The invitation to join us for a fish was extended to her bloke, but he was on call to assist with the Christchurch earthquake recovery and the Government didn’t think a day’s fishing was sufficient reason to fly him back to Auckland. He passed on the invite to Lucy.
There were two problems with this. The first is that Lucy had the capability to kick our arses, both fishing wise and in pretty much every other way as well. The only way to take out Lucy would be by howitzer at a very long distance.
The second was that Lucy is from The Hokianga. I’m deeply suspicious of the place and everyone from there. I’m sure many of you will have driven over the hill at Opononi and gasped in awe as your senses are captured by the incredible spectacle of the sand dunes of Mitimiti and the roiling power of the Hoke Bar.
But the stunning beauty and warm nature of the people are just to fool you into letting your guard down so the place can get under your skin. I first developed this theory when I towed a small wooden boat there for a summer holiday on a friend’s farm.
There were a few people enjoying a beer in the sun outside the pub at Kohukohu as I drove past and we all waved to each other like good mates. By the time I got the boat over that road to my friends’ place the road had just about pounded it to pieces and forever after it leaked.
Later on we went fishing on the muddy brown waters and as the locals unrolled their kacky old hand lines I decided to show them the real oil with the shiny, well-oiled gear that worked so well in the Gulf.
What I found was my gear was ideal for a good haul of snapper, so long as they weren’t any bigger than four inches. It wasn’t the flash Hauraki Gulf gear, carefully washed and oiled after every use, that contributed a good pile of 10lb snapper to the hangi. Fooled into a false sense of security by the Hoke once again.
I once joined Lucy’s brother in his 12ft tinny fishing inside the harbour, just off Opononi. As the tide began to run, the seas stood up and we began taking green ones over the side.
With no bailer on board, the water was soon around our ankles and I started to recall all the warnings that had been given so forcefully in Coastguard safety class. I’m sure they mentioned a bailer. I could see the Hoke bar with its curling white water from where we were anchored and the tide was screaming out. We’d have been out there in minutes. Radio? Nope. Life jackets? Nope. Flares… well, I think you can guess the answer.
Bruce just chuckled, hauled in the anchor and the ancient Johnson outboard burst into rattling, smoky, life on 12th pull and we went home. The week before he’d taken a Norwegian tourist to the same spot, caught a live mackerel and sent that down saying to his guest “this should be good” and hauled in a 30lb snapper. He kept the jaw and I could easily fit my closed fist in it. It’s all part of the Hokianga conspiracy to draw you in, then turn you into a gibbering mess.
And now Hokianga born-and-raised Lucy was sitting on my boat, in the gulf, with a handline, three sinkers that could have provided the ballasting arrangements on an America’s Cup yacht, a pile of smelly pilchards and a reputation for kicking arse.
I’d have to show her. This time, she was on my turf.
I carefully inserted my highly specialised Z-man fluoro painted worm hook onto an electric chicken softbait and sent it down. My expensive fishing combo would soon have us knee-deep in twenty pounders. I’d seen it on TV, where that hyper presenter only has to fish with the same gear and within half an hour (minus the ad breaks) it is time to go home for a filleting session. I couldn’t lose.
Lucy’s hand jerked the crusty old hand line and soon a snapper was flapping in the boat. Must be a fluke, I thought as I restrained myself from tipping her over the side as she casually sat on the gunnel. I waited for the line-tearing, reel-searing run of a mighty red as it found my irresistible fake bait offering.
Lucy mashed another smelly pilchard onto the hook and before long her hand was jerking to set it into the boney jaw of another snapper. She would definitely have accidentally gone over the side this time if I hadn’t felt the tentative jerks of what would surely be that mighty fish. A jack mackerel. Well, good bait for when I decide to get my hands smelly.
It was clear I had purchased a faulty upmarket rod and reel combo, or the wrong baits. I frantically tried leadhead sinkers of four different sizes and 12 other colour combos of soft baits - jerk shads, dork fads, curry chicken, vindaloo chicken, beef in black bean sauce -you name it. Perhaps the special knot I used to tie the line to the fluoro painted sinker was wrong? Everyone knows you need the right gear and a full selection of soft baits to catch fish these days. The bloke at the bait shop told me so and why would he put me crook?
The sound of Lucy’s voice became like a chainsaw, the foul smell of pilchard only heightened by the stench of fresh snapper as she twitched the handline, hauled in another fish and slipped it into the bin.
You know how some people can get really annoying in the space of an afternoon? Let’s just say that Lucy won’t be coming back on my boat any time soon. Even if we have to eat sausages.
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