A Lifetime Of Fishing

By Jack Walsh

“Something of a fishing freak”
Jack Wreford Walsh was born in November 1937. His parents aptly named him Jack, which must have been short for “Jack of all trades”. If only they had known! He was schooled at Wet Pups (Western Province Preparatory School) and St Andrew’s College, Grahamstown.
Three generations (On both sides of the family!) of insurance industry executives determined unequivocally his future. However even that could not keep him from the sea, as he was always fishing mad. Still wet behind the ears, he inherited one of the first true country insurance brokerages, together with the instilled principle to the extreme of “honesty is the best policy”. The business flourished, leading, he says, to his first big mistake when he sold an excellent business, for which he was never paid, to concentrate on the sea.
Fifty-two years later, with an Associateship of the Chartered Insurance Institute having specialised in Marine Insurance Law, a management diploma, a foreign going fishing masters ticket, a pilot’s licence, a flirtation with politics, a rocky personal history, thirty or so companies (two of which he took to the JSE) in some fifteen or so different industries and vocations, and last, but certainly not least, four wonderful and successful children, he has now finally retired! Maybe?
With his interest fired up by a natural sciences academic, who was to become his closest friend, he became an avid layman researcher in the field of Marine resources and their management. All in all his adventures and experiences are extremely entertaining, exciting, at times comical, and very insightful in the fields of commercial fishing and sea diamond recovery, about both of which very little has been written.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jack Walsh
• Release date: Jul 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9780620693028

Jack Walsh

Jack Wreford Walsh was born in November 1937. His parents aptly named him Jack, which must have been short for “Jack of all trades.” If only they had known! He was schooled at Western Province Preparatory School, Cape Town, and St Andrew’s College, GrahamstownThree generations (On both sides of the family!) of insurance industry executives determined unequivocally his future. However even an ACII could not keep him from the sea. Still wet behind the ears, he inherited one of the first true country insurance brokerages, which due to his father having suffered a long and debilitating illness was bankrupt, together with the instilled principle to the extreme of “honesty is the best policy.” The business flourished leading, he says, to his first big of many mistakes when he sold an excellent business, for which he was never paid, to concentrate on the sea.Fifty two years later, as an Associate of the Chartered Insurance Institute, with a management diploma, a fishing masters ticket, a pilot’s licence, a flirtation with politics, a rocky personal history, having formed some thirty or so companies in some fifteen or so different industries and vocations, and, last but not least, a wife and four wonderful and successful children, he has now retired. Maybe?Associated at various times with six of South Africa’s largest corporations, and having taken two companies to JSE listing, his overriding personal belief is in “integrity with excellence.” However his great disappointment is the first hand knowledge of the cliché “power corrupts” in regard to big business in South Africa. He has in fact been told by one of SA’s best known sons, entrepreneur and philanthropist, that to further business the “end” always justifies “the means” irrespective! He believes that small and medium business’ only defence to this attitude, is to run a highly efficient unit, cutting no corners, and practicing honesty of purpose, commitment, and delivery. Your word should be your bond! Was he naïve at times, undoubtedly!In addition, with his interest initially fired up by a living sciences academic, who would become his best friend, he became an avid layman researcher in the field of marine resources, their sustainability, and management.He loves the English language and aspires to be an amateur “wordsmith.” Although he has written and has had published many articles for magazines, this is his first try at a book. His remaining ambition is to write a novel with the background of his experiences.

Book preview

At 6 o’clock in the morning, the last vestiges of a three-day south-easter whispered in the trees outside. Gordon’s Bay was still in the shadows, as the sun was yet to lift above the Hottentots Holland mountains, but, across the bay, the spine of the Cape Peninsula was already highlighted. The surface of the sea in the bay remained slightly ruffled by the retreating breeze, but was otherwise dark and smooth, without any swell and an insignificant shore break.

Inside his gran’s flat, a little boy in his seventh year slipped out of bed and made a beeline for the loo, then to the bathroom, where he washed his hands and face, and cleaned his teeth. Back in his bedroom, he was dressed in seconds before rushing out to find his gran in the kitchen.

Grandma, I go to Uncle Dougie, said her grandson at 6:10 in the morning.

She heard the somewhat rickety Strand bus bellow and rattle its way past her flat, which was opposite the General Botha Naval Training College, back to the Strand. All right, little one, she answered, but walk on the General Botha side of the road and watch out for cars. Don’t be the back later than 9 o’clock for breakfast.

For the umpteenth time, she wondered how she could talk to her grandson and allow him to do things as though he was 10 or 12, not a six-year-old.

‘Uncle Dougie’ was Captain (SA Army – retired) Douglas van der Riet, who had taken the job of harbourmaster to keep himself busy. He knew Rose Sellers from her frequent walks to the harbour, and ‘Klonkie’, a nickname he had given her grandson, since he had been with her. When Klonkie kept on about staying and playing in the harbour with the other kids, somewhat older, who fished for harders (mullet) and other juvenile fish on the inside of the harbour wall, he had said he and the other employees would keep an eye on him.

Jamming his hat on his head, Grandma opened the front door. He hopped down the steps into the driveway and ran down the road to the harbour gate, which was right opposite the two large palm trees that flanked the entrance of the Gordonia Hotel.

Good morning, Klonkie! shouted the harbourmaster. What’s your hurry?

With a wave to Uncle Dougie, Klonkie hurried on down the quayside to where the MFV Queen of the Bay was about to leave for the fishing grounds. As he neared Gordon’s Bay’s newest and first decked fishing vessel of approximately nine metres in length, he shouted the inevitable request he had repeated every time he had come down to the harbour during the school holidays. Uncle Blackie, can I please go with you?

Blackie’s standard reply of ‘nee’ (no) was followed this time by his engineman saying in Afrikaans, Come on, skipper. Let’s take him with. I will look after him and we’ll see whether he might become a fisherman.

Blackie’s grunted reply, probably more to end the discussion rather than find a solution, was that he would have to have a letter of permission from the harbour master, which was then followed with the command, "Goei los."(Untie and let’s go.)

The Queen of the Bay returned to the harbour with a good catch of fish just after lunch, and, whilst they were offloading and selling them, Michael, the engineman, remembering Blackie’s answer, went to the harbourmaster’s office to ask permission for the Queen of the Bay to take Klonkie to sea with them, assuring Dougie that he would look after him.

Dougie replied, Firstly, you would have to get his grandmother’s permission, and secondly, even if you did, I would never agree. He is only six years old!

When Michael again saw Klonkie the next morning, another beautiful day, he duly told him that he had to get a letter of authority from his gran to go with the Queen of the Bay, starting a chain of events that remain mostly unexplained to this day.

Did Michael not hear Dougie’s comments regarding his permission or did he choose just to ignore them? Was Klonkie clever and devious enough to ask for a letter for the harbourmaster, realising that it would be a credible possibility, whilst one to Blackie, whom his gran did not even know, would clearly have been a non-starter. How could Klonkie have known, guessed or sensed that not only could Blackie not understand English, other than of the most simplistic nature, but could not even read? Sufficient to say that Klonkie asked his gran for a letter of ‘otority’ for Dougie, permitting him to go to the harbour (note, not on the boat) on his own, which did not surprise her at all, as Dougie, when he had said he would look after him, had mentioned weeks earlier that he might need a letter to that effect.

Daybreak on Saturday welcomed the third still and perfect day in a row, almost a record for Gordon’s Bay, where the south-easter was surely born. Klonkie was up and about, almost jumping out of his skin, half an hour earlier than usual. His gran made him a packet of sandwiches to take to the harbour in place of breakfast, which would be missed, as she needed to walk down to the village centre to buy some groceries. As the bus had not yet passed on its way to the harbour, she walked halfway down the hill with him before waving goodbye with the usual admonishment to be careful! On the dot of 6am, the Strand bus snarled, rattled, and shook its way into the harbour, disgorging, amongst its other passengers, Blackie and the crew. Two, much to Blackie’s irritation, had not arrived, but Piet, after a somewhat rough altercation with his wife whilst very much the worse for too much ‘dop’ (drink) the night before, had been ejected from the family abode, and had somehow already found his way to the harbour.

Whilst he and Michael rowed out to the Queen of the Bay at her moorings with a can of petrol to fill her fuel tank and start the converted Morris engine, Klonkie sidled cautiously up to Blackie and handed him his gran’s letter for the harbourmaster. Without looking at it, he stuffed it into his pocket, grunted in surprise, and said to him in Afrikaans, Wait and we’ll see what Michael says.

The Queen of the Bay put-putted to the quayside and, as the crew scrambled aboard, Blackie literally picked up Klonkie by the scruff of his neck and handed him to Michael, saying, You see what you’ve done. Now you look after him and, if he ends up in the water, you will follow, but with a slit throat!

With much hilarity and inappropriate remarks from the rest of the crew, the Queen of the Bay sailed sedately out of the harbour mouth with Klonkie deposited unceremoniously in the bow.

Since the south-easter had dropped the previous day, Blackie had found a mixture of kabeljou (kob/drum) and small geelbek (cape salmon) feeding on baitfish on the Steenbras River bank, and that was where he was heading. As they passed Five Houses, they picked up two small yellowtail on trolled homemade spinners, which often happened in that area. Klonkie’s eyes were huge.

Then, opposite Roman Point, Michael’s sharp eyes saw a flock of diving sterretjies (terns) west of them towards ‘Eenkoppie’. Blackie hesitated. Then, guided by the principle that fish have tails to swim with, whilst bait fish on the surface often meant larger predators below them, turned the boat towards the birds. Soon, one could make out mackerel cutting the water as they chased a blanket of fleeing anchovy between the birds from above and the predators below. As the Queen of the Bay approached, light linen drift lines snaked out from the gunnels to be immediately grabbed by the feeding mackerel and, here and there, an elf’ (shad). A cry of "geelstert" (yellowtail) from Blackie saw the crew near him draw in their lines to avoid tangling them with his as he carefully played the much larger fish, whilst those further forward shortened theirs.

As was the custom, after gaffing a nice five kilogram yellowtail and neatly subduing it with a solid blow to its head with a kierie (truncheon), Blackie let down his blooded hemp line baited with a strip of mackerel until it touched the bottom. Then, recovering about three metres of the line, Blackie waited to feel if there were any larger fish on the bottom. Almost instantaneously, the line tightened around his thigh where he had looped it so that he could carry on fishing for bait, and, deserting the bait line by sitting on its haasspoel (holder), he grabbed the heavy line, immediately struck, and started hauling up what he guessed to be a fair-sized kob. As he swept the six kilogram fish out of the water and over the gunnels, he then shouted to the crew to drop anchor. The two fishermen nearest the bow picked up Klonkie and dumped him in the laaitjie (compartment) two back from the bow so that the rope could not catch him. They then threw the anchor overboard, allowed it to run out, gave another 25 metres or so when it hit the bottom, tied it around the front bollard and then replaced Klonkie back to the front again. Down went all the blooded hemp lines with heavy sinkers to rush the bait past the marauding mackerel and elf, and, soon, two and three kob were being lifted out of the water simultaneously.

Through all of this, Klonkie sat absolutely mesmerised, eyes like saucers and so still you wondered if he was in a trance. Every now and then, the cry of ‘gaff’ indicated a much larger fish of between 10 and 15 kilograms. Within half an hour, no deck was to be seen and the laaitjies were already half full. Suddenly, a small sound emanated from the bow, followed by a wail as Klonkie found his voice. I want to fish!

Amidst the laughter, Michael, sitting, as was the custom, with Blackie in the stern, shouted back, Klonkie, wait a bit and I will come and help you fish!

Klonkie’s reaction, which would have amazed his family, was to settle down patiently again and continue watching the action.

Twenty minutes later, it was clear that the shoal of fish was dissipating, so Michael, as good as his word, made his way to the bow with a handful of strips of mackerel and his bait line. The baitfish could still be seen darting up from below to grab pieces of bait shaken out of the mouths of the hooked kob or discarded overboard by the crew. Almost as the piece of bait on Michael’s line hit the water, a fish grabbed it and sped off. Michael held the line, giving the piece behind his hand to Klonkie with the admonition, Hold tight, and pull.

To his amazement, probably as a result of practice on the harders in the harbour, Klonkie did just that, and, standing up, almost got pulled overboard. Michael grabbed the collar of his jersey, encouraging him as he slowly recovered the line, even as it slipped through his fingers. The whole crew cheered as Michael leant down, grabbing the line near the fish, and lifted it on board. He broke its neck, which sprayed Klonkie with its blood, but Michael noticed that he was already covered with a fair amount of kob slime. Out went the line again and, this time, Klonkie pushed his arm away and lifted the mackerel over the gunnels himself. The fifth fish was more resilient and, as it neared the boat, Michael saw that it was an elf, grabbed the line himself, much to Klonkie’s annoyance, and, after lifting it on board, showed him its teeth and explained that it would probably have bitten his hand.

Enough, said Michael. The line has already cut your finger and I am sure that the skipper is ready to go home.

Whilst Klonkie had been fishing under Michael’s guidance, the shoal of kob had either stopped feeding or moved on, and the crew had quickly returned to their bait lines, both to sell and to ensure an adequate supply for the start of the morrow. Michael returned to the back and started the engine. Klonkie was removed out of harm’s way by the crew again, and this time six of the eight of them pulled up the anchor. Blackie headed home with little idea of the storm he was unwittingly heading into.

The Queen of the Bay, with approximately two tons of kob on board, was much lower in the water and a light westerly breeze had sprung up, with the result that splashes were soaking Klonkie, but effectively washing him down at the same time. The crew scooped buckets of water from the sea to wash the boat, themselves and the fish, once they had tied the smaller fish into bunches with the reeds cut in the veld for that purpose. Piet dumped a few buckets over Klonkie, and then took an oilskin jacket from Michael at the stern and tented it over him to protect him from further spray.

Back in Gordon’s Bay, the harbour was a flurry of activity. The reason for this was that Rose, his gran, had returned from her shopping trip on the 11 o’clock bus, which offloaded her at her flat, where she put down her purchases. Being a lovely day, she decided to walk down to the harbour and see what her grandson was up to. When she got there, there was, of course, no Klonkie, and, when she asked Dougie if he had seen him, he replied that he had not. Seeing her growing distress, he quickly put his head out of the door to ask some of the other staff if they had sighted him.

At that moment, Warrant Officer Smith from the academy arrived at the harbourmaster’s office to advise him that his class of divers, whom he trained, would be roaming the harbour during an exercise. In those days, the development of independent air supply, i.e. scuba tanks, was still experimental, and his trainees would be wearing hardhat gear, though some would be swimming around with the new-fangled face goggles whilst waiting their turn. The divers in full diving suits would be supplied with air from small training tenders that would follow them as they progressed along the bottom of the harbour. By previous arrangement, the divers, apart from checking the academy’s own moorings, would check the other harbour moorings as well to ensure that they were not deteriorating. Dougie quietly told him of his dilemma out of Rose’s hearing range, stating, however, that he had a sneaking suspicion that Klonkie might somehow have got himself a lift on a fishing boat. Smith, though not wanting to believe the possible obvious, nevertheless said that he would ask his class to keep a lookout.

A very distraught Rose had meanwhile commandeered Dougie’s telephone and asked to be connected to the police station. Finding Sergeant Malan on duty, who she knew, she told him about Klonkie going missing. He told her that he and Jan, his constable, were just leaving for the harbour, as they were looking for a miscreant.

Dougie had, in the meantime, told Rose that he thought Klonkie might have stolen a ride on a fishing boat, and tried to allay her fears that arose anew when she saw the academy cadets swarming over the harbour. Just then, one of Dougie’s employees appeared to confirm that, yes, he had gone out with the Queen of the Bay. Dougie’s comments regarding Blackie should not be recorded! He turned to Rose, who had not understood the discussion, and said that he definitely was aboard the Queen of the Bay, which would probably be back around 12 o’clock to catch the early market, as it was Saturday. A small crowd was starting to gather on the quayside, some awaiting the boats, whilst others had heard the inevitable clarion call of possible events from the telephone exchange lady, who was known to listen to most conversations, thereafter disseminating any interesting gossip.

Just then, a cry from someone noted that the Queen of the Bay was approaching the harbour. With another oath, Dougie gathered his loudhailer and was onto his bike and down the breakwater despite his own rules disallowing such action. This clearly indicated the potential for trouble to Michael and Blackie, who were now suddenly getting anxious about Klonkie’s being on board. In Blackie’s case, despite the letter in his pocket, he wondered if he should not possibly – no, undoubtedly – have asked Dougie’s permission, whilst Michael had certainly now recalled Dougie’s comments; that is, if he had ever forgotten them. A blast from the loudhailer, asking if Klonkie was on board only served to ramp up their anxiety levels. Blackie extracted the somewhat damp missive that Klonkie had given him from his oilskin pocket, then waved it in the air and pointed at the little igloo that appeared to have grown out the deck. A further oath from Dougie, before he remembered to take the loudhailer away from his mouth and mount his bike to return and meet the Queen of the Bay, almost had Blackie turning the boat around, although he realised it was far too late for that.

A further side issue developed as they rounded the harbour breakwater, when Piet saw the two policemen in their distinctive blue uniforms and white helmets standing at the end of the quayside. He immediately dived into the small front store burrowing under the lifejackets and buckets, having little doubt that they were looking for him as a result of the previous night’s shenanigans at his home.

Dougie, having, to a large extent, finally, in his mind, put the proverbial two and two together, said to Sergeant Malan in a sotto voice, Please threaten Blackie and Michael with arrest for kidnapping!

Sergeant Malan replied, That is a very serious misdemeanour and I will need a statement from you first, sir.

No, replied Dougie. It is only as a joke to teach them a lesson.

This elicited a non-committal grunt from the sergeant.

As the boat was tied up, Sergeant Malan stepped on board, as the tide was now high. In a stentorian voice, he said to Blackie, I am arresting you for kidnapping and Michael as well.

Blackie’s weather-burnt face actually turned pale as he once again waved the ‘otority’ letter under the sergeant’s nose. Michael was incidentally nowhere to be seen, having folded himself unbelievably and impossibly into the small open space between the engine and the forward bulkhead. With Dougie having relieved Blackie of the letter, with two and two now definitely adding up, as he knew Blackie could not read, the sergeant, he and Rose burst into laughter, though hers was more from relief than mirth. Their laughter also then relieved firstly Michael, and then Piet, who decided as a result thereof that the SAP could not be after him, and both emerged from their respective hiding places simultaneously, to their immediate regret.

Sergeant Malan immediately stood forward and grabbed Piet by his arm, onto which he clipped a pair of handcuffs and then to his own right arm. In Afrikaans, he said, I hereby arrest you for drunk and disorderly behaviour.

Klonkie’s gran, somewhat sympathetically, asked the sergeant what he had done.

"Huismoles, mevrou," he said, and