Fishing on Dad's Boat

When we were kids, we lived on Hinchinbrook Island. It's not far from the mainland. On a nice clear bright day, you can see the sandy shores in the distance.

Dad fished for a living. We had a boat - quite a big one - that was anchored in the bay so as to be sheltered from any sudden storms that might blow up.

Dad would leave so early each morning, it was dark. In fact, it was so early I don't think any of us kids had ever heard him getting ready to leave. Each day he would get back mid-afternoon. We would sometimes go down to the harbor to meet him; he would always smell fishy. He would unload the crates of fish and prawn that would then go off to market. He would always tell us what sort of a catch the sea had bought for him that day; if it was good, he would sometimes take us to the shop in the bay and we would get candy treats.

I would always beg Dad to let me come fishing with him. He would always say, "school is the place for you," but then would promise to let me come during the school holidays. Dad would always tell us that we must work hard at school so we would not have to be fishermen when we grew up. He would go on to say it was an honest living, but also a very hard one.

Those school holidays took forever to come around. I would long to be out in the boat, hanging over the side mesmerized by the blue of the sea, and the rainbow of colors beneath of the coral reef and the silvery flashes of the many fish that called this palace their home. Sometimes you would see those threatening black shadows that would pass by - they were the sharks, they always sent a shiver up my spine. I would wonder why Dad never seemed to notice them as he hauled in the nets.

One day, not long before the holidays, when I was meant to be asleep, I was listening to Mom and Dad talking. Dad was saying how he was getting worried because his catches were getting smaller. Once he even came home with not even enough to take a trip to the markets. Another night I heard him say that maybe we should consider moving to the mainland where he could get a job in a factory or a shop and not have to worry whether or not he was going to get a good catch. He blamed the lack of fish on the large trawlers that would come close to our island with their big nets, and then scoop out far more than their share.

The school holidays were getting closer. It would soon be time for my fishing trip with Dad. We were going to try something new. Dad had heard how the city folk had a taste for eating shark and decided he was going to give fishing for those a try. He said that they had a funny name for it, "flake".

The first day of the holidays came. I was up with Dad in the dark. We got to the boat just as the sun was starting to come up. It would be a perfect day - not a ripple on the ocean or any wind in the air. No sooner did I hear the engine come to life than we were heading out of the bay.

About an hour later the sun was up, we were out of sight of land. I watched Dad as he drank coffee and looked at his strange maps that somehow he could read. Eventually he declared that he had found just the spot, the motor was cut and I watched the anchor plunge into the water.

Dad went to the back of the boat where he pulled from a locker a large blue bag which I had not seen before. He unzipped it and a smile came over his face and he stated that this should do the trick.

From the bag Dad pulled the largest fishing hook that I had ever seen. Attached to it was a length of chain link that looked like what we had round our yard, and attached to that was a long length of rope coiled in the bottom of the bag. Dad tied the rope to the boat. Then he baited the hook with a whole chicken and, still with a grin on his face, tossed it as far as he could into the water. Dad said that all we had to do now was wait. He settled down into his chair and went to sleep.

I walked around and around the boat, watched the fish and the rainbow of colors that could be seen in the water. After a while I was getting bored, maybe it was not such a good idea after all to come fishing with Dad, I could be back on the island playing with the other children.

All of a sudden it happened! The rope twitched a little, then a little more and then it just began flying over the side of the boat. Good thing it was tied on tight! Dad leapt up, the rope went tight - we had caught a shark!

Dad placed the end of the rope around the winch, which we only usually used for pulling up the anchor. He started the little motor and began to pull in the shark. I hung over the side watching every inch of that rope come in. When we got to the chain link. the shape could be clearly seen in the water and it was HUGE.

Eventually Dad pulled the shark onto the deck and declared that he had never seen one that big before. We just stared at it for a few minutes. Although I was a little scared, I went up to it and touched its gray cold skin. It felt like sandpaper, so rough and hard. Its' teeth were like razors and so many of them! Dad stood over its body and pulled open its mouth - more and more teeth - and the hook had been completely swallowed.

After admiring his catch for awhile, Dad said it was time to head back to make the markets. We went to the wheelhouse, started the engine and took one last look at the shark. All of a sudden its tail flicked from one side then the other, and then it opened its mouth and snapped at the air twice.

Dad lifted his eyebrows high, and said maybe shark fishing was not such a good idea after all.

That was the first and last time we fished for shark. Dad never mentioned it again but sometimes I still think about how we had been stood right next to that shark, touching its skin and looking at its teeth. I'm sure he was looking at us as a meal.