POLING TUNA
It was 1974 when I got a job on a pole-fishing boat out of Streaky Bay, working through summer to spend the off-season surfing Indonesia or remote breaks around the Great Australian Bight.
Poling tuna was physical, back-breaking work. After netting live bait under lights in the bay, the boat would steam out into the unpredictable open waters of the Southern Ocean. The crew not on watch faced long hours stuck in the small fore cabin, trying to block out the constant groan of the engines to get a fitful sleep. This was a workboat, befouled by the stench of diesel fuel, rank bilge water and rotten fish
