A Fish Called Wha...t the F*ck?
“FISH ON!!!”
Jen turns towards me, scarcely believing her ears.
“Seriously?”
I understand her incredulity. Less than two hours earlier, we’d cast our line for the very first time on our round the world trip, and now it appeared I’d caught something on that first cast.
We’d tried fishing before, both around Sydney, and especially on our trip to Lord Howe Island two years previously, but we’d never had so much as a nibble.
Jokingly, I’d blamed my tools, and told Jen we needed to get some decent gear, but the truth is I simply didn’t have a clue what I was doing.
Nonetheless, whenever we discussed our plans to circumnavigate, part of our vision was that we would catch fish on the way round, not only because it seemed romantic and would be cost effective, but also out of sheer necessity – there wouldn’t be many opportunities to buy protein in many of the countries we’d be visiting.
So a week previously, we’d visited a fishing tackle shop in Port Douglas and asked the poor staff member there to school us. He was only 19 or so, but seemed to relish having a pair of novices to educate, and we walked out of the store 30 minutes later with a new rod, reel, line, gaff hook, lures and a “priest” (a miniature baseball bat that we’d be using to administer the last rites to any poor fish we actually managed to catch).
Somehow I didn’t think the priest would be seeing too much use.
We were also $500 poorer, but I was more concerned that I no longer had an excuse for failing to catch anything.
Navigating up the FNQ coast north of Port Douglas was too tricky for us to contemplate throwing the line out, but once we’d “rounded the corner” at Cape York and set sail for Darwin, the time had come.
Now, we were some 50 miles offshore and who knew? It turns out this whole fishing lark is easy!
The line starts running out, as the fish tries to escape.
It’s running at an incredible rate, and I find myself wishing I’d studied the instructions for the new reel just a little more carefully. I know there’s a brake somewhere, but I’ve no idea how to deploy it.
I’d better work it out fast though, as the fish has taken about half of the 150m that was still left on the reel after I’d cast, and there’s no sign of it slowing down.
After frantically pulling and prodding a few buttons and levers, I find the right one, and slowly apply the brake. The strain on the line is incredible.
“I think I’ve caught a whale,” I shout to Jen. I don’t exactly have anything to compare it to, but it seems unlikely that anything smaller could create this much pull.
I have a brainwave, and ask Jen to slow the boat down. We’re in the trade wind belt, with 20 knots of wind behind us, so the boat is charging along at 7 knots plus – clearly that’s creating a lot more drag.
With three sails up going downwind, it’s not a small job for Jen, but one at a time, she douses the mizzen and genoa, until we’re down to just 3 knots of boat speed under mainsail alone. There’s a decent swell running, so the boat’s not exactly comfortable, but at least I can now concentrate on the task at hand.
I quickly discover that catching the fish is one thing, but actually pulling it in and landing it is a whole new kettle of…well, you get the idea.
It’s my very first time trying to reel in a fish – I know there’s some kind of technique involved, something that includes reeling in a bit, then letting some out, and “playing it” until you tire it out. Well, I think I know that, but I’m truly not sure.
So I just try pulling the damn thing in.
But no matter how hard I try and turn the handle on the reel, I don’t seem to be making much headway. It’s incredibly stiff – either this thing is a monster, or I’m missing some vital element of technique. I try flipping the rod around, and that does seem to give me a little more leverage, and I then work out that if I grip the butt of the rod between my legs, I can pull, then wind, pull, then wind, and I gradually start making some headway.
Jen bursts out laughing at the ridiculous sight from behind of me pulling on this rod between my legs. I know it must look funny, but I’m in a life or death battle here between man and beast and I’m not amused!
After battling for about 15 minutes, I’ve managed to pull in about half of the line. A blister has formed on my thumb, and I’ve started to chew up the teak railing along the back of the boat where I’ve been leaning the rod for extra leverage.
The pull on the line is really extraordinary, and it’s constant. This is contrary to anything I’d heard about big fish – I understood that they’d fight, then relax for a bit to regain some strength, then fight again.
For the first time, I start to wonder if it even is a fish I have on the line at all. We are sailing towards waters famed for the amount of floating debris - perhaps I’ve picked up something heavy. It certainly seems more likely than catching a monster fish on my first cast.
“I reckon I’ve caught a coupe of tyres or a shopping trolley,” I say, half in jest, but also hoping that by stating it I’ll invoke the inviolable law of the jinx and thus make it impossible for it to actually happen.
Jen laughs and shakes her head. “I think I can see it!” she exclaims.
Sure enough, something is breaking the surface of the water sporadically, about 50 metres behind the boat.
It gets closer, slowly but inexorably, with every pull and wind on the reel, until finally we’re certain. It IS a fish – a really, REALLY big one.
And now, a new problem hoves into view – we are going to have to try and land this monster, in a pitching sea, some 5 feet above the water, using a giant gaff hook that we’ve never used before.
And once we get it on board, we were going to have a massive fish thrashing around, with hooks sticking out of it.
This was not going to be easy.
We talk through our strategy as I wind in the last few metres, until I have the fish just a metre or so behind the boat.
Three, four, five times, Jen lunges over the back of the boat, trying to get the gaff in behind its gills, before finally succeeding. As she lifts it clear of the water, it’s full size becomes apparent for the first time. Almost 1.5 metres long, its weight is too much and Jen almost loses her grip on the Gaff.
At the last second she drops the fish back in the water and the line takes up the slack, almost wrenching the rod from my hand.
I hold on, just. The next time, Jen is better prepared for the weight, and she hauls it clear of the water.
We’d been warned to try and stun or kill the fish before bringing it on board, to reduce the risk of injury as it thrashed around on the deck, so I grab the priest and hit the jack-knifing fish on the head.
Nothing happens – it just keeps doing what it was doing.
I realise I need to hit the poor beast harder, and I do, but I miss, thumping the railing instead. If it wasn’t so gruesome, it would be funny.
I gather myself and give three almighty blows to the head with all my strength. It stops moving, and with a deft flick, Jen heaves it over the rail and onto the deck.
It’s a bloody monster!
We holler and high five, but the emotions are mixed, our joy tempered somewhat by the stark reality that we have just killed an animal almost the same size as us, and its lying prostrate at our feet, with a small pool of blood coming out of its mouth.
Now what?
We realise with a jolt that we simply haven’t the foggiest idea what to do next.
We don’t know what kind of fish it is. We don’t know if it’s edible. We don’t know how to gut it, clean it, fillet it, or store it.
We do know how to cook fish – we love cooking – but every fish we’ve ever cooked has been a fillet fresh from the supermarket or fishmonger.
At no point in our preparation for our travels did we actually stop to think about what to do with a freshly caught fish. Now we need to work it out fast. The last thing we want is for its death to be in vain.
We have a book on board about sailing on the Queensland coast, and fortunately it has pictures in it of typical fish in the area. We are able to identify that it’s a grey-striped mackerel, but there’s nothing in the book about what to do when you catch one.
I guess most people learn to fish with more experienced people beside them, but we barely even know anyone who fishes.
We’re over 50 miles offshore, so well beyond the range of internet or cellphones, but we do have our satellite phone.
After thinking about it for a moment, I ring James, our marine electrician.
James has been working on the boat for the last couple of years, and during that time, he’s become a friend, as well as our go-to guy for just about any boat question we have.
James doing his famous Stevie Wonder impersonation.
As well as an electrician ,he’s a total boat all rounder who can turn his hand to just about any maintenance job (and has done on Steely on several occasions). He’s done some serious cruising before, has been a paid skipper/boat captain of massive yachts, and I’m sure I’ve heard him tell me fishing stories somewhere along the way. Oh yeah, and he used to be chef in a former life. Yup, James is definitely the right person to call.
“Steel Sapphire Satphone”, James says as he answers, reading out the caller ID as a greeting. “How are you guys? You must be half way to Darwin!”
“James, we’ve got a big problem,” I say.
“Oh, shit, what’s up?”, he says, his voice immediately full of concern.
“Mate, we’ve just caught a 1.25m mackerel, we’ve landed it, but I’ve got absolutely no idea what to do next! We had to call you – you’re our only hope”.
He laughs so hard I think he’s having a fit. Once he regains control, he calmly talks us through what needs to be done. “You need to bleed it, gut it, salt water wash it, fillet it, create individual fillets, fresh water wash them, freeze them and bag them.”
“Easy”, I say, before starting to think it through. “Hang on, what do you man bleed it”?
James patiently talks me through each of the key steps, giggling at our ineptitude along the way. I can visualise him shaking his head, but I also know he’s secretly pleased that we called him.
I hang up and talk Jen through it, and we get to work.
30 minutes later, we’ve bagged 25 individual massive fillets, 23 of which go in the freezer, and two are held back to go into a red curry, which I make that night.
It was delicious.
Now, four months on, we’re eating the last of the fillets for dinner tonight. We caught another 6 fish between Darwin and Indonesia (all MUCH smaller than the first), and not one since.
But that says more about the overfishing in Indonesia than our skills. Hopefully!
