Things were turning ugly. My partner and I had been fishing all day with nary a bite to brighten the day. Spring fishing. November in the Kenepuru. Luck is not a given.
Ironically, we were fishing Snapper Point and the point being—there were no bloody snapper. Ugly. The thrum of a mussel harvester lifting lines nearby, flooding the water with berley, should have been a good omen but snapper don’t always turn up on demand. The harvester had enough too, so buggered off. We persevered, albeit with a lack of enthusiasm.
“Bugger it, let’s pack up and get the hell out of here!”
BANG!
My rod hit the side of the boat and the reel peeled line like there was no tomorrow. The fish had hit so hard I feared whiplash! Seriously, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to pull this thing in—it was a horse!
The fight was short but brutal; solid runs that shortened with each burst of energy. Ultimately, the snapper was spent and it was a heavy haul to the boat. High fives all around—this was a once in a lifetime fish for sure!
At 21lb, it was the ugliest monster I had caught but beautiful in the moment.
And we honoured it by utilising every last morsel: baked frame, smoked wings for chowder, crumbed and deep fried and poached in coconut milk—all bloody delicious. And bloody hard earned!
