The Turning Tide by Kate Osborne
Two men in a tinny. The southeast trade winds have been relentless and fierce. But not today. Today the ocean surface is glassy, the water blue. The haze from days of wind still sits on the islands. Close to the ocean’s surface the men can smell the sea, redolent of salt and spray. They are pumped from their early morning fishing session. They have been fishing for the fun of it, for the great sport: catch and release fishing pelagics in Queenie Alley. Col holds a lure in his hand. Turns it around. It’s smooth, nicely weighted and streamlined. He looks up and sees his mate Dave watching him. ‘Col, that lure looks kinda funny but it’s bloody devastating with the fish.’ ‘Yeah, it’s a bit like the lures they’ve been using on the marlin boats out of Cairns. A guy called Mumbles has been making them and he gave me a crash course. His lures are a work of art. This one looks kind of pregnant next to his, but the action is a winner. Flashes and vibrates. A lucky accident I reckon.’ ‘Well I don’t know if it is just one of those days when the fish are on the bite, but I reckon you should make a couple more.’ They had a good session this morning, but when Col thinks of Queenie Alley, he can still see the fish jumping that first time they fished the Palms, just north of Townsville. On a small beach on the windward side of Orpheus Island
they saw a couple of glass fishing floats from the Taiwanese long-liners washed up amongst the driftwood. As they nosed the boat over, queen fish started flying through the air all around them. They’d nearly fallen out of the boat, scrambling around trying to get a lure out. * A transistor sits on the seat blasting out the top 10 and they sing along as they approach the island. ‘Most people I know think that I’m crazy…’ ‘Shall I chuck the anchor here?’ Dave asks. ‘Sure. Doesn’t matter where we go, we’ll still be in their way.’ Col nods towards the commercial boats that are trolling on the current line at the end of the island. The anchor bites and as the tinnie settles into the current, yellow and orange leaves snake towards them. This morning, as they were motoring along the reef edge, Col noticed some of the trees in the vineforest were turning. Flecks of red, orange and yellow, like autumn leaves down south. So typical, he thinks. Everything up north is arse about—autumn leaves in spring. The vine thickets grow all the way to the high tide mark and in places, vines crawl over the canopy, broken by an occasional majestic emergent with a straight white trunk and a deep green crown. A thousand trees with no names, unfamiliar. It’s another world up here. He had moved from down south with the family just a couple of years ago. For the lifestyle and the salt water fishing. So far it was working out just great for him.
Col hears the echo of each ripple as it compresses in the alcoves of the rocky face. Below the surface calm, the water is moving. He can see baitfish massing in the cracks of granite under the boat. They talk of fishing and dreams of fishing. Casting and retrieving, casting and retrieving. Close by, the commercial fishermen in their dories are starting to get some action. On the closest dory, a skinny bloke is at the stern, wearing an old pair of khaki shorts, a black singlet and an old seaman’s cap. He works a fish from a line at the stern. Col watches. Wonders how long this bloke’s been fishing. Seems like the commercial fishermen have had it all their own way for years. Now outboard motors are opening up the Palms to sport fishing. He’s already had a few dustups with them when they’ve tried to drive over his line to cut it when he’s had a fish on. Think they own the water and every fish in it. The commercial fishermen might be a dying breed, he thinks. The word around the pubs in town is hard times and gripes, and the old guys saying to their sons, ‘Don’t go fishing.’ Col watches as the line at the back of the dory goes taut, jerks and then goes slack. A shark has taken the fish. Only the head is left. The skinny bloke pulls it off and throws it over the side in disgust.
Dave pulls the anchor up and they start to drift. When Col gets a strike two minutes later, he watches as the skinny bloke looks his way, spits and rebaits his line. On Col’s rod the fish strikes hard and fast. It pulls his shins against the seat in the boat. A Spaniard jumps, spins and tail-walks at the end of the line. ‘It’s a good fish, he’s taking the line, go forward, Dave.’ ‘Look at him go.’ They are in luck. The mackerel torpedos to open water. ‘Let it run, let it run. Ok neutral. Ok hold him now.’ The tinny slows to a stop and the real battle begins. The fish makes another run. The line is tearing out. It’s a good sound: the smooth high-pitched whirr of the line leaving the reel. Col dips the rod and winds as he lifts it, repeating the action again, again, gaining ground. The fish is under the boat now, spent. ‘Get the gaf, Dave.’ Dave slips the gaf in behind the gills and they haul the mackerel into the boat. It’s a good size—around 20kg. It thrashes against the side, flashing its colours. ‘Hold him,’ says Col. Thwack. A blow to the head and death shudders. He cuts its throat. Col can’t resist. He can feel the eyes of the skinny bloke and lifts the mackerel by the tail, making a show of how heavy it is. It’s a great game really. To get the most fish, the biggest fish.
The skinny bloke loses another fish to the sharks. He jumps out of his ‘stand in’ pit, throws his cap on the ground and belts the deck with it several times. After working himself into a frenzy, he dashes below and comes out with an old army .303 rifle. He puts one up the spout and lets fly into the water off the stern—kapow. The second dory throttles up and heads away, filling the air with a blast of black smoke. The skinny bloke lets fly again but this time the boat rolls and the bullet goes skimming across the water. ‘Shit, this guy is mad as a cut snake. Wind her up Dave, let’s get the hell out of here.’ Once they are a good distance from the island they stop and start stowing the gear for the journey home. The sound of an outboard off the bow breaks the silence. ‘Ah, looks like Jacko is going out to try his luck.’ ‘Who’s that with him, Col?’ ‘Yeah, I dunno. It might be his first time out; I bet those lures don’t have any battle scars yet.’ ‘Shall we give them a call on the radio and give them some tips?’ Col laughs. ‘Sure. The first tip will be to pick another spot to fish than where we just were.’ ‘Better get this into you before it gets warm,’ Col says, taking the last of the beer out of the Esky to make room for the fish. Beads of condensation streak
down the can. He downs his in one go and feels the adrenalin from their rushed departure start to subside a little. ‘Spainiard’s on the menu tonight.’ Dave nods. ‘Lucky I like eating it just as much as I like catching it.’ ‘Yep, it’s a great fish.’
Acknowledgments: I would like to thank Trevor Fuller whose accounts of early days fishing in the Palm Islands inspired this story. This article also contains extracts from published sources as follows: ‘The Origin of the Species: The Evolution of the Bibless Minnow’ by Malcolm Florence. Modern Fishing, Dec 1987. Chasing the Spaniards by J.G Stevenson, 1999.