American Angler in Australia (1937) (11 page)

Such incidents should make a shark-killer out of any angler.

Before I reached Sydney I had caught a number of man-eaters, notably som
e
whalers, an unknown white shark, and some of those sleek, treacherou
s
devils, the gray nurse, believed by many to be Australia's most deadl
y
shark. I had had enough experience to awaken in me all the primitiv
e
savagery to kill which lay hidden in me, and I fear it was a very grea
t
deal. The justification, however, inhibits any possible thought of mercy.

Nevertheless, despite all the above, I think gaffing sharks is the mos
t
thrilling method, and the one that gives the man-eater, terrible as h
e
is, a chance for his life. If you shoot a shark or throw a Norway whal
e
harpoon through him, the battle is ended. On the other hand, if by toi
l
and endurance, by pain and skill, you drag a great shark up to the boat
,
so that your boatman can reach the wire leader and pull him close to tr
y
and gaff him, the battle by no means is ended. You may have to repea
t
this performance time and again; and sometimes your fish gets away, afte
r
all. Because of that climax I contend that all anglers should graduat
e
to the use of the gaff. Perhaps really the very keenest, fiercest thril
l
is to let your boatman haul in on the leader and you gaff the monster.

Thoreau wrote that the most satisfying thing was to strangle and kill
a
wild beast with your naked hands!

It was only a short run by boat round the South Head to the line of clif
f
along which we trolled for bait. The water was deep and blue. Slow swell
s
heaved against the rocks and burst into white spray and flowed back int
o
the sea like waterfalls. A remarkable feature was the huge flat ledges o
r
aprons that jutted out at the base of the walls, over which the swell
s
poured in roaring torrent, to spend their force on the stone face an
d
slide back in glistening maelstrom. Dr. Stead assures me this apron is a
n
indication of very recent elevation of the coast. The Gap was pointed ou
t
to me where a ship struck years ago on a black stormy night, to go dow
n
with all of the hundreds on board, except one man who was lifted to
a
rock and, crawling up, clung there to be rescued. Suicide Leap wa
s
another interesting point where scores of people had gone to their doom
,
for reasons no one can ever fathom. The wooden ladders fastene
d
precariously on the cliff, down to the ledges where fishing was good
,
these that had been the death of so many fishermen, held a singula
r
gloomy fascination for me.

Trolling for bait was so good that I did not have so much time fo
r
sight-seeing. Bonito and kingfish bit voraciously and we soon had plent
y
of bait. We ran out to sea dragging teasers and bonito in the wake of th
e
Avalon, and I settled down to that peculiar happiness of watching the se
a
for signs of fish. Hours just fade away unnoticeably at such pastime. I
n
the afternoon we ran in to the reefs and drifted for sharks.

I derived a great deal of pleasure from watching the ships that passe
d
through the harbor gate and those which came out to spread in al
l
directions, according to their destinations, all over the world, and soo
n
grow hull down on the horizon and vanish. Airplanes zoomed overhead.

Small craft dotted the green waters outside and white sails skimmed th
e
inner harbor. Through the wide gate I could see shores and slopes covere
d
with red-roofed houses, and beyond them the skyscrapers of the city
,
and dominating all this scene the grand Sydney bridge, with its fretwor
k
span high above the horizon.

It was a grand background for a fishing setting. At once I conceived a
n
idea of photographing a leaping swordfish with Sydney Heads and th
e
gateway to the harbor, and that marvelous bridge all lined against th
e
sky behind that leaping fish. That day was futile, however, much to Mr.

Bullen's disappointment. The next day was rough. A hard wind ripped ou
t
of the northeast; the sea was ridged blue and white; the boat tipped an
d
rolled and dived until I was weary of hanging on to my seat and the rod.

We trolled all over the ocean for hours, until afternoon, then came in t
o
drift off the Heads. Still, somehow, despite all this misery there wa
s
that thing which holds a fisherman to his task. When I climbed up on th
e
dock I had the blind staggers and the floor came up to meet me. The usua
l
crowd was there to see me, but I could not sign any autographs tha
t
night.

The third morning dawned warm and still, with a calm ocean and blue sky.

Starting early, we trolled for bait along the bluffs as far south a
s
Point Bondi. I had engaged the services of Billy Love, market fisherma
n
and shark-catcher of Watson's Bay, to go with us as guide to the shar
k
reefs. We caught no end of bait, and soon were trolling off Bondi. We ra
n
ten miles out, and then turned north and ran on until opposite Manl
y
Beach, where we headed in again to run past that famous bathing-beac
h
where so many bathers had been attacked by sharks, and on down to Love'
s
shark-grounds directly opposite the harbor entrance between the Heads
,
and scarcely more than a mile outside the Heads.

We put down an anchor, or "killick," as our guide called it, in about tw
o
hundred feet of water. A gentle swell was moving the surface of the sea.

The sun felt hot and good. Putting cut bait overboard, we had scarcel
y
settled down to fishing when we had a strike from a small shark. I
t
turned out to be a whaler of about three hundred pounds.

Love was jubilant over its capture.

"Shark meat best for sharks," he avowed, enthusiastically. "Now we'l
l
catch a tiger sure!"

That sharks were cannibals was no news to me, but in this instance th
e
fact was more interesting. Emil put a bonito bait over and Love attache
d
a little red balloon to the line a fathom or two above the leader. Thi
s
was Mr. Bullen's method, except that he tied the float about one hundre
d
and fifty feet above the bait, and if a strong current was running h
e
used lead.

For my bait Love tied on a well-cut piece of shark, about two pounds i
n
weight, and added what he called a fillet to hang from the point of th
e
hook. I was an expert in baits and I remarked that this one looked almos
t
good enough to eat.

Then he let my bait down twenty-five fathoms without float or sinker.

This occurred at noon, after which we had lunch, and presently I settle
d
down comfortably to fish and absorb my surroundings.

The sun was hot, the gentle motion of the boat lulling, the breez
e
scarcely perceptible, the sea beautiful and compelling, and there was n
o
moment that I could not see craft of all kinds, from great liners t
o
small fishing-boats. I sat in my fishing-chair, feet on the gunwale, th
e
line in my hand, and the passage of time was unnoticeable. In fact, tim
e
seemed to stand still.

The hours passed, until about mid-afternoon, and conversation lagged.

Emil went to sleep, so that I had to watch his float. Peter smoke
d
innumerable cigarettes, and then he went to sleep. Love's hopes of
a
strike began perceptibly to fail. He kept repeating about every hour tha
t
the sharks must be having an off day. But I was quite happy an
d
satisfied.

I watched three albatross hanging around a market boat some distanc
e
away. Finally this boat ran in, and the huge white-and-black bird
s
floated over our way. I told Love to throw some pieces of bait in. He di
d
so, one of which was a whole bonito with its sides sliced off.

The albatross flew towards us, landed on their feet a dozen rods away, an
d
then ran across the water to us. One was shy and distrustful. The other
s
were tame. It happened, however, that the suspicious albatross got th
e
whole bonito, which he proceeded to gulp down, and it stuck in hi
s
throat.

He drifted away, making a great to-do over the trouble his gluttony ha
d
brought him. He beat the water with his wings and ducked his head unde
r
to shake it violently.

Meanwhile the other two came close, to within thirty feet, and the
y
emitted strange low, not unmusical, cries as they picked up the morsel
s
of fish Love pitched them. They were huge birds, pure white except acros
s
the back and along the wide-spreading wings. Their black eyes had a
n
Oriental look, a slanting back and upwards, which might have been cause
d
by a little tuft of black feathers. To say I was in a seventh heaven wa
s
putting it mildly. I awoke Emil, who, being a temperamental artist an
d
photographer, went into ecstasies with his camera. "I can't believe m
y
eyes!" he kept exclaiming. And really the lovely sight was hard t
o
believe, for Americans who knew albatross only through legend and poetry.

Finally the larger and wilder one that had choked over his fish evidentl
y
got it down or up and came swooping down on the others. They then engage
d
in a fight for the pieces our boatman threw them. They ate a whol
e
bucketful of cut bonito before they had their fill, and one of them wa
s
so gorged that he could not rise from the surface. He drifted away
,
preening himself, while the others spread wide wings and flew out to sea.

Four o'clock found us still waiting for a bite. Emil had given up; Pete
r
averred there were no sharks. Love kept making excuses for the day, an
d
like a true fisherman kept saying, "We'll get one tomorrow." But I wa
s
not in a hurry. The afternoon was too wonderful to give up. A westerin
g
sun shone gold amid dark clouds over the Heads. The shipping ha
d
increased, if anything, and all that had been intriguing to me seeme
d
magnified. Bowen, trolling in Bullen's boat, hove in sight out on th
e
horizon.

My companions obviously gave up for that day. They were tired of the lon
g
wait. It amused me. I remarked to Peter: "Well, old top, do you remembe
r
the eighty-three days we fished without getting a bite?"

"I'll never forget that," said Pete.

"And on the eighty-fourth day I caught my giant Tahitian striped marlin?"

"Right, sir," admitted Peter.

Love appeared impressed by the fact, or else what he thought was fiction
,
but he said, nevertheless: "Nothing doing today. We might as well go in."

"Ump-umm," I replied, in cowboy parlance. "We'll hang a while longer."

I did not mention that I had one of my rare and singular feelings o
f
something about to happen. My companions settled down resignedly to wha
t
seemed futile carrying-on.