After a few days of mosquito wet weather we decided it would be nice to head out to the great outdoors outside our tent and throw a line into the river. Don't ask me why we just didn't walk across the road and put a line in there, we drove the little white van to the small seaside town known by the locals as Bogangar or as the fancy pants tourism industry like to call it Cabarita Beach. It is a lovely spot where there is an estuary that funnels into the sea and a little two lane bridge that connects both sides of the land enabling people to drive or walk from one side of the outlet to the other.
Dean not being fond of fishing or even eating fish was not as keen as me to put a hook on the line. As a kid my Dad had a half cabin cruiser boat and the best times of my childhood were on the water in Botany Bay or the St Georges River in Sydney's south threading a stinky prawn or two on a line and waiting for that elusive catch. Or better still putting an old fish head into a crab net and lowering the pots strategically throughout the bay to catch my Mum and Dad's favourite blue swimmers. Yes these memories of fishing with my Dad early on a Saturday morning were just about the best memories I had as a child growing up in Sydney. My parents weren't sporty and they certainly weren't the type to take us out hiking or experiencing what the great outdoor had to offer very often. Mum had a fear that we would injure ourselves if we played a sport. But Dad did love to fish and with him working very long hours in his business, fishing was an opportunity he could connect with nature and his children at the same time. It was always more fun when there was a bit of a swell on the water and he allowed us to sit on the bow, he would accelerate the boat a little as we went over the rolling wave and then come crashing down into the water on the other side of the ocean caps. All of us girls would scream with fright and laugh at being soaked by the salty spray. We would count how many jelly fish we could see. Some days there was as many as the eye could see, other days they were just in patches here and there and some days there was none at all. Sometimes Dad would pack for the whole weekend and take us to a deserted Island, Trafalga I think was the name of the Island...well it wasn't really an island, it was connected to the main land but by marshy swamps and was close to the oil refineries that line the opposite side of the bay and the only way to get there was by boat. Not far from here is where Captain James Cook took his first steps on land in Botany Bay. So I suppose I developed my love for fishing and camping because it gave me some lovely Daddy-daughter time and an opportunity to get to know my Dad for who he was and not just the 21year army veteran that was a warrant office and lined us all up for room inspection on a Saturday morning. When we moved to Evans Head from Sydney Dad sold the boat but we lived right at the beach that had a fishing trawler inlet with a small bridge that crossed over to the headland. With not too many things to get up to in this sleepy town I would get up early and pack my fishing gear into a bucket and walk my way down the 3 blocks to the bridge and throw in a line. My mum never complained that I filled her fridge with white bait...because that's all I seemed to catch. Not even sure what she ever did with those poor little suckers, probably fed them to the dog, as long as I was happy and busy that's all she cared about. Yes, I can say fishing gave me so much more than the catch of the day, it inspired priceless memory making opportunities.
So back to my honey moon fishing tale. With not much money to spend and trying to be resourceful in my pursuits to making great memories I suggested we throw a line in over the bridge. I had packed the little hand reals and a few hooks and sinkers just in case such a situation arose, and felt pretty confident that I could real in a brim, flathead or two. My only downfall, well there was two actually, to our fishing plans was that we had not planed for a huge catch of the day and only had a very small Eski to put any thing we caught in it. My other downfall was that Dean didn't share the same love for fishing as I had and was really only there to humor me, always relying on my Dad to scale, and gut the fish, in my head this was a male job and totally expected that Dean would have the same hunter and gatherer instinct. (insert fail music "bubum" here)
As I threaded the worm onto the hook, my new husband refusing to touch the slimy suckers and watched over the skyline as the sun was setting and enjoying the light breeze of the salty air on his face. I tossed in the line as far as it could go, swinging it around a little like a lasso and releasing it into the water it seemed to go as far as the mangroves on the far side of the river. It wasn't long before I felt the illusive tug on the line. It felt so exciting. Another tug, and then another. For sure there was something on the line and it was heavy, with loads of drag I reeled the line back in. As the creature came closer and closer there was a wake it left behind it in the water as it was being dragged towards me. Then suddenly it was time to see what was on the end of the line. Low and behold it was a mud crab! A huge mud crab, as big as a diner plate, the dirty looking brown beast had swallowed my worm. Because the light was fading Dean could not see how huge it was. Explaining to Dean how huge this creature from the sea was I let him have the line to feel the weight and as this occurred the crab used its claws and snipped himself free and with that splashed back into the river. Being a little relieved at this point, not being sure what we were going to do with such a monster, my next thoughts were to re-thread my line and try again this time for a fish.
Once again I tossed my worm up into the air and let it plop onto the glassy river surface and let it sink to the bottom....within seconds a tug, and then again, this is my night were my thoughts, fried fish for tea, yum! Slowly reeling this in it felt heavier than the last catch, once it got to the surface, to my surprise it was another muddy! Should we cut the line or should we bring it up...we chose to bring it up to the bridge. Dean helped me real it in, the only problem with this decision was that our eski was not going to fit this monster in it and we didn't have a bucket or a pot to cook it in. We lowered the crustacean onto the footpath and tried to cut the line off its body. Not being dead the muddy used its angry crabby claws to try and snip my fingers. Dropping the Wiltshire knife that was given to us as a wedding gift on the ground in front of the beast I motioned to Dean where the crab was and the vicinity of the weapon. Dean bent down to feel for the knife, the whole time I was worried that the creature from the deep was going to chase him and cut of his finger with one clip of his mighty claws but as luck had it the crab scuttled to a small alcove in the footpath to try and hide. I felt bad for the greedy muddy who had a hook in his mouth and must have been in pain. Trying to get the hook out of his mouth Dean got close enough with the knife and attempted cut the line, and as he did our fishy catch grabbed the end of the kitchen knife and would not let go. With the tip of the blade gripped between his claws the crab was not about to let go in a hurry. So there was my blind husband now standing in the dark with our catch of the day asking me what the heck we were going to do with this beast now. A young boy that was standing on the other side of the bridge was intrigued with our catch. He came a little closer for a look. The child said he had been holidaying in the area and was staying in a vacation unit just a little walk from where we were fishing. With that we encouraged him to run home and find the biggest pot he could find and bring it back and we would give him our winnings. With widening eyes the little boys face was like he had won the lottery. Running as fast as his little legs would carry him, the boy returned with a huge pot, placing it at Deano's feet he lowered the crab into its cold metal coffin. With that miraculously the crab released the end of the knife, and the boy thanked us and carefully put the lid on the top. Not sure what his parents would have said to him on his return home but if it had been my Dad he would have been as proud as punch.
We still have that same Wiltshire knife today with the end of the blade permanently bent to the left where it had been once gripped in a crabs claws. Affectionately we know it as the "Crab Knife" It is still the sharpest knife we have in our house and it reminds us of this simple lovely honey moon memory every time I use it.
No comments:
Post a Comment