I got hooked on gamefishing a few years ago. It’s an addiction and I remain disappointed that we only get a couple of months a year in NZ to have a crack at these hard fighting pelagic fish.
But I also agree with the description of gamefishing being hours of boredom interrupted by minutes of extreme, adrenaline-fuelled excitement. Buty there is another side to gamefishing that many overlook - the hard case fishos you get to meet and spend time with. When you’re dribbling along trolling lures, livebaiting or whatever, you get to spend hours yarning with some of life’s great characters.
Here then is a collection of character traits I’ve witnessed as we idled away the hours in the cockpit watching the lures popping and weaving.
The screamer
Totally unable to control himself, the screamer fires up as soon as there is a strike. Generally ramps it up further when there is a fish actually hooked up. The veins in his neck pop out, he goes red and the language gets bad. Very Bad. This has the effect of frightening the crap out of everyone on board so they have no idea what to do or when to do it. It just becomes one big freeze moment.
The Gaffer
Starts attacking the water with the gaff as soon as the fish is within 20 metres of the boat, foaming the surface to a frenzy. By the time the fish is alongside, he’s so buggered he can barely swing the thing at all. Definitely a person to stay clear of – at least one gaff-length clear, unless you fancy some new body piercings.
The pisshead
Has trouble carrying his gear on board with the weight of the pallet of beer he’s stashed in his bag. Sits next to the cooler all day, slyly reaching in and the regular fzzt of beer tops being undone wafts in the air. Belching and trips to the duckboard become more frequent. There’s a good chance that, even if he does get attached to several hundred pounds of angry fish and he is able to remain upon his feet, the whole exercise is going to end in tears.
The analyst.
Sees gamefishing as an intellectual exercise. Reads more into a sea surface temperature chart than you or I would find in the collective works of Shakespeare. Spends countless hours trying to outwit fish that have, in fact, only got a brain the size of a pea.
The electronics freak.
Not for him, normal marine electronics – a good chartplotter and echo sounder. This person is likely to have his eyes glued to a laptop computer which is interfaced to the depth sounder module, the GPS aerial and running MacSea, Globalmapper and SST charts. Cunninger than a weasel in cunning mode, this unit puts out info that gets the electronics freak barred up and leaves the normal among us totally flummoxed. Does he catch more fish? Sometimes.
The Rowdy Bugger
Believes Gamefish are attracted to music played at warp 12. For some reason this person believes that marlin are really into Bob Marley reggae or banjo music. “Dueling banjos, man, 200kg blue for sure.” When fishing on this boat it’s impossible to talk – so the words “something is scaring up the baitfish over there” or “look a freejumper” are likely to be lost in a 120 decibel blast of “Lively Up Yourself.”
The newbie
Wringing hands. Generally has a selection of lures culled from bargain boxes, trademe and others’ cast offs – along with a mere 200 or so others purchased at full price from various emporiums whose salesmen are rubbing their hands in glee. The newbie’s life is ruined by doubts over whether the hooks are sharp enough, that bimini twist is tied right and that the swivels will hold up under the punishment an angry marlin will deal out when it’s finally hooked. This person can become a pisshead under the right circumstances … or even an electronics freak.
The cheapskate
Outriggers made of bamboo, Penn 9/0 reels rescued from the bottom of the old tractor spare parts pile at his mate’s farm. Boone lures purchased from the Kaiwaka Annual Church Jumble Sale and Pig Grooming Competition. Nylon and leaders were an incredibly good buy on Trademe (can you see where this is going readers?). Against the odds, and because Fate has stepped in, he hooks a 300kg Blue Marlin and the result is carnage as the reel drag locks up, the “very good buy from the bargain bin” rod holder snaps and the Blue disappears over the horizon trailing a $3 lure and 200 yards of 15 year old monofilament..
The Swearer
Was born close to and spent formative years near a fishmarket. The minute any fish activity is seen the swearer bellows a tirade reminiscent of a gang member who’s stolen Harley has been re-located by the police. Often the same as the shouter – has the effect of galvanising all on board to freeze and stuff up anything they touch. Try to get into a stand up gimbal belt and harness while the reel is screaming and the swearer is raging – you suddenly find your hands have ten fingers each and they are all the size and dexterity of coke cans.
By the way, those listed above are in no way related to the people I fish with regularly. Not at all.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Advanced Muppetry
My knee is itching as I sit here.
It’s a good thing because just a couple of weeks back, it was split open and pouring blood after an altercation with the Omaha boat ramp.
It woke me up at about 4 this morning, itching like crazy and the idea for this column came to me – it’s time for a confessional of advanced muppetry. If you do dumb things on a boat, you’re being a muppet. Really dumb things are known as advanced muppetry – but in most cases, divine intervention is the cause. The female deity.
First let me state that in my view, God is a man. Think about it – if God was a woman, would the world be the place it is? No. I rest my case.
Fate however, is a woman. A sort of assistant to God - the Chief Operating Officer. And of course Fate has the twisted logic and humour of a female. She sits up there feeling a bit bored. Spies Kelly getting his boat ready.
As the rods go aboard she calls to her assistant – make it blow hard she cries.
The poor assistant has to remind her that the windy machine’s a bit tired after she’s thrashed it for weeks to keep fishermen off the water
She thinks a while and requests of another assistant to make sure the boat ramp is extra slippery.
“I need some fun and that fat old bugger is usually good for a laugh,” she chuckles, evilly.
Which is how I came to launch the boat with no one hanging on to the bow rope, arsed over on the ramp and had to swim out into the estuary to retrieve the boat. Still went fishing – spent all afternoon in soaked clothes and dripping blood from a gashed knee. I can only be thankful that Fate’s “make the water freeze” machine was also on the blink.
I’m pretty sure that qualifies as advanced muppetry. There are more, unfortunately.
My most infamous – certainly the most dangerous - came not far from the same boat ramp. I had a small Allicraft, it was Boxing Day and after three days of being nice to all the family I needed to get out for a fish.
As I blatted out of the estuary a substantial rock miraculously appeared right in front of me and microseconds later I hit it going full noise. With a hell of a crash the boat leaped skywards and landed on the other side of the rock. The mud hit the cotton. After removing my bicycle clips to let the mess out of my pants I wondered how come I wasn’t dead. Or standing in the water up to my knees already. But no, apart from the massive dent in the bow everything was still OK. As me old sailing skipper used to say though … you could have cut washers off me ringpiece.
Less dramatic than that, but an equally memorable piece of advanced muppetry was that hoary old launching problem – the forgotten bung. Fate has sent that one down a few times but the most memorable was taking the family out for a midwinter fish – on that occasion leaving the bung meant a frantic mid winter swim. It is impossible, to put the bung in a floating Ramco 560 without swimming under it. And of course you can’t hang round because that little hole can deliver enough water to sink the Titanic in short order. Tell you what – it would have been impossible for me to father any more little Kellys that day.
That was nothing compared with taking a head first dive out of a 12 foot tin boat into Lake Aniwhenua when flyfishing. The balance is tricky and somehow I got it all wrong.
My caring mate, before he’d pull me from the frozen water - made me pass his expensive flyrod up to him … and I came awful close to providing the lake’s eels with a feed of frozen cobblers.
I won’t get into the advanced muppetry of mates, but there is one exception. The one who towed my boat up north. He never quite got the hang of the trailer turning inside the tow vehicle and the resulting repairs to nearly every right-hand road sign between Auckland and Houhora probably cost Northland its annual roading budget. Normally this bloke drives like a well behaved 70 year old. Put a boat on the back and suddenly he’s trying to win the V8 Supercar Championships. He’s all over the road, way over the speed limit, doing brake lockups into corners and more. I have quietly excused myself from driving with him when there is anything with a pointy end attached to the back of his car.
Fishing tackle hasn’t escaped either with a fair few busted things, gear dropped over the side and the like.
But the prime piece of muppetry was striking hard, winding hard then striking again, hard enough to pull the teeth out of any fish known to mankind – only to lose the rod out of my hands and watch it disappear under the water like a missile as the mono nylon returned to its normal length. I recall sitting their open mouthed in astonishment, looking at the torpedo-like trail of bubbles down into the depths.
The end of a perfectly good Composite Developments rod!
I’m sure I could hear a female cackle emanating from on high that day, as I had before. And no doubt, will again…..
It’s a good thing because just a couple of weeks back, it was split open and pouring blood after an altercation with the Omaha boat ramp.
It woke me up at about 4 this morning, itching like crazy and the idea for this column came to me – it’s time for a confessional of advanced muppetry. If you do dumb things on a boat, you’re being a muppet. Really dumb things are known as advanced muppetry – but in most cases, divine intervention is the cause. The female deity.
First let me state that in my view, God is a man. Think about it – if God was a woman, would the world be the place it is? No. I rest my case.
Fate however, is a woman. A sort of assistant to God - the Chief Operating Officer. And of course Fate has the twisted logic and humour of a female. She sits up there feeling a bit bored. Spies Kelly getting his boat ready.
As the rods go aboard she calls to her assistant – make it blow hard she cries.
The poor assistant has to remind her that the windy machine’s a bit tired after she’s thrashed it for weeks to keep fishermen off the water
She thinks a while and requests of another assistant to make sure the boat ramp is extra slippery.
“I need some fun and that fat old bugger is usually good for a laugh,” she chuckles, evilly.
Which is how I came to launch the boat with no one hanging on to the bow rope, arsed over on the ramp and had to swim out into the estuary to retrieve the boat. Still went fishing – spent all afternoon in soaked clothes and dripping blood from a gashed knee. I can only be thankful that Fate’s “make the water freeze” machine was also on the blink.
I’m pretty sure that qualifies as advanced muppetry. There are more, unfortunately.
My most infamous – certainly the most dangerous - came not far from the same boat ramp. I had a small Allicraft, it was Boxing Day and after three days of being nice to all the family I needed to get out for a fish.
As I blatted out of the estuary a substantial rock miraculously appeared right in front of me and microseconds later I hit it going full noise. With a hell of a crash the boat leaped skywards and landed on the other side of the rock. The mud hit the cotton. After removing my bicycle clips to let the mess out of my pants I wondered how come I wasn’t dead. Or standing in the water up to my knees already. But no, apart from the massive dent in the bow everything was still OK. As me old sailing skipper used to say though … you could have cut washers off me ringpiece.
Less dramatic than that, but an equally memorable piece of advanced muppetry was that hoary old launching problem – the forgotten bung. Fate has sent that one down a few times but the most memorable was taking the family out for a midwinter fish – on that occasion leaving the bung meant a frantic mid winter swim. It is impossible, to put the bung in a floating Ramco 560 without swimming under it. And of course you can’t hang round because that little hole can deliver enough water to sink the Titanic in short order. Tell you what – it would have been impossible for me to father any more little Kellys that day.
That was nothing compared with taking a head first dive out of a 12 foot tin boat into Lake Aniwhenua when flyfishing. The balance is tricky and somehow I got it all wrong.
My caring mate, before he’d pull me from the frozen water - made me pass his expensive flyrod up to him … and I came awful close to providing the lake’s eels with a feed of frozen cobblers.
I won’t get into the advanced muppetry of mates, but there is one exception. The one who towed my boat up north. He never quite got the hang of the trailer turning inside the tow vehicle and the resulting repairs to nearly every right-hand road sign between Auckland and Houhora probably cost Northland its annual roading budget. Normally this bloke drives like a well behaved 70 year old. Put a boat on the back and suddenly he’s trying to win the V8 Supercar Championships. He’s all over the road, way over the speed limit, doing brake lockups into corners and more. I have quietly excused myself from driving with him when there is anything with a pointy end attached to the back of his car.
Fishing tackle hasn’t escaped either with a fair few busted things, gear dropped over the side and the like.
But the prime piece of muppetry was striking hard, winding hard then striking again, hard enough to pull the teeth out of any fish known to mankind – only to lose the rod out of my hands and watch it disappear under the water like a missile as the mono nylon returned to its normal length. I recall sitting their open mouthed in astonishment, looking at the torpedo-like trail of bubbles down into the depths.
The end of a perfectly good Composite Developments rod!
I’m sure I could hear a female cackle emanating from on high that day, as I had before. And no doubt, will again…..
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