Gone Fishing

Rob and I are still nursing Airlie Beach hangovers when we arrive in Townsville. We meet up with Luke, an old school mate of ours. He's a marine biologist who studied at the local university up here and is now working on an experimental high-tech barramundi breeding and export project in Townsville.

We crash at Luke's house. Rob takes the airbed in the spare room and I set up camp in the back of my car in the driveway. After the boat and hostel beds, it feels good to be back in the comfort of my car with my trusty doona.

Luke's girlfriend, Sanscha, makes us a cracking lasagne for dinner and we head down to one of the bars with Luke for a few beers. The Townsville waterfront has the same clean but artificial feel to it as Brisbane's South Bank, with well-lit walkways and neatly-cut parks. It's attractive and lively enough but both Rob and I are hurting too much to get excited. Luke, who's been living here for a few years now, has cabin fever with the place and all three of us are happy to call it a night after only a few beers.

We had planned to head across to Magnetic Island by ferry the next morning. Luke however, has to work. The breeding stock of barramundi at his work died recently (which probably should raise concerns about their approach, but I wasn't asking questions) and Luke needs to head out to a local breeding dam to restock. This sounds like more fun than the standard tourist routine so Rob and I decide to tag along.

At the barramundi farm we cast lines into the muddy dam. I've not been fishing since I was a kid and then only rarely used rods (most of my fishing was off the side of a rusty, tin dinghy, with tangled fishing wire wrapped around a battered piece of cork). After several casts resulting in the line whipping back towards me and hooking various body parts, I finally work out how to unlock the reel. I get my hook into the water, albeit at a slightly skewed angle and not overly far from shore.

It's a pure breeding dam we're fishing in so in theory we should have no trouble catching anything. Unfortunately our arrival is badly timed; the dam was harvested by net only a week earlier and only a few of the more wily fish are left. A few hours of fishing results in the capture of only one juvenile barra, too small to keep.

We give up with the rods. The dam owner was due to harvest the remaining fish by net soon anyway and he decides that today will do. We help drag a huge net from one end of the dam to the other, effectively dredging the bottom and corralling any hapless fish in the way. It seems a cruel and unglorified way to fish but there's no arguing its effectiveness.

Fish throw themselves into the net, and in their desperate thrashing to escape end up only tangling themselves further into it. As they come ashore, flapping in the mud, we jump on them and pull them loose (except Rob, who mans the water bucket, unwilling to get his hands fishy). Luke selects his breeding fish and the dam owner fills a few ice buckets with the remainder. Although not quite the perfect tale, I can now say I've fished barramundi.