Fishing in the Good Old Days: Was it really better?

By Bob Kearney

Bob Kearney has been addicted to recreational fishing and is a devout keeper of the legends and lore of the Australian angler.

He is also a world authority on fisheries and marine ecosystem management. In Fishing in the Good Old Days, Kearney looks back on his six decades of experience as a fisherman in earnest pursuit of the iconic jewfish off the rocks and beaches of northern New South Wales. He recalls unforgettable adventures, colourful personalities, the thrill of the chase and, yes, the ones that got away. Along the way, he exposes the environmental consequences of poorly planned coastal activities.

Kearney also addresses a serious question: Is the holistic experience of fishing for fun, now, truly not as good as it was in the 1960s?

Of course, this question rests on many others about recreational and commercial fishing practice, fisheries management, coastal and marine conservation, and the impact of the terrestrial world, including through human population growth and climate change. With a grasp of the scientific research as acute as his ear for the anglers’ voices of his youth, Kearney demonstrates that the answer to his question is far from straightforward.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Melbourne University Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Mar 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9780522878356

Book preview

1

Why?

Questions, such as ‘Why was fishing considered to be better in the good old days?’ underpin much of this book; some recur throughout. The first is: ‘Why write a book like this?’ I decided to do so when I realised how much I enjoyed the stories my father, Jack Kearney, and several of his mates would tell of fishing in ‘the good old days’. It wasn’t just the descriptions of catching fish that captured me; the rate at which things were changing as more people used our coastal environment intrigued me, even then. Naturally these stories were dominated by events on days or nights when it all came together. Stories about the days that were uneventful, and nothing was caught, do not hold an audience. Nobody remembers them anyway. There is always a bias towards what was good about days gone by.

I enjoyed all of Dad’s stories and their messages, many of them immensely. The more detail he provided of circumstances and events, the more I lapped them up. He was an excellent raconteur, as were all of his ten siblings. His abilities in this field were honed to an incredible level by being a publican in a NSW country town, Murwillumbah, in the days when conversing with your clients at whatever level they chose was a prerequisite for business success. He and his siblings were brought up in hotels.

As my father aged, he tended to repeat some of his fishing stories too frequently for my brother John. John was a good fisherman, but not an addict like me. I never tired of Dad telling his stories, particularly the ones he found special.

When my father passed away in 1998, I realised that my library of the fishing stories I loved was gone. I had not recorded any of them. Dad had not written any of them down. I hope this book makes it easier for my children and grandchildren to remember some that I found special, including even a few my father treasured. I also hope that by blending fishing experiences with the basic principles of fisheries and environmental science I can provoke some readers to think a little more broadly about what will affect the quality of their future fishing experiences, and even those of their grandchildren.

I know my fishing experiences have greatly benefited my understanding of fisheries and environmental management. I believe my science experience has helped my fishing. Questioning the science of fisheries assessment and why we do not understand more about fish behaviour has at the very least helped pass the time when nothing was biting.

I am most grateful for the privilege of a lengthy university education, predominantly at taxpayer expense. The last four years allowed me to work full time on fish and things fishy. Then for fifty years I had the great pleasure of researching and managing fisheries in many countries. In combination, these qualifications and experiences have given me insight into the science of fisheries assessments and what determines how much fish can be taken from a system without over-stepping. I have been reminded frequently by colleagues how fortunate I have been to have had the opportunity to combine my passion for fish and fishing with my career. They have used this to stress that I have a responsibility to record my experiences and conclusions. This book represents my acceptance of that responsibility.

For all my university training and laboratory and office research I believe I have learnt more about the way fish behave and their reactions to changes in habitat and climate from being a fisherman, both commercial and recreational. I was, however, as a university student formally taught how to gather and process information objectively. As a scientist and academic the need to question even the obvious was repeatedly reinforced. I have, to the best of my ability, applied these principles to the contents of this book.

I have tried to combine my fishing and professional experiences with what I have learnt from textbooks and scientific papers and from writing a multitude of government submissions on fisheries and environmental management. In the story-telling I have concentrated on my recall of what actually happened, and the expressions individuals used to describe their involvement. My interpretations of what has changed over the years, and why, are more subjective. They are influenced by analyses of the evidence, with the evidence gathered while fishing dominating.

The geographical focus in this book is the far north coast of NSW, particularly around the township of Kingscliff, where I spent most of my childhood and where I learnt to become a fisherman. My good old days began in the late 1950s and most of the events described in detail occurred in the 1960s.

Many species of fish are mentioned in this book. There is debate about the names of some of them. For those species that frequented the Kingscliff region in the good old days I have, in the main, used the common names as they were applied there at the time. These are aligned with their scientific classification in the appendix. It is noteworthy that there is conjecture over some of the common and Latin names. Even the accepted scientific classifications of some of the species listed have changed in the sixty years under consideration. Inconsistency in common names of the most popular species has, in the last two decades, been effectively, but not definitively, addressed by the Australian seafood industry, to the benefit of seafood consumers. Minor inconsistencies in naming should not detract from this narrative.

One name that does needs special consideration is jewfish. In the 1960s nobody around Kingscliff used the now accepted name of mulloway, even for bigger fish. Smaller individuals commonly went by more specific titles. Jewfish up to about 3 pounds were called ‘soapies’; from about 3 to about 9 pounds they were called ‘schoolies’; from about 10 to about 19 pounds they were called ‘big schoolies’ and from 20 up to about 40 pounds, they were called jewfish or jewies. Over 40 pounds they were called ‘big jewies’. Slang names for fish over about 20 pounds included ‘smellies’, ‘grubbies’, or more simply ‘grubs’. These somewhat derogatory names were only used by fishermen who caught quite a few: my good friend Billy Smith never referred to bigger jewfish as anything other than ‘grubs’. Those who rarely caught one would be far more reverent; the word ‘beautiful’ would usually get in the title somewhere and ‘big’ would creep in whenever possible.

I have been extremely fortunate in that my work in fisheries has taken me to many countries and introduced me to many of the world’s most eminent fisheries scientists. I have had the pleasure to work closely with stock assessment legends, such as John Gulland and Sidney Holt, and many outstanding tuna fishery specialists including Jim Joseph, Gordon Broadhead and Akira Suda. To all of them and many others I owe a great debt for what they have taught me about fish and fisheries. Many of the scientists I have known and worked with were also avid fishermen, or at least knew people to whom they were more than happy to introduce me. These knowledgeable individuals may well have taught me more about fish behaviour and the factors that affect it than did the scientists! Of course, to all of them I am most grateful.

The many encounters and opportunities they helped create allowed me to experience some of the best fishing the world has to offer. When coupled with the learned explanations I was given about the species and their habitats that are not available to many people, the collective has been enlightening. The many highlights of these experiences include, in no particular order: fishing for white sea bass on the beaches and rocks of Baja California with Jim Joseph and Carl Robbins; giant halibut and salmon in Alaska with Keith Jefferts, Lee Alverson and Sandy Argue; tuna and other pelagic species in almost twenty countries in the south Pacific with Barney Smith and Tony Lewis; trout in New Zealand with Johann Bell; steelhead in British Columbia with John Harris; giant lutjanid snapper and rooster-fish in Panama with Jim Joseph and Bob Wettle; and bonefish in New Caledonia with Johann Bell and John Harris.

I have wonderful memories of all of these and many more. But my response to the frequent question, ‘What has been your most memorable fishing experience?’ remains: fishing for jewfish in the middle of the day on The South End of the rocks at Kingscliff. When I am fishing anywhere for anything and nothing is happening, this is where my mind still invariably takes me, even though I have not done it for more than twenty years.

The rocks at Kingscliff are not even the best jewfish spot I have fished. There are many areas further south on the NSW coast where jewfish are far more abundant and easier to catch. The South End is not even a spot you could always go to and be confident you could fish there. Often the rocks are so sanded up that there is not enough water to fish profitably, even at high tide. This is particularly so since the devastation of the natural rocky environment caused by the construction of the training walls at the mouth of Cudgen Creek in the mid-1960s. So why the pre-eminence in my mind of fishing there, particularly for jewfish? And why in the daytime when my catch rate was considerably higher at night? In this book I answer this question and consider the answer from the perspective of the changes over time in recreational fishing and in coastal aquatic ecosystems more generally. I also address a few other questions, like was the fishing really better in Australia sixty years ago (chapter 23)? And how will it be in the next sixty years (chapter 24)?

Finally, a word about terminology. When describing the good old days, I refer to recreational fishers of the time as fishermen. Even Mary Pearce, Kingscliff Amateur Fishing Club stalwart, was in the good old days referred to as a good fisherman. I raised this issue with her and I was assured she considered the comment more a compliment on her fishing ability than a sexist slur. ‘Fishermen’ was a generic term, not dissimilar to the term ‘batsmen’ in cricket, which has taken a long time to be replaced by ‘batters’. But fishermen was not only what all serious fishers were called at the time, it was at least for those who fished the rocks, with one, only occasional, exception, what they were. In this book I progressively adopt the term ‘fishers’ as I discuss more recent developments. In a similar vein I use the imperial measures of the time for weights and distances. A 50-pound jewfish, a 10-pound tailor and a 4-pound bream were expressions that carried a reverent respect for a benchmark that is not matched by current almost arbitrary numbers of centimetres of fish length.

2

By Jove!

This was one of those all-too-rare days when conditions for what you want to do were about as good as you can reasonably hope for. It was late January 1964. The strong south-easter of the previous three days was abating and the sea was settling, but still big enough to produce the dense foam cover around the rocks that is essential for successful daytime fishing for jewfish. The tide was dropping, and in combination with the four days of southerly had resulted in the hard-gut mullet (the smaller, summer version of sea mullet, named because of their empty, compact stomachs as they fast, while migrating north) running in good numbers. I knew jewies were about. For a keen jewfish fisherman the day had excitement stamped all over it.

Mullet had been easy to get. I had about twenty swimming around in my favourite pool on The South End of the Kingscliff rocks. The first hour and a half of jewfish fishing had resulted in three bites. Two beautiful fish of just over 40 pounds each were swimming in the larger pool below the one that contained my mullet. I still had several hours of perfect fishing conditions in front of me. Life couldn’t get much better.

I had had the rocks to myself and wanted it to stay that way. So when I noticed another angler had crossed the creek and was clearly heading in my direction I was not thrilled. As he reached the rocks my suspicion that he was a tourist and not a local was confirmed. He was about ten years older than I. Because of what happened this particular afternoon I can still vividly recall a picture of him, including his curly blond hair and sky-blue jumper. Clearly by the gear he was carrying, he was not an experienced fisherman. He was not going to worry the jewfish I was fishing for. He was not a threat.

The canvas bag he carried was not uncommon, but the give-away was the six-foot, white Jarvis Walker rod that was in his other hand. It was designed to capture novice anglers rather than a specific type of fish. It was certainly not the right implement for rock fishing. Attached to the rod was a four-inch, extremely deep-spooled, bakelite Alvey reel. This was not an inappropriate reel for this rod, but what was on it was: very loosely coiled, extremely heavy, blue nylon line; at least 70 pounds, I estimated. The only blue lines available in those days were American: this one was powder-blue. It had to be DuPont. So heavy was the line and so loosely coiled that I could see from 20 yards away the odd loop protruding way beyond the lip of the reel.

The total package of gear was obviously a concoction that had been borrowed from a number of different friends; no self-respecting retailer would sell this combination to any one person. But perhaps it could have been assembled by pure chance following a trip to a second-hand shop!

It was hard to imagine a set of gear that was so out of balance and so inappropriate for fishing off the Kingscliff rocks. I could not imagine a use for it anywhere. There was clearly no need to worry about competition from its owner. I went back to concentrating on the school of mullet that was holed-up in the corner about 40 yards from where my live mullet was trying in vain to rid itself of the 10/0 hook that connected it to my 33-pound line.

‘By Jove, you’re doing well.’ I was a little startled by the sudden intrusion into my space. The disruption to my fantasy about the big jewfish that was about to eat my bait was also a little off-putting. The new arrival had found his way out to the rock just behind the one on which I was standing. He was obviously impressed with my success. ‘Yeah, I got a couple.’ ‘A couple! There must be nearly twenty in that pool.’ What could I say? To proclaim that he had only seen the bait would be more boastful than even I usually was about my fishing prowess. So I muttered something like, ‘That’s the luck of fishing.’ He appeared to accept this and left me to my fantasies.

‘Do you know there are two sharks in a pool over there?’ My acquaintance had returned and this time his excitement was palpable. ‘They are not sharks, they are jewfish. They are what I am fishing for.’ ‘By Jove, they are huge! I have never seen fish so big. How on earth could you pull them in?’ A not very informative and very brief explanation of the need to have good gear and appropriate experience was all he got. The subtlety of my inference that perhaps he was not equipped to pull in fish like these was, as I should have known, completely lost on him. It was silly of me to even contemplate that it would not be. My excuse now, for my being somewhat abrupt then, is that I was seriously distracted by the very real possibility that I could get another bite at any moment. Regardless of the paucity of my explanation it seemed to serve its purpose; he withdrew back to where he had deposited his gear.

‘How do you catch fish that are so big?’ In spite of the slight irritation of the intermittent, but continued, interruptions and the repeat of a question I thought I had dealt with, there was something about the man’s big smile and his genuinely friendly and excited manner that I began to find disarming. Why not take the time to show him? After all, my mullet had been swimming around untouched for almost half an hour and a fresh one might well produce the bite that had of late eluded me. So I wound in. I explained the basics of fishing for jewfish with live mullet, returned to my mullet-pool and selected a replacement, returned to my rock with my student in tow and demonstrated the rather cumbersome art, even with my specially selected and well-balanced gear, of casting a sizeable mullet and 4-ounce sinker separated by a yard or more of leader. My new acquaintance seemed impressed. He thanked me for the demonstration and withdrew to do whatever with his gear.

‘I would really like to fish for those big fish.’ Before I could express my opinion on the futility of this impossible dream, he followed with, ‘I don’t suppose you would lend me one of your mullet?’ Once again, my new-found colleague had attracted my attention, but this time his request was more than slightly irritating; it was bordering on outrageous. As any experienced and self-respecting angler would know, you simply do not ask anybody for a ‘lend’ of live bait, certainly not something like a pound-weight mullet that can take considerable effort to collect. The question was about as outrageous as asking a friend for a lend of his wife for an hour or two. But what was it about this guy? Was his unbridled enthusiasm, fuelled at least in part by disarming, complete ignorance, simply infectious? After all I did have more live mullet than was usual. Could I not spare one? Nobody I knew was watching, so I was not creating a precedent.

Of course, it was not simply a matter of ‘lending’ him a mullet; the biggest hook in his bag was a number 4 long-shank specimen that might be suitable for catching fish of the size we were about to use as bait. In any case I doubted if his 70-pound line would even fit through the eye of the hooks he had. He clearly hadn’t tried to assemble his gear before leaving home. I selected him a mullet and gave him a 10/0 Sealey hook. After his repeated assertions that he could tie the hook on, and no, he did not think he needed a sinker, I left him to his own devices.

Shortly afterwards he arrived on the rock on which I was standing (see the cover photo) with rod in hand and the mullet duly attached to his ‘rope’ swimming in the wash behind us. He had noted my demonstration cast and like a baseball batter stepping up to the plate he rather boldly took up his position about a yard from the surge and about 6 or 7 yards to my right. The smile on his face had to be seen. But it faded when he realised that his extremely light, 6-foot rod would not lift the mullet without bending double, thus completely eliminating the possibility of a cast. He was clearly perplexed. But as his audacious request for the lend of a mullet had shown, he was nothing if not resourceful. The look of pride he displayed as he put his rod down on the rock and proceeded to pull the loose coils of 70-pound line off the reel and lay them at his feet was again infectious. He had a plan and he would show me he was up to the task. He then picked up his mullet by grasping it behind the gills and emulated the other primary player in a baseball game by pitching it seawards with his best attempt at a high ‘fast-ball’. As the mullet flapped its way through the air he quickly grasped his rod. As he resumed his upright stance he could not resist giving me a huge smile that was clearly meant to provoke appreciation of his ingenuity. He had overcome adversity at numerous levels and was now fishing for jewfish. He was doing what the experts do, or at least his version of it.

Anybody who has ever fished with large mullet in foamy water around rocks knows that most mullet are aware of the danger and do not like to stay out wide; they swim back in close to the rock searching for cover; that’s why we use big sinkers to keep them out where we want them. This mullet either had delusions or it was simply deranged. To my amazement after its unceremonial flight, on landing in the water it immediately set off for New Zealand.

‘By Jove, these mullet are strong. They pull so hard.’ He had hooked his mullet much closer to the tail than was my custom and his Jarvis Walker rod was pounding rhythmically with every beat of that tail. The bend in the rod was what you would expect of an implement designed to catch fish even smaller than the one attached to it at the moment. My newest jewfish-fishing colleague was having a ball. I was truly pleased for him. I also enjoyed the feeling of having done someone a favour. I had fulfilled his request and thus completed my task. I went back to concentrating on the school of hard-gut mullet that had built up at the junction of the rocks and the beach and was contemplating making a dash around the rocks for the relative safety of the long beach to the north. But the unexpected sight of the unweighted mullet swimming so strongly about 20 yards from the rock raised the question about an event I had assumed was impossible: what if he gets a bite from a 40-pound jewie? Or perhaps even a bigger one! No, it won’t happen! After all, I have my mullet much closer than his to where the action will be.

The school of mullet had made the fail-safe decision. They had left the protection of the corner of the beach and were now heading east at full migratory speed about 20 yards from the rocks. They were making the 60-yard run through the foam before they would find blue water, turn north, and skirt the headland. As they entered the heavy foam just to my right they began to lift higher in the water and their backs began to break the surface. They were getting considerably agitated; they knew danger was at hand. They passed us by about 20 yards, then just before they turned the corner to the relative safety of the clear, deeper water of Snapper Hole 200 to 300 mullet erupted through the surface. Many were completely airborne. The ambush had begun. The school fractured and individual mullet and small groups took off in all directions. My heart was racing. A bite was virtually certain. My friend’s bait was still doing its thing, but it too had sensed the danger and was now thrashing even harder on the surface. The guy attached to that mullet was oblivious to what was going on, except that the extra exertions of his mullet were clearly increasing his feeling of immense well-being. This fishing caper was great fun! At the expense of breaking the spell I thought I should warn him. ‘Get ready! You might get a bite now.’ He was already having a ball playing his mullet; his lot could not get much better! If he did hear my warning he did not understand its significance. He certainly did not heed it. Getting ‘a bite’ was not something that needed to be even thought about.

My mullet was not visible, effectively anchored by my sinker as it swam about 3 feet from the bottom, so I continued keeping an eye on his as I took in the action. Suddenly his mullet appeared to accept the futility of trying to swim east. There was clearly impending danger. So a different tack was required. It wheeled and swam as fast as it could for the rocks on which we were standing.

The splash as a big jewfish inhaled it was one of the most memorable I have seen, or heard. Even above the heavy churn of the surf the sharp ‘chop’ was attention-grabbing. The speed the mullet had been able to attain without the impediment of a large sinker was clearly a factor. Seldom have I had the exhilaration of having such a large predator take a bait so voraciously off the surface so close to me. But as thrilling as the visual and audible effects were I suddenly feared the consequences of what had just happened. As it turned out, so I should have.

I shouted my repeated warning to my colleague, much more loudly this time. But the vacant smile as he turned to me said it all. What was the problem? What could possibly interfere with the fun he was having?

The mayhem that followed transpired in slow motion. His rod had stopped its rhythmic palpitations from the mullet’s tail beat; the line had gone slack and the rod had lost its bend; it pointed skywards, at least for a moment. As I watched it took on an increasingly more serious bend as the line steadily tightened. The jewfish on the end of his line had not yet detected a problem so the pull was slow and steady; it had eaten his mullet and was simply swimming slowly away. But the pull, while slow, was very firm and my colleague became aware that something different was happening. So he jerked his rod. It seems to be instinct! So was the defence reaction of the jewfish on the end of his line; it sought deep water as a matter of life-saving urgency.

The 4-inch Alvey spun in reverse at great speed, constrained only by the rattle of three or four knuckles, which did little to dampen the increasing rate of revolutions. The loose coils of line became even looser as they spun out of control and jumped off the reel. Inevitably one, or more, of these loops flew around the handles and another around the back of the reel. No more line could go out, and this was a very strong line. My friend’s grip on the now horizontal rod tightened even more. Something had to give! But what?

To this day I remember vividly the new look on the face of a man who had already demonstrated considerable talents with expression. His balance had shifted from standing upright lightly on his feet to a quick step or two forward and then almost flying as he was pulled virtually horizontally off the rock. The look came from under his left armpit. It contained a multitude of emotions, including, ‘You’re my mentor; tell me what do I do now? Do something!’ He landed in the foamy, surging water and disappeared; fortunately for only a second. ‘Can he swim?’ was only one of the many questions that were racing through my head. Another was, ‘Has he got the sense to let go of the rod?’

I assumed he would let his rod go, but he had already demonstrated that his actions were unpredictable. He began to splash about on the surface and while he was handicapped by having a rod in one hand he obviously could swim, or at least keep himself afloat. Then some more news, and as he clearly would not let his rod go it was good news: the jewfish was obviously no longer connected to the end of the rope that he regarded as a line; he was not being pulled out to sea. I got down as close to the edge of the water as was safe and made sure to set my feet before poking my rod towards him in the hope that he may be able to get hold of it and I may be able to pull him out. But his swimming abilities were more than up to the task, even if his lack of rock-hopping experience meant that he had no idea of how to get out of the water with minimum damage. But to my huge relief, after several buffetings and falls among the rocks and multitude of barnacles, he did scramble out. The Kingscliff rocks are low (see image section, p. 1) and relatively forgiving of those who make mistakes.

Anybody who has seen somebody standing in running water with bleeding cuts will be aware of the overstatement of the extent of the injuries that usually occurs; blood flows extremely freely and is excessively visible in such circumstances. My friend’s legs were both so red with blood that I was greatly worried about the extent of his injuries, but he could walk and he was not wailing in pain. I helped him back up the rock, at which point we both took stock.

He was shaking but he did not appear to be critically injured. It took a few seconds before he managed a very poor attempt at his usually infectious smile. ‘I think I am all right. A few cuts and scratches but I don’t think they are too bad.’ By the look of his legs I would need some convincing. I offered to help him back to his gear but his refusal and growing good humour were insistent. I walked behind him as he made his way back up the rocks. I had pulled my line in during my efforts to help him, and the lack of care in retrieving my mullet meant that I now needed a new one anyway.

I waited by my gear for a few minutes and watched as he attended to his cuts and bruises with a small towel retrieved from his bag. He did appear fine and he greeted me with another infectious smile as I walked over and enquired. He showed me the two or three sources of the blood on both legs and they were indeed more scratches than serious cuts. I doubted any would need stitching but I was very glad they were not on my legs. We had a brief discussion about his adventure after which I inspected his gear. The ‘pig tail’ on the end of his line confirmed what I had expected; his knot-tying skills were consistent with his general angling abilities and the hook had quite simply come off in the heat of battle. Just as well! After a few shared laughs about the experience I picked up my rod, a fresh mullet and went back to what I had come for.

‘By Jove, that was exciting.’ He was up and about and standing right behind me again. ‘I can’t remember ever having done anything so exhilarating.’ My reply, that it was extremely exciting for me and I was only a spectator, had him beaming from ear to ear. Then followed a rather lengthy silence. Still I could not get a bite and my frustration was growing. The patch of mullet in the corner of the beach was again growing and another push to get around the rocks could not be far away. Surely that would get me some action!

‘I don’t suppose you would lend me another mullet?’ Dumbstruck, is the closest I can get to my reaction at the time. Did this guy have a death wish or was he simply a fruit loop? It obviously had not occurred to him that his survival had been seriously threatened, let alone that I had been extremely worried about his chances. The fact that he had almost certainly already cost me one jewfish bite that I would have had a good chance to land was certainly not in his reckoning. I had been batting at 66 per cent—three bites for two fish landed—before he came along, and if he had not had a mullet in the water then the jewfish that had caused all the excitement would most likely have taken mine. I thought it wisest not to raise my selfish concerns but to discuss with him the likely perils of a repeat performance, in the unlikely event that I did relent and ‘lend’ him another mullet. Try as I might, I was unable to convince him that to throw another mullet in the water attached to his line was not a wise option.

Ten minutes later another 10/0 was being affixed to his line. Against my protestations of the benefits of the safety valve of his poor knot-tying skills I was the one tying the knot. What was it about this guy? He had survived being pulled in, so what else was there to worry about? His infectious innocence and good humour was what I used to convince myself that there was a rational explanation.

His second mullet did not have the kamikaze addiction of its predecessor. It swam back into the rocks no matter how hard or often he pitched it out. Naturally he had trouble keeping his rope-like line free of the rocks, and inevitable tangles in the slack line occurred. Twenty minutes of undoing tangles in his rope then followed. At least he was busy and most of the time his bait was in the water behind him and not in the ‘bite-zone’, so he was unlikely to have an impact on my fishing.

He was completely oblivious of the extremely substantial school of hard-gut that had been building about 40 yards away, resisting the urge to charge north until their numbers were such that individual risk was reduced to an acceptable level (chapter 9). The safety-in-numbers threshold was finally reached and they began the surge east, level with where we were fishing, or where in my opinion one of us had been fishing for some time. The brown ripple of the collective backs of more than a thousand mullet passed me. They were riding increasingly high in the water and I knew action was not far away. My adrenaline levels were extreme and my heartbeat rocketed when I saw the shower of mullet followed by the panic of individuals going in all directions, including back to the safety of the