Not An Unnatural Fisherman

I am not a natural fisherman. In fact I’m not even an unnatural one. I remember as a boy going with my dad to fish. He loved it. He knew where to go. The right tide times. Which spots were ”going off.” He seemed to even enjoy re-baiting hooks every 5 minutes when his offspring tried reeled in with every semi twitch of the line. I’m sure he only feigned frustration. I remember discovering Saunders beach in NQ and catching whiting at low tide. It must have been easy fishing as even I snared one.

My sister was the real fisherman. She would implore dad to drag her off to fish. I remember fishing off the beach near Bowen and her catching the only fish of the day. Reeling it in we discovered it only got caught because its gills had tangled in the line. Only she could catch fish like that.

Now time has drifted by like the tides my dad would look out for. The time for fishing together is rare. A few years ago he fired up the “tinny” and we fished for cod off Windermere. A throwaway line such as “we should do that again..” finishes the odd conversation we have about fishing. “Yeah, that would be good.”....

Three years ago I discovered what my dad knew 30 odd years ago. I discovered what my sister thrived on. Fishing is not always about the fish. The companionship I have discovered is almost breathtaking. The art of learning what I assumed my dad just knew grew addictively. The time of research and discovery of “deep dark secrets” instill a new found joy. The mateship of being on the water and even sometimes catching something was like nothing I had never experienced.

There is something about fly fishing I don’t understand. At first it was the attraction of the technique. The rhythm of loops tossed back and forth by a mate was captivating. My first attempt, well, not so. But boy I wanted to get it right. I still do. My first introduction to Polaroid sunglasses opened a new world to me. And then there’s that moment of your fly being sipped down by a trout. Sure it was tiny. I know I had little to do with catching it. But by the end of the day it wasn’t the only thing hooked.

I’m preparing to go on my third bushwalk. As a poor fisherman, I make a poorer walker. “Why walk when you have a car?” But my previous expeditions into the Tassie wilderness continue to draw me there. More on that another day.

While not a natural fisherman, I am a natural loner. My tendency is to shy away from others. Learning to fish and to fish well puts me in an uneasy place. I can’t do it alone. And after three years of doing it with others, why would I want to try solo? I’d miss the advice, banter and competition, the insight of someone who had fished a long time before me. I’d miss out on some the quality sledges directed at and from me. And I’d miss those days that I think my dad and I would have enjoyed together. Spending quality time, with quality people doing a quality thing, fishing.

First Trip Out

This was it, the time for excitement and anxiety. My first fly excursion with others to real fly water. In my mind I had visualised this amazing adventure. All the time spent practising would hold me in good stead and I would land a massive, majestic trout with my first cast.

Not even close.


The patience of the poor soul who ended up wading with me was amazing. False casts, knots, snags, low back casts, too much wrist, lock it, lock it, cast up more, cast it up more, CAST IT HIGHER, no the other higher, spook a fish, spook two fish, spook, spook, spook ….

After twenty to thirty minutes he relieved me of my rod, took one cast and landed a decent little brown. My insides shattered. Was I really that bad? Well, yes, but as I was told over and over, everybody starts like this. Confidence thrives with these well meaning words.

We continued through some incredibly beautiful streams and I learned of ripple lines and riffles and bubble lines and rising water. I tried to listen to as much as I could, my stubbornness willing me on. My ability to soak up the details was only matched by my trousers ability to soak up the cold water.

My first real lesson that day was, to enjoy where you are. Sometimes it’s not about the fish. The amazing locations I got to enjoy that day were places I would never visit normally and since then I have been amazed at what a magnificent world we live in.

Sentimental outpouring over. I had one last cast at a riffle linking two pools. The red tag sped down the run and as I lifted to recast, I felt some weight. Lo and behold, hanging on for dear life was the unluckiest of small rainbows. But I caught a fish.

Let the fun begin…

Getting the Gear to Begin

My first real bit of gear came courtesy of that necessity of all small budgets, eBay. Not wanting to add too much to the hoard of expensive gear that would sit around unused after yet another excursion into the real of “fad hobby” (The boogie board and wetsuits had long gone, but the rackets and other evidence of “try-hard” sporting moments were well and truly at the back of the shed). I purchase a $20 4/5 weight 3 piece rod and a $20 reel.

Within a week Mike had spooled on some line and I was ready, done and sorted. Now what? I went out and started one of my grass sessions. These sessions were to be the staple part of my spare time for the next twelve months, not to mention a huge source of amusement to family, friends and neighbours.

The shouts of “You’ll never get anything there” or “Try somewhere wetter” or “Mmmmuuuuummm! Dad’s doing that thing again!” always brought a grin but also the realization I needed to try the real thing. I just wanted to make sure I didn’t look a goose when the time came.

Within the year I had progressed to my first "Name Brand" purchase. A Sage Launch. 9 foot of olive graphite goodness. 4 pieces even. Now I was set.
Wasn't I?
I had the right gear now. No excuses. watch out trout.

The Beginning

Here’s the thing, I like fish. Especially pan fried with garlic and lemon. But the process of fishing itself has never inspired me. Deep set scarred images of my Dad lobbing foot and a half long catfish at me in a small “tinny” yelling ‘Watch out for the spikes!’ didn’t help. The idea of dunking a line off a boat or from a jetty, waiting, and waiting, and waiting and then maybe pulling in a dead weight cod or flathead was hardly appealing. Topped off with hand dexterity on par with a heavily intoxicated bovine. Fishing wasn’t for me. Give me a ball and I’ll chase and kick it. I’ll be satisfied getting my fish from the shop.

Then I met Mike.

This bloke loved his fishing. I mean REALLY loved his fishing. On the cool still Tassie mornings when others breath turned to fog….his exuded piscatorial escapades and a zeal I only had known anyone have for sporting endeavours involving a ball. And then I saw him cast a fly line.

The majestic curves of the loops as they passed over and around his head were completely engaging. The sheer maniacal giggle as he explained how he had “cast into backing”, whatever that meant, addictively spread through the few that had gathered to see. Seemingly without a second thought, he placed the graphite wand into my hand. He spoke the golden rules into my ear. Stop the rod at 10 o‘clock and 2 o‘clock. Aim for the second storey. Don’t let your back cast drop too low. Mesmerised I tried to follow without much idea of what I was trying to achieve. I knew though that there was no turning back.

It wasn’t to be a process of fishing to eat. It became a near obsession of fishing to live. I needed to catch something with that combination of graphite, nylon, metal, fur and feathers. There was something about it that just seemed right.