Well, if the Pacific Dawn ever makes it back to Sydney I will be making the trip to Vanuatu very soon. Apparently we’ve been delayed a day and so we will miss out on going to Luganville which is a real shame because a mate of mine use to run a plantation there and I was looking forward to catching up with his friends and seeing the local town. Better luck next time I suppose.
I will be away until the 1st November so in the meantime I’ll leave you with the third part of the “Trevor” story. I hope you enjoy it!
But what to do? After chatting to a kind old bloke on the wharf, I decided to pack up the kids and head for the nearest tackle shop for the official weigh in. Two point four kilos on the lie detector later I decided that the next thing to do was to take some photos, capture the scene on video and then display the carcass to as many of my detractors as possible.
Unfortunately there was no film in any of our cameras – except for one belonging to Alisha. Alas I was to find out months later that Alisha had developed a habit of opening the camera many times “to check on the film”. So, after covering more angles of the fish than even a Playboy shoot would allow and after paying extra for one hour development of the prints, the professional opinion of the photography world was that the shots were over exposed.
For weeks after that I was one shattered unit.
The video was a different proposition. Why hell, I could tape over the bits of old holiday footage with shots of me with more hair and less weight (these two things always seem to be diametrically opposed as one gets older) and the newly acquired big screen TV could show the mighty bream in stunning Technicolor. Well that was the theory as I panned in close with the “Battery Low” light glowing red below the eye piece just long enough to get a flick of the tail and a gulp from the struggling bream.
Slightly annoyed I put the fish on ice and headed off to a friend’s house for more photo opportunities and some shameless self indulgence. Receiving same (but only one photo courtesy of the “Oh my gosh, I’ve run out of film syndrome”) I moved onto the next port of call: the brother-in-law’s. With no one home I decided to display the fish to his next door neighbour Keith – a keen Botany Bay fisho from way back.
“Keith’s not home dear. What sort of fish is that anyway?” enquired Keith’s Mrs with a kind of “Yawn, I could be watching Oprah” tone in her voice.
It was pointless. I was a beaten man. There was a trophy fish in my esky and it seemed I would be banished to a lonely world of self aggrandizement. However, with renewed video camera batteries Alisha and Grant helped me capture some truly magic moments on tape including the scaling, gutting and ritual examination of the stomach contents. But this fish was not headed for the freezer. There was only one thing that would justify plucking it from the murky depths of the Georges River.
That evening, Fast Eddie the Fireman and his sweet wife Suzie, joined the kids and I in a celebration of unbridled gluttony as we ate the tender flesh of the one-wine-and-stubby-bottle-long barbecued bream that in a moment of alcoholic induced inspiration we had come to call Trevor.
“He looks like a Trevor,” announced Fast Eddie convincingly.
Naturally, the Sunday Telegraph that weekend gave away a rod and reel to someone who had sent a photo of a 1.8kg bream and I sighed with disgust at my lack of foresight.
But here’s a checklist for what you can do to make the most of that unexpected catch;
· Get the fish officially weighed
· Buy some film, take many photos and hold the fish out in front of you
· Ring the local newspaper – they may run a story and send a professional photographer because it’s interesting press and good for tourism
· Video footage is fantastic, if you haven’t got a video camera borrow one
· A cast of your catch will cost a few hundred dollars but whatever you do, don’t scale or gut your fish. Professional taxidermists are listed in the Yellow Pages
· Send the fish photos into TV, magazine and newspaper competitions
And if you’re really keen, you could cobble together your own story and shoot it off to some respectable blog like this one…..
For those of you following me on www.twitter.com/skippermeggs or watching the twitter feed on the www.skippermeggs.com website you would be well aware that shortly I’ll be off on a slow boat to Vanuatu to celebrate my daughter’s 21st. Funnily enough she features in the continued story below as a sprightly seven year old helping her dad bring in the big ones down at the Georges River in the south west of Sydney. I hope you enjoy the continuation of this story….
The pier was free so we spread out our gear and I sent the kids off to find some crabs (to no avail) whilst I grabbed some water with my bait holder (a trusty plastic half oil container) to thaw out those frozen prawns. I’ve always been a great believer in burley but seldom used it. Call it good luck, good management or call it for what it was (BBQ leftovers) today was the day I chose to combine scrunched up, rock hard bread rolls with sand and a few mashed pillies and prawns for good measure.
“Ooh, yuk, Grose!” commented the ever vigilant Alisha.
A few days earlier I had taken Alisha to a nearby park to teach her the finer points of casting a fishing rod with an egg beater reel. Grant had already mastered this aspect and at least in the past had proved himself proficient in the art of knot tying and line rigging. Naturally when we arrived at Lambeth Park they had forgotten everything. They make it all seem so peaceful and pleasant on TV. You know – kids behaving themselves waiting patiently for the ubiquitous fish whilst dad relaxes with a good book and a bell on the end of his rod.
Not this trip! This was more than just virtual reality fishing….
Grant had seemingly forgotten how to tie and bait hooks and Alisha insisted on winding in her line the instant I handed back her rod after casting for her. There were more snags than in a butcher shop’s front window and I worked like a one arm paper hanger tying hooks and swivels and various rigs whilst settling disagreements between brother and sister.
“The day I chose to fish with the kids some village lost its idiot.” I thought to myself.
It was inevitable that one of the only baits I was able to get wet resulted in a dropped bream at the edge of the wharf courtesy of a decision to lift the fish out of the river rather than to lose both kidrens off the wharf with a landing net that couldn’t quite reach the water. Disgusted in missing the first catch of the day I instructed Grant and Alisha to “walk” the next fish along the edge of the wharf towards the beach rather than risk dropping another one.
We continued to burley up a treat whilst the tide swung back around but still there was no luck to be had. When all hope was just about lost I told the kids that dad would drown just one more prawn. I reached for my trusty old rod with the no frills reel and then into my tackle box for the last 1/0 chemically sharpened hook that I possessed. A running ball sinker down to the hook (as light as the current allowed) rounded off the outfit and it was into the water with a thawed out packet prawn for good measure.
Casting to the left of the wharf I watched the line as the tide dragged it across a patch of weed. A familiar tightening of the line and a sudden dipping of the rod soon indicated the presence of a fish which was quite heavy. I lifted and wound ah la Rex Hunt for the benefit of the kids with the fish taking some line from time to time when I saw a sudden flash of silver.
“A jewfish.” I thought.
But with a few more yards of gained nylon I could see that it was a majestically built snapper-like-bream; a fish I just had to land. With adrenaline pumping I guided the gracious fish along the wharf towards the sandy beach as I shouted hurried instructions to my number one son. But Grant found the fish too large and the water too shallow to slide a net into place and he grabbed the bream (like Tarzan would a crocodile) and literally threw it into the landing net.
I couldn’t believe that a write off of a day had ended in success with just one cast away from abandonment.
Tune in next week to find out what disaster strikes next as Skipper Meggs reveals the stunning conclusion to “The Legend of a Bream called Trevor”.
Over the next three weeks I will be bringing you the true story of a huge bream I caught years ago with my two children down the road from where I live in the Georges River in Sydney’s south western suburbs. It’s a touch funny and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it…
You see it’s like that old joke. You know the one where the adulterous guy goes into the confessional occupied by a cleaner and starts telling him about the amorous adventures he’s been having with the boss’s blonde wife. Finally it all gets too much for the cleaner who explains that he’s just the janitor. The other guy’s reply? “That’s Okay, I’m not a Catholic either – I was just so excited about the situation I had to tell someone.”
And so it is with fishermen, when after years of braving the elements and the jokes of neighbours and close personal friends they finally strike it big and somehow jag that once in a lifetime catch. You see all real fishos dream of classic catches and I’m not referring to World Series Cricket or in-ground pool contracts. Just remember if you keep wetting a line someday, sometime, somewhere and more than likely when you least expect it, along will come that prized catch.
But let’s face it. The moments of glory for the average fisherman are very few and far between so ask yourself this: will you be prepared to make the most mileage out of that monstrous mullet? Indians took scalps, hunters hung moose heads on top of fire places and I’m sure Hugh Heffner kept his own special momentos. But what should the humble, never-come-home-with-anything type of bloke do when he finally makes big? Surely the odd fish photo is not enough?
I must admit that up until that faithful day I was clearly unprepared. Being a professional Marketing Manager my idea of forward planning was booking the restaurant by 11AM. This story is for the benefit of all who have yet to have their moment of glory. So read on…you never know one day you could become the “Living Ling Legend of Lansvale”, the “Cod Curmudgeon of Coogee” or the “Prime Perch Poacher of Pelican Point” if only you’re prepared.
This is the legend of a Bream called Trevor…..
Having spent the equivalent of the national debt of a small third world nation on three rods, reels and fishing line for the wife (who commented appreciatively “Gee thanks Greg, what do I do with this?”) and two kids at Christmas it was finally time (three weeks later) to put them into action. You see I’m a good bloke so I spared no expense in thawing out some old bait from the garage bar fridge and packed each fishing bag as if they were my own for Grant (9) and Alisha (7).
The full moon had pushed the king tides from the upper reaches of Sydney’s Georges River and we had chosen a lazy 8:00 AM start at Lambeth Park which had already been the scene of many an encounter with plate size bream. The timing wasn’t that bad an option as we intended to fish the hour before and after the top of the tide and could therefore still get away with a minimum of lead.
A basic seamanship’s course some years ago taught me about the “twelthes rule” which has really annoyed the hell out of me ever since because its almost always right. The principle is based on the fact that there is roughly six hours between high and low tides. Generally, according to the rule, if you take the difference between the high tide (eg 2m) and the low tide (eg 0.8M) and divide it by 12 (ie 0.1M) you will find that in the first hour 1/12 of the water (0.1M) will flow in or out, the second hour 2/12 (ie 0.2M), the third hour 3/12 (ie 0.3M), the fourth hour 3/12 (ie0.3M), the fifth hour 2/12 (0.2M) and the sixth hour 1/12 (0.1M).
The moral of the “twelthes rule” (particularly when fishing in estuaries during a full moon) is to fish the top of the tide when racing waters won’t drag your bait from left to right in the space of seconds.
Be sure to tune in next Friday after 12 noon EST for the next exciting installment of a Legend of a Bream called Trevor!
Before I forget – congratulations to Lorinda Potter who was lucky enough to catch her first jewfish off the back of a houseboat on the Clyde River at Batemans Bay. Caught on a barra rod loaded with 15kg but with a 1/0 hook, running ball sinker and no trace the most unluckiest 96cm jewie fell to a frozen packet prawn thrown at boil of bait fish. Well done!
Ok, with much anticipation Wazza and I had changed our game plan for the second trip and went with a cheaper hire boat with a 15hp and a crab pot thrown in. Yes, we were worried that the 15hp wouldn’t hack the trip but our friendly host agreed to drop us off at a different ramp in Bridge Creek which was well south of the town of Cardwell. With a high tide at 8am this would put us into prime fishing territory with the afternoon low tide helping us home to the marina.
We managed to put the boat in without being taken by crocs and made our through the dense mangroves out into open fishing territory. A couple of local crabbers gave us some tips on how to navigate from Bridge Creek and about 45 minutes they passed by us holding up a huge muddie – well done to them! We made our way to a likely looking feeder creek and tossed gold bombers at some drowned timber and within a dozen casts finally managed to get some interest from a couple of small barra. They went for my lure first before moving onto Wazza’s. A couple of Boofs! later and they were gone.
We meandered around a few of the creeks and streams before deciding to put our crab pot in a likely area in front of two drains whilst we fished a y junction further downstream. It seemed like we were only there for less than an hour but regardless the 3 meter tide got the better of us and I chose not to risk being bogged in the mud trying to retrieve our crab pot – besides we were always going back that way again the next day and it wasn’t as if the waterway was full of boats and potential crab pot thieves.
The rest of the day was pretty uneventful although I did manage to catch the world’s smallest hammerhead shark which was a real buzz. Drifting back towards the Cardwell marina we picked up various rubbish fish and our hopes for redemption from the previous days’ disasters seemed well and truly dashed. There was only one thing left to do – call up the big guns and go on a charter. We got in touch with Mick Radlof, a Cardwell local, and after explaining our plight we arranged a charter for the following day.
Mick was a great bloke and I must admit it was good to have someone who knew the local waters like the back of his hand and he took us to places where we hadn’t even thought of heading. He gathered up some livies with his cast net and we mixed the fishing up a bit with lures as well. Wazza had the first run but unfortunately it was stingray so the gods were still definitely against us. I had a small run on a fish that spat the hook. Mick took us back to the crab pot only to find that we had been baited. He took one look at our crab pot and told us the locals call the one we used a “Take Away” because the crabs come in one end and take away the bait and then work their way out the other! Oh well, no barra and no muddies so far. What the hell are we doing wrong???
Anyway, Mick tried and tried and tried to put us onto some fish. We had a huge run at the junction of a creek but by the time the rod was lifted out of the holder the fish was gone. Time wasn’t on our side and the sun was getting low. Mick pulled the boat into the mouth of a creek and let out the big guns with some jelly prawns and live herring whilst Wazza and I pelted lures around the creek edges. Boof! Swirl! Missed again as one of the livies went off. Lucky me got a run on an estuary cod which we released and then finally Wazza managed a legal size barra which was immediately doomed for the bbq that night. We were about to pack it in when the waters around us started to boil with both baitfish and big boofs and swirls from the menacing barra that were in full attack mode. I had seen nothing like this in my travels – everywhere you looked there were barra boils and the noises of feeding fish.
Mick was good enough to let us try our luck here – I think he felt sorry for the way our whole trip had turned out and this was really a unique situation. He said to us that normally when there are barra feeding like this they aren’t much interested in anything else but the baitfish they’re feeding on. Regardless out of the blue a fish nailed a popper as it blooped its way back to the boat and I was on to my first Cardwell based barramundi which was duly caught and released to fight another day. Success at last!
We followed the boils around for awhile but couldn’t get any interest and as the light began to fade we called it quits and made our way back to port. It was tough going but at least we had a feed for the night.
As for Cardwell as a fishing destination – look we obviously didn’t set the world on fire. Mick also mentioned that the previous wet season had not been good and this has a flow on effect with the barra. The other thing is that we didn’t bother to do any reef fishing and this is generally an easier task to extract fish. We saw enough evidence on our final day to suggest that there were still plenty of barramundi left in and around Cardwell but we couldn’t seem to get any other interest apart from the local sharks and catfish. One great catch can make a big difference to your fishing holiday and I wouldn’t write the area off just based on our experience. A lesson learnt is always use a local guide if you can – this will increase your chances of success dramatically and they know the likely haunts of the local fish. Cardwell itself, and the surrounding areas including Lucinda, is picturesque and the locals are friendly. There’s some great drinking establishments and cheap accommodation so in summary I’d recommend that you put the town on your must fish list.
