Lancelin by John Featherstone

clouds of anchovy again rush past, soon a river of little fish cascades through the water “coluSmall mn; I can almost touch them they come so close. The mackerel appears from nowhere, parting the small fish, the large predator is haloed by hundreds of shimmering forms. ”

130km

130km North of Perth the township of Lancelin rests quietly by the Indian Ocean. A single hotel, Caravan Park, and a number of shops plus a few corner deli’s keep this seasonal fishing town going. Times, however are a changing, a new road through to Cervantes will see Lancelin boom, but for now it still has that feeling of restfulness and quiet isolation. There are a number of these little towns as one travels North, including Seabird and Ledge Point. Most haven’t seen a lot of change over the decades, being traditionally the homes of the local Crayfishermen and weekend getaways for people travelling from Perth. Launching facilities are minimal, off the hard white sand beaches being the norm. Late Summer is the time to hunt Spanish mackerel in these waters and Lancelin has a reputation for producing good quality mackerel. The main reef systems sit between 4-6km from shore stretching for many miles both North and South. This provides a huge area to scout even though the area has copped a hiding from the Crayfishermen and recreational fishermen alike. Lancelin can often suffer from dirty water and seems to have an abundance of sharks, especially during Cray season, funny that. What choice do 4 keen spearos have when a bright, still, dead flat Summer’s day present itself? No choice at all, it was our duty to take the day off and go spearing!

by Paul McKeown

Floating 10 nautical miles out in the open ocean off Lancelin I try and relax, motionless, but find myself moving at a slow pace, converging with the currents and meeting places of weird planktonic creatures and moonlike jellyfish. One particular jelly undulates rhythmically, trailing a vermillion forest of grape like organs. Hidden under the glassy dome a miniature school of fish peeks with large eyes. Distracted by this pulsating orb I have to take its image - after all there is nothing else out here to see. The Key Biscayne sits underneath me somewhere on the bottom in about 126ft of water, but I have been unsuccessful in locating the hulking wreck. Destroyed and sunk by 6-7m swells and gale force winds the Oilrig platform toppled over and self destructed on the way to the bottom in the early 90s. The distant roar of an outboard has me looking up and catching sight of John. He waves me over, the ocean is glass but unfortunately is full of algae and stringy plankton, visibility is a bad 12m at best. John points down and says “She is right here, the top should be at 26m” com’on you guys stop fooling about and dive!” Deano swims over and Phil is not far behind, we eyeball each other and it’s obvious none of us here thinks we will have much luck; we have been trying for a while now. I watch Deano dive and count slowly as he drifts down, down leaving a small trail of bubbles, down until he disappears into the darkness. I reach 1minute and just as I start to get worried he reappears, kicking rhythmically for the surface. That was a deep dive, I let him get his breath and then ask “Did you see it?” “Yes it’s there, but it’s dark down there, it’s big!” Deano shows me his watch, 26m, a good dive. I begin to burley up, shaving the Silver drummer up into large chunks. Once a good trail is going I breathe up and slip beneath the surface, down I swim, the water column starts to change colour and light fades. I am conscious of only my heartbeat and water rushing past. I hit 18m and stop, letting my momentum carry me slowly down, I can see nothing, drifting along I think I can see something brown, but I am not sure, the pale illumination from the surface seems far away and it’s hard to focus there is so much suspended matter in the water. I hesitate and take a long look down; sometimes the sun must shine through down here, touching faintly the crippled and encrusted wreck, witnessed by things that live out there day down in the quiet depths. But today there is simply nothing, heading up is somewhat of a relief. It was uncomfortable down there, almost eerie. The giant Yellowtail

and Dhufish will have to wait for a clearer day, a real disappointment but we will be back. Climbing into the boat we decide to hit the reef systems closer to shore. John’s boat is brand spanking new; she has a gleaming white fibreglass hull that gives off that faint whiff of resin with a huge new Merc on the back. She is a real rocket across the water and when John punched the throttle down she leapt out of the sea like a shot Mahi mahi and hit 41knots in seconds. Every one of us had a grin from ear to ear; the sound was like nothing I had heard before, like a high revving Ducati the big Merc growled low and loud. We hardly touched the surface of that ocean, it was as flat as a fish bowl and we made the inside reef system in minutes. Finding the sea a touch clearer the anchor was deployed in 14m over some spectacular looking country. I had no sooner rolled over the side when Deano began yelling at me to dive. I was trying to hook my camera on my belt, by the time I had it secured Deano had swum away from me and was looking down into the ocean, still as a statue. I tugged on his fin to find out what was going on, he reacted like I had just stuck a snake in his wetsuit waving me away with furious energy. Something was up…..looking down I found the answer. A great big Dhuie was sitting right underneath him; I backed off a way and watched. The big Dhuie was shining bright silver and looked magnificent; he was looking this way and that, and all lit up like the Holy Grail in a shaft of brilliant summer sunshine. It was then I caught sight of Phil, nearly on the bottom, he saw the Dhuie and stretched out his arm, it was like slow motion, “No Phil No you’re too far away” but he pulled the trigger anyway. The spear whipped out and I saw the Dhuie convulse, he hit it! Deano disappeared and didn’t look back, gutted. I dove straight at the Dhuie, checked the shot, a little low but it looked ok. The Dhuie bolted, thrashing the water with his paddle tail and stirring up the sand as he headed for cover. I had front row seats and was enjoying this! A closer look saw the Dhuie attempting to hide in a deep gully and had snuck under a ledge. This was normally the danger time as the spear can sometimes hang up on the limestone allowing the Dhuie to get some leverage against the spear and rip off. Phil was onto it and had swum hard over angling the spear away and keeping plenty of tension on the fish and spear cord. That was when another Dhu popped his head up to see what was going on. I dived and lined him up assessing his size, this fish was size but not by much, I hesitated, better to let him go and come back another day. Meanwhile Phil had the Dhu under control and heading for the surface, I unclipped my camera and fired off a number of shots. That was a very promising start so I quickly started to cover ground, with 4 spearos in the water it was going to be hard to find the fish first. Floating again, scanning the bottom, peripheral vision working overtime. Small reef species scurry about the limestone utterly indifferent to my elevated appraisal up on the surface. The mewling cry of

seabirds breaks my focus and I scan the surrounding sea, rolling higher on a languid swell I spy the birds working the oily surface not 20m away. A slow kick brings me closer; looking down into the green a silver flash draws my attention. Silver fingers of small anchovy rush past with the haste of the hunted, a shadow passes deeper and I find myself intently staring at a large Spanish mackerel. My breath catches and I make a swift dive, the mackerel is onto me straight away and swings wide, the adrenaline is pumping and I can hardly stay anytime beneath the surface but I push myself and swim away on a slight angle. The mack turns and gives closer inspection, I am bursting and turn my gun, “shoot shoot now” my mind screams, and I pull the trigger and miss........$%@&&#!! I swiftly reload, all the while watching the mack swim lazy circles under me until just as I am ready she swim off into the haze. Trap for School boys, rushed shot. Back to the boat for a sandwich, on reaching the boat the frame of a large Sambo adorns the back hanging by a thick rope attached to a float. A nice Bronzey cruises past, then another, seems the lads have been burleying hard, interesting! Sitting on the boat I watch a few clouds pass, casting their shadows on the face of the sea. I take not a moment for granted, it’s a magic day and already the day has been a good one, if not a little fishless for me. I watch John diving out where I had been a few minutes earlier and decide to go back out for another look. The sharks are still patrolling but give me a wide berth, good lads, just stay that way I muse finning past. I reach John as he comes back up from a dive and inquire if he has had any luck. “Nothing” he spits in disgust. I glance down and swim away, looks like I might not be going home with dinner, my eldest son Josh will be angry. He waits with earnest anticipation for my return, as 7 year olds are want to do, to see what delicacy Dad will bring home. Small clouds of anchovy again rush past, soon a river of little fish cascades through the water column; I can almost touch them they come so close. The mackerel appears from nowhere, parting the small fish, the large predator is haloed by hundreds of shimmering forms. The mackerel fills my field of vision, directly beneath me, oblivious to my moving gun. Knowing only when the sharp steel lances downward to strike hard into the area just behind the head. There is absolutely nothing like the rush of being attached to a really good

hard running Spanish, and this one is screaming, the reel buzzing angrily as I palm the spool trying to slow the initial run. A slow tow through the water, I kick hard to keep pressure off the spear as much as I am able whilst still keeping tension on the line. Before long I have a tired Spanish by the tail, and a hard

knife to the top of the skull finishes it. Returning to the boat I run into Phil who takes a few photos for me, he is happy, another fish in the boat. Before long the other lads climb on board. Keen to try further South we soon find ourselves skimming the surface down towards the tiny fishing village of

Seabird. Pulling up we cruise the edge of the reef scouting for a good edge, soon one is located and the anchor rattles over the side. We follow closely behind, eager to tackle with another Spanish or Dhu. This time the water is more equatorial blue and drops from 12m to 20m straight over a fantastic reef edge, it certainly looks fishy and it isn’t long before a steady burley trail enters the sea just above the dropoff. Sharks are soon surrounding us, feeding off the diced Drummer and keeping us entertained for the minute. I drop down and take a few images, close enough to see the gills flare and jaws working, pushing out clouds of scales and blood. Sharks are a reminder of the hazards of the ocean, graceful certainly but never trustworthy. They tap a hidden cord within most people, reminding us of our primordial origins in the chill up the spine or the cold freezing of the blood when one encounters them alone in the open ocean. There is a feeling of inadequacy watching them glide through the sunlit surface layers feeding lazily on our burley. One simply gets used to them, but never stops wondering just where they might be.

I hear the muffled sound of a speargun go off in the distance. Swimming in the general direction I come across Deano being dragged across the surface, spear stuck fast to a large Spanish. There is little to do but watch as the battle unfolds, a few hard runs see the mackerel close to the end. Deano knows it and begins dragging the mackerel in with purpose, it’s a large fish and fights right to the end, tail beating hard until Dean grasps it and slides a hand up into the gills. Sharing the experience of a mate landing a great fish is a rewarding experience. The mackerel is bled and gutted on the spot, hopefully more mackerel will be attracted and show up. We try for another hour but all we do is feed the hungry sharks. The Silver drummer school as they always have and the sun falls lower in the sky. We have worked hard for few good fish, but that is spearfishing, some days, in fact most days are like this. Rarely do the fish just jump into the boat! Late summer is the time for Spanish mackerel in Perth waters, and today didn’t disappoint. My son is waiting for me, and runs out the front door before I have even stopped the car.

I grin as he asks what I have brought home for dinner. Sometimes it’s not the amount of fish we catch, but the fact we still can go hunting, still participate in one of life’s oldest games. The fact we can still have a bridge to a world untamed and be a part of that, for at least a brief moment in our lives so dominated by modern comforts and advantages that we lose that link to a forgotten past. Then there is work and the stress of an over burdened world, traffic and technology. Terry Mass said “There is no room in this world for the hunter anymore”. We have lowered the value of these freedoms to such an extent that we lose the connection with our ancestral past, and are seen by some as barbaric. D.H. Lawrence writes: “In the dust where we have buried the silent races and their abominations, We have buried so much of the delicate magic of life”. And if we are lucky, we might even put a fish on the table, and a smile on the faces of those we love. - Paul Mckeown.