Barramundi dreaming: 

We all have dreams – chasing those intangibles which often prove illusive.  When we were kids, our favourite TV program was Disneyland which we viewed each evening on our trusty black and white Ferris ‘tellie’; and it was still working over 20 years later I might add.  My dream was to sit in one of those spinning tea cups which were shown in the introduction of each episode.  Happily it became a reality when I visited Disneyland on Thanksgiving Day 1983.  Being a family holiday in America, the place was almost deserted and I probably finished up sitting in the cup by myself.  As I was returning on my homeward flight, there was a stopover in Honolulu so I made my way down to the beach as most tourists’ do.  There, I noticed an older lady who had gleefully walked to the water’s edge and was dipping her feet in the water.  I couldn’t help asking her why she was so delighted.  She replied – “Today, I’ve realized my dream - to one day dip my big toe in the waters of Waikiki Beach”

As we mature our dreams change.  In my case my burning ambition was to catch at least one barramundi in my lifetime.  By that stage I was living in Broome in the Kimberley region of Western Australia where I was exposed to many tales of successful fishing exploits.  I decided to investigate a place called ‘Telegraph Pool’ over 100 kilometres away which was supposed to be crawling with ‘barra’.  Here, the ocean waters meet the brackish fresh water of the Fitzroy River and it was a very popular place for the locals.  I drove my yellow Datsun up the Highway and looked for the cattle grid which indicated a left turn down to the river.  The directions were spot on, and so I veered off the bitumen, driving down the corrugated track and set up camp on the side of that very peaceful river.  Of course it was extremely hot – ‘barra only bite when it’s 100 degrees or more in the water bag’ which is usually after the wet season.  I got my fold up chair out and was just ready to sit down under a shady tree when a car load of young fellas arrived.  They were obviously pretty ‘tanked up’ already as my peace and quiet became more distant.  Their car was one of those old beat up ones that had seen a lot of miles and a boat was attached to the roof.  I lit a camp fire that night and turned in around 10 o’clock to the sound of raucous, drunken laughter and clumsy tripping over camping gear.

I was awoken after midnight with a sight which is still indelibly printed on my mind.  The whole sky suddenly turned bright pink and it was enough to make the fish jump in the water, having been startled into assuming it was now sunrise, I presume.  As I looked over my shoulder I noticed a huge pink meteorite was breaking up and tumbling to earth.  I’m sure it passed without incident to those who were now sleeping soundly further on down by the water’s edge.

Upon rising I noticed a dense fog had settled over the water and to my surprise I saw a lone fisherman standing up in a dingy.  It was one of the partygoers and he was throwing a  brightly coloured lure to all points of the compass.  I watched intrigued for over half an hour and then I heard him yell.  “I’ve got one!”.  He was pulling on the handline for all his worth and he was shouting to his mates.  “I haven’t got a net”.  Soon, the tranquil scene had become a battleground as he endeavoured to haul his catch into the boat.  Fortunately, he was able to grab the leader trace and the battle was eventually won.  It was a monster barramundi- about a metre long.  He immediately stood up in the dingy and started beating his chest and giving a Tarzan call across the otherwise quiet dawn.  It really impressed me when he hung his glistening trophy on the fork of a tree and I was inspired to immediately travel 80 kilometres to the next town, Derby, to buy fishing gear. 

I’d returned by mid afternoon with a 150 lb line, wire tracers and an assortment of coloured lures.  The partygoers had gone and their place had been taken by an Aboriginal family sitting quietly fishing on the bank.  I stood up to my knees in the water to gain extra distance and started to caste my lure with hopes of a huge’ barra’ coming my way.  But luck was not on my side and after half an hour, with my arm starting to ache, the lure snagged on a submerged tree branch.  No amount of tugging seemed to dislodge it so it was off with the shirt and I jumped in.  Aboriginal people say a lot with their eyes and I noticed that they were looking at me intently trying to convey a message.  I successfully swam out, duck dived and retrieved my $14 lure but it was no time before the same thing had happened. As I prepared to dive in a second time I heard the family audibly murmuring – “that gudia – he going out there again!”  While I did secure my lure, I was unsuccessful in catching a barra and it was only when I returned home that my friends told me of the presence of a 14 foot salt water crocodile in the area.

I needed another plan.  Two weeks later I returned with a truck load of Aboriginal boarding students from our College.  I was now under the watchful eye of a ‘barra’ expert – Anthony Watson.  His father, John Watson, was a much respected man in the region, and was the chairman of a nearby, newly formed outstation.  In no time at all Anthony had secured live popeye mullet using a throw net and we were ready for action.  We baited up and waited patiently under some scrawny paper bark trees at the waters edge. 

Our hopes were fading later in the afternoon as the sun was setting so we tied our lines to the trees and went back for a bite to eat.  When we arrived at the main camp site, everyone was busy eating and cooking damper.  I must say, I was quite amused when I noticed that one of the ‘gudias’ who had accompanied us, was mixing soggy flour with a rubber glove.  But I had more important things to do than stay too long eating so I returned to the hand lines, untied one and then sat back hopefully waiting.  Evening had closed in and as I gazed into the darkness I saw a figure approaching.  “Is that you, Anthony?”  “Yes, sir” he politely replied “Any luck?”  “Nah! But how do you know when they bite” I asked inquiringly.  “You’ll feel the line pull gently through your hand about four times.  On the fourth time he should take it” he astutely told me.  It seems that ‘barra’ first mouth the bait before they hit.  Anthony had no sooner given me this advice when the line started to move through my fingers.  I thought. “Is that the tide or what?”  Suddenly, I realized there was no tide here and this could be the real McCoy.  The adrenalin was starting to pump as I felt the second run and scolded myself – “not yet!”  It was then that all hell broke loose.  A ‘barra’ leapt high into the air catching the light from the rising moon.  I pulled and desperately tried to wheel him in.  When he jumped a second time I lost all sense of finesse turning my back and started to climb up the steep bank with the line over my shoulder.  When I reached the top I began running and Anthony noticed the fish flying past him and then up along the rocks.  When it was safe to stop I realized that I had done it.  I had caught my first ‘barra’ but not with much decorum.

After a couple of years I had graduated to a buying a 12 foot aluminium dingy with a tiny 2.4 HP motor which was good enough for trawling.  My uncle’s friend, John, had made the long trek across the country from Victoria in search of his dream – to catch a ‘barra’.  He was a thick set retired man with quite a youngish face and I said wisely, “I know just the spot!”  Before long I was back at ‘Telegraph Pool’ which had become my second home by now and we were confidently trawling both sides of the river.  John was used to using a fishing rod while I just trailed my lure out the back of the boat.  We didn’t have long to wait as my hand line went off with a whack and simultaneously a ‘barra’ leapt into the air.  I said to John urgently, “Quick, wind your rod in”.  I was wheeling in furiously and noticed that John was not going to be ready.  I blurted out “Quick – get the net!”  But it was too late - the fish has hit the side of the boat and was now making off for the deeper reaches.  John was still reeling in his line as I raised the ‘barra’ for the second time and then I completely panicked.  I grabbed the wire trace leader and threw the hand reel back in the boat.  The wire was slipping through my fingers so I lunged for the barras mouth and luckily hauled him in.  “You little beauty” I cried with delight but it was then that I realized that the lure was lodged deep into three of my fingers.  But somehow, this doesn’t really matter for a fisherman if you have something to show for your efforts.  John was suitably horrified and after I cut the line I said.  “Look, John, …you continue fishing but I’ve got to go to Derby hospital to get this lure removed”.

It was now mid afternoon I said I would return some time later that evening.  You can imagine what an incongruous sight it was trying to steer the Datsun with a lure hanging from my fingers which were quite numb by this stage.  I drove past the Willare Roadhouse and was very surprised to be stopped at a police road block.  The uniformed cop leaned down to the level of my car window and said sternly.  “Sorry, mate you can’t go any further.  Some of the Asylum seekers have escaped the detention centre at Curtin Air base”.  “But, I’ve gotta get to Derby as soon as possible” I pleaded and then I showed him the yellow and green lure firmly attached to my fingers.  His jaw dropped and he immediately said.  “Yeah, mate, no worries, that’s an emergency – you can go!” 

It wasn’t long before I reached the hospital and I saw the sign ‘casualty’ and I pondered “That’s me!”  When I entered the reception area I thought this accident will really freak the nurses out but they calmly said.  “Oh, that’s nothing, last week this lady came with a lure hanging from her eyebrow.”  And then there were other stories like the bloke who had one through his lower lip.  Soon the young doctor arrived and proceeded to give me the anaesthetic through the joints of my index finger.  She then tried for a short time to remove the barbs with pliers but was called away to a more urgent case – a child birth.  This situation prompted anyone nearby to try their hand at removing the hooks but everyone was unsuccessful so I decided to try myself as the anaesthetic was starting to wear off by this stage.  After a lot of groaning and moaning I finally cut myself free as the doctor had arrived back and said.  “Good – so you’ve done it yourself”.

I got the usual bandages applied and returned to the camp site at about 10 o’clock.   My fellow fisherman appeared at the door of his caravan and said “Well, how did it go?”.  I casually replied.  “Ah ….piece of cake!”