my first dog-tooth tuna
grabbed my lure, and gave me a brief demonstration of their power.
Coral cut short that demonstration, but there was more to come.
More lures, more fish, more coral, but not always. New definitions
for the power of these fish. Doggies, Giant trevally, and more.
Then there are the very special times. Sitting in
the tinny, so close to the native bush clad cliffs, that the
birds can be seen as they sing. The water skating calm, the sun
slinking down over the hills. A few fish come to the boat, none
big, but enough for a feed. Food for a round fat happy tummy,
food for the soul.
Heaven? Maybe. Perhaps paradise enough to
explain the lunacy, enough for me anyway. But then, I am no economist,
thank heaven.