And So It Came To Pass

BY DON WOODFORD

You’d better get your arse over here and have a look at my new toys, said “The Mexican” into the phone.

A half hour later his fishing mate, Graham, was there in the garage testing out the pull of the new short stroker rod. Coupled to it was a brand new Shimano Beastmaster, around his waist and shoulders a Braid tuna belt and harness. Normally a light tackle sport fisherman, this gear represented the young man’s first venture into medium tackle and “stand up 50’s”. The men took their turns at loading up in the harness, even climbing
into the 5.9 metre centre console for practice runs in the backyard.

This stuff oughta shake some of those fins up said Steve, nicknamed “The Mexican” by his friends’ years before.

And so it came to pass that on the following Sunday the boys were over the bar and gone before dawn, heading seventeen nautical miles E-NE to the continental shelf.

The first orange rays of the morning sun were just etching the sky as the small lines spooled into the wake seeking a live bait for the new fifty. The current line was neatly scribed into the surrounding water, smoothed as if it were by some giant hand. Here and there small pieces of nature’s flotsam floated, providing harbour for a myriad of small baitfish, cruising country for bait sized bonito or frigates. The ten kilo outfit bounced as the feel gave a short scream of protest, the half kilo stripey on its way to being live troll-rigged to the new outfit. A flip of the coin decided that Graham would take the first strike this morning, and a half hour later that same tide-line produced a yellowfin judged as being about twenty kilos as it was released, a gamefish tag streaming from its back.

As the tide neared its peak, the baits came easily, as did the resultant gamefish strikes. The fish were located above a huge projection off the bottom simply known as “the Rock”. At different times of the year it was known to produce all types of gamefish from marlin to various tunas and wahoo as well as sharks. On this day it appeared to only hold yellowfin tuna to around twenty-five kilos. Still, it was good practice for the men as they passed the outfit back and forth on alternate strikes.

The next bait over the side turned out to be much bigger than the others, a lone mackerel tuna amongst a crowd of stripeys. This bait was all of a kilo and a half. Marlin Bait.

Pinned to a long 250lb Jinkai leader by a pair of 9/0 hooks, the bait trolled peacefully as once again the boat passed over the pinnacle. The rod tip shuddered as the bait came alive, telegraphing its fright as some predator became interested in it. Steve freespooled the big reel as the fish took the bait, allowing the gamefish time to get the bait down, and time for him to mount the rod in the belt and quickly clip the reel to the heavy blue and white harness. Steve gave the nod as he reset the reel to strike drag and Graham gunned the motor to assist hookup.

He’s on, yelled Steve over the roar of the 90 hp Evinrude. The boat levelled as the power came off. Seventy metres out the surface of the water burst as 200 kilos plus of mako shark angered itself into a two metre high somersault. Bloody hell, that sure ain’t no marlin, gonna have some fun with this bastard said Graham almost reverently.

The stroker arched as line screamed from the reel, then stopped. The rod sprang straight, the line all of a sudden hanging limp across the water, “gone”, must have spat the hooks in that mad somersault. Steve relaxed, recovering line as he stood casually in the starboard stern quarter. In those seconds, Graham left the console and stepped back to stand and talk to Steve.

There was no warning, the water was calm, the boat still idling forward at two knots. The mako came out of the water, black eyes glaring as it sighted the two men at the side of the boat. Jaws flashed white as the huge body came past between the heads of the two men. Steve, in that moment, had time to notice that the shark still carried the hooks, the line trailing down its left flank. The huge tail slashed, clouting Steve in the face, blood welling to the surface in an instant, his skin ripped and torn by the passing tail. The shark landed belly down on the opposite stern quarter, thrashed once and slid back into the sea. The sudden transposition of weight catapulted Graham into the sea the boat idling away at two knots.

Steve lay across the gunnel, semi comatose, stunned by the massive whack to the head. The shark itself lay stunned at the surface for maybe ten seconds then slowly finned away. Still hooked, but under no pressure, it swan down and away from the boat. Seventy meters out the line again came up taut, once again hurting and angering the mako. The huge tail bit hard into the surround water. The reel slowly gave line, the rod hung slack, the tip in the water. Steve’s limp body, still harnessed in blue and white, was clipped to the reel. Under pressure, the body moved once then gently slid of the gunnel and into the sea. As the shark dived, slowly it dragged Steve down into its water home.

It was 7 p.m. on that Sunday night.

“All stations, all stations, this is UMR 7611. We have a report of a vessel overdue from a trip to “the Rock” located approximately seventeen nautical miles E.N.E. of this station. The vessel is reported as being a 5.9metre white centre console with two men on board. All stations please be on lookout for this vessel and report any sightings. Repeating…… “

Ten miles to the south, a group of trawlers had set their nets at dark and were trawling as a group seeking a pay for an otherwise unprofitable week. Hey Bill, did you hear that?  Seems there’s a speedy missing up north a bit, reckon we should have a look. “Nah, probably just a couple of guys decided to take the day off tomorrow and are staying out the night”.

Ten miles to the north, Graham floated on his back in the water trying to stay almost motionless to conserve energy. That morning he had watched his best mate towed under and watched his salvation idle out to sea at two knots. He’d watched all day, hoping that that the torque of the propeller would slowly turn the boat in a huge circle and bring it back to within swimming distance but it had not returned. Now he supposed that it was miles out to sea. The day had remained calm and clear, he still drifted in the tide line.  For companions he had small pieces of sea grass drawn almost magnetically to the larger piece of flotsam. Below, small pilchards and herring had drifted into his shadow, only to spear away in fright as he kicked to stay afloat. Once a small pod of tuna had erupted through the surface showering baitfish as they sought a feed.

Night had drifted down as light faded peacefully from the sky. “Holy Mary, Mother of God”, Graham prayed as at last the night became black, lit only by the ever increasing brightness of the stars.

A mile down the tide line the whaler shark had drifted up from the bottom to cruise the tide line. Hunting was poor down deep for the snapper and nannygai. Maybe up here it could find a small pod of sleepy tune. It cruised tail and fin clear of the water, two markers of death in the surface. Graham saw the two fins silhouetted against the starlit water and froze legs down, hardly daring to even move. Maybe it would not even notice him “Holy Mary, Mother of God, Holy Mary, Mother of God”, Graham quietly breathed out his only prayer.

The shark zigzagged across the tide line tracking the fear in the water like some not yet baying hound. At just under two metres and less than sixty kilos it was not big enough to eat this thing in the water, but a taste was maybe in order. It came, still on the surface, to within a metre then, with a casual flick of the tail, turned and circled the thing in the water. Graham remained still, once again the shark circled then drifted off, turned and came at a charge. Graham lifted his arm high, then screamed with his mouth under water. At the last minute the shark turned and Graham’s arm swung down, by chance thumping the shark behind the dorsal fin as it went past. The decision was made, this thing was inedible and the shark took of for places with maybe a better feed.  The night sea again became uneventful, Graham was not more wide eyed as he continually sought out other fins in the flotsam.

After two shots of one and a half hours, one south the other returning north, the trawlers had decided to continue north to another ground to try their luck. In line they shot away and with the boats on auto pilot, the crews cooked a feed to while away the two hours until they lifted the nets to check the catch.

In the water, Graham could look south to the small armada of lights that appeared to be slowly coming to him. With their gear down the trawlers were flat out at one and a half knots. As their nets loaded up with life from the bottom, even this speed decreased.  For Graham, it was a time of apprehension, all the time looking for sharks and at the same time trying to judge from the red and green lights exactly where the trawlers would pass him. On and on they came, the roar of the engines and the under water vibrations increasing so that it became life itself. Graham listened, the trawlers were now close, the closed less than five hundred metres away. The sound changed as first one net then another came aboard, their catch to be emptied onto the sorting trays.  Chains rattled and the otter boards smashed together. Looks good Bill, best all night anyway.  “O.K., going about, get ready to shoot away”.

As one the trawlers spun in line abreast, the red and green lights changing to the glaring white arc lights of the after decks as they turned away from the man in the water.  Trailing the nets, the otter boards splashed again into the sea to paravane wide and to the bottom, the trawlers once again settling a course south.

The deckies and the skippers set to at the sorting trays on the back decks, throwing offal into the sea and prawns, crabs and by-catch in buckets. Under the over glare of the deck lights dolphins, sharks and the occasional big tuna frolicked as they fed upon the trawlers’ discarded harvest.

From the sea, if they could have heard, came the words, “Holy Mary, Mother of God…”

On the radios the skippers discussed the catches and found that the best were from the boats most inshore. They decided that they should lift again at one a.m. then step about a half mile inshore and shoot away again to the north.

In the water, Graham watched the deck lights go further south, then again an hour later, he saw the boats turn west and steam in a short way and again turn north. This time he rarely saw red, but predominantly the green and some of the white stern deck lights. He knew that he was well outside the line of the trawlers’ travel.

Hypothermia is a strange thing, it is there and often one does not know. Graham had been cold in the water, but to him not excessively so. Now he knew, he tried to strike out, to swim towards the line of trawlers, but the muscles of his body would not work, chilled into inactivity by the penetration of the waters’ cold. Suddenly aware of it, he started to shiver, violent racking shakes that brought tears of pain to his eyes. But that was good, it was natures way of creating circulation to all parts of his body. Ever so slowly, Graham started to use his arms and legs to stroke slowly towards the path of the oncoming boats.

The trawlers had set their times for a two hour shot to the north, so it was that at the half way mark they passed the man in the water still three hundred metres inshore. The man had yelled and waved but sitting in the wheelhouse, the men had not heard over the blast of the stereo system.  In the water, Graham watched the boats pass once again looking at the aft deck lights.  From the distance he failed to notice the activity in the water under the arc of the deck lights. For one more hour to three a.m. the trawlers travelled north to recover their nets, then to step sideways just a few metres and once again shoot away south.

In the water, Graham saw the turn and knew that once again he had a chance. The Seiko on his arm told him that this would be his last chance. He knew that a two hour shot would make it nearly dawn. The trawlers would not shoot away again but head for port and the waiting buyers on the wharf. He struck out, heading inshore as fast as his tired and chilled body would move.

The boats were coming closer, again he could see the red and green. He was in the middle of the pack, boats spread to either side of him. He was safe, “Holy Mary, Mother of God” he mumbled, becoming unstable in this close hour of rescue.

Slowly, ever so slowly, the trawlers travelled closer to the man in the water. On the back deck under the lights the deckies had the cookers going, scooping prawns into the pots, then out again into the cooling bins. They had a good catch already and still one shot to lift, and all to be cooked and processed before they hit the wharf.

The young deckie heard something over the roar of the motor, over the amplified sounds of Midnight Oil, something different, like a scream. He lifted his sight to the arc of light beside the boad.

“Holy bloody hell”. He ran to the wheelhouse, Bill, stop, pull up, reverse, there’s a bloke in the water alongside us. He ran to the back deck, grabbing a life ring and spare lazy line. The bloke was behind the boat now still waiting. The trawler shuddered, the exhaust again roaring as Bill hit reverse to pull up. Too slowly the way came off, then the boat started to move astern between the slackening wires. The deckie stood poised with the life ring ready to throw.

In the water Graham thrashed, striking out after the trawler, he could see the deckie there on the back deck waiting to throw the ring.

He felt it first as just a solid bump from something in the water, it didn’t hurt, just like he’d kicked a log. The graze started to sting, so he rolled onto his back and saw his jeans in tatters, ripped to shreds, one leg was bleeding badly.  The whaler turned and came back at speed, intent again on not a feeding attack but another bump to test this strange offal in the water. As it hit the second time, it tasted the blood in the water, so too did a half a dozen other sharks in the wake of the trawler.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, Holy Mary, Mother of God”.  Take the ring and hold on tight, yelled the deckie as the ring whooshed out over the sea.  It landed almost on Graham’s head. He only had to reach out and wrap his arms about it and hold on, hold on, hold on.

Got him, now pull for all you’re worth yelled Bill the skipper, now alongside his deckie.  The tiger shark was over five metres in length and it came out of the shadows from under the trawler. It’s jaws were distended, the nictitating membranes over the eyes came down and the jaws closed. The huge body shook just once.

“Lift”, yelled Bill.

“Holy Mary, Mother of God, Holy Mary, Mother of God”, the man screamed as he came on deck, arms wrapped so tightly about the life ring.

“Shit”, said the skipper, the deckie retched over the side, for below the man’s waist was only a ragged shirt tail.

And so it came to pass.