We are sitting in the boat for maybe 15 minutes, the sandflies are making life miserable, my brother fiddles with the bloody outboard. Why on earth have I agreed to this fishing expedition? I have lots of gardening I could be doing.
It is late October, the ‘Build-Up’, that notorious local, pre-Monsoon weather phenomena is upon us. It delivers hot, humid conditions, spectacular electrical storms, sleepless nights and brittle tempers. But the fish love it, and the fishermen trade some discomfort for promised rewards.
John has the cowling off the motor, has removed the spark plug and sprayed something into the motor. He is tiring fast as he repeatedly pulls the starter chord – veroompah, veroompah, veroompah. The outboard eventually coughs, throws a smoky cloud, awakens, and our fishing expedition begins!
He replaces the cover, dials back the throttle and I untie our umbilical from the mangroves. There is a slight breeze that dispatches a few thousand biting insects.
Open water – Shoal Bay, just east of Darwin, the sun rapidly making headway against last night’s cooling reprieve. I am told that the ebb tide provides ideal conditions for landing Barramundi, Threadfin salmon, Mangrove jack and Spanish mackerel.
We are heading down to The Rock, an outlier on the edge of the Bay. It has an enviable reputation among the fraternity for its Barra, Salmon and Mackerel.
We throttle back, the motor just ticking over as we start to troll. 30 meters of line, an orangey-blue lure moving provocatively at the end of each line, and we turn and repeat our pass of the outlier. Nothing, although John has a 2nd line that he is flicking from the side of the boat. He lands a couple of Mangrove jacks.
On our third pass my line hooks up, a squeal as the line plays out, a splash, I apply the reel’s brake, another large splash. I am excited as I pull in a smallish, eight kilo Barra.
We turn and make another pass as I reset my line. John hooks up, I take over the controls as he starts to battle a monster. The engine is in neutral: there is a battle royal playing out at the end of his line. Ten minutes of bi-play: frantic line retrieval, line whirring frenetically out, more retrieval – repetitive antics from both participants. Finally, his line breaks; there is swearing, then silence, before he proffers a considered analysis of what just happened.
I am looking over the gunnels, towards the Rock. There is a swirling eddy, splashing, a coil of something large out above the water, writhing and then a length of a long snakelike body, maybe a foot in diameter. There is a head, a wide gaping maw, eyes staring accusingly back at me.
Then nothing; the wash from its indignation settles back into the gentle, unbroken surface of the Bay. I turn to confirm the sighting with John. His eyes are down, focusing on retying a new lure.
“Did you see that?”
“What?”
“I wonder!”