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 The
only female-fisherman
It’s five in the morning and it is pitch black outside.
Fremantle is quiet, the only noise is the sound of a
couple of seagulls squawking. The only light comes from
a few street lamps and the lights from the docks on the
northern side of the river mouth.
I say goodbye to the cat and leave a note for the
flatmate. I manage to manipulate my eight foot long rod
through the gates without breaking anything. Raw prawns
sit in a plastic bag at the bottom of the bucket I hold
in the other hand. I am going fishing in Freo on the
South Mole.
I walk down Pakenham Street past the building that
housed the first coffee house in Perth and then past the
homes of the second and third fire stations. Three cars
pass me by, dock workers, port workers going to work. I
walk past the oddly named Mrs. Trivett’s Place - the
lane that leads upto the cottages next to the Round
House. A little bitumen road leads around the limestone
cliff that the Round House is built on, Challenger TAFE
has a few buildings here and opposite it set against the
cliff, old boat sheds have become flats and studios for
local artists.
The road leads to the northern end of Bather’s Beach to
the point where the South Mole begins and the road turns
to run along it. There isn’t a sidewalk, so I walk on
the road itself. I can see the McDonald’s sign flashing
on and off at the southern end of the beach just next to
the remains of what used to be the Long Jetty, long
demolished now but no doubt a good place to fish for
herring from.
I turn and walk up the South Mole. There are no lights
along the huge curving mole that marks the entrance to
river mouth of the Swan on the southern side but there
is a huge lighthouse at the end of it. Old jetties on
the river side of the mole are filled with resting
seagulls, water eating the wood away. I can’t fish from
there, they have been blocked off. From here I can see
the back of the Maritime Museum, something someone
designed in the hope it would become as famous as the
Sydney Opera House - it hasn’t. It is damn ugly as is
the Sydney Opera House.
I stop several times, squinting as I peer over the rocky
seaward edge trying to determine where the water is deep
enough and the rocks flat enough. To fish I have to
climb down the side of the South Mole over the rocks to
a point where I can stand and move around comfortably
without slipping and cast my line far out from. In the
dark, it’s hard to tell. Daylight savings is still in
effect or there would be sufficient light around.
Full of ghosts
I am the only person here. I am glad I didn’t come via
the Whaler’s Tunnel that leads straight from High Street
to Bather’s Beach under the Round House. I didn’t want
to see ghosts or snakes tonight. Fremantle is full of
ghosts - there is always a lot of sorrow in a port town,
there is always a lot of sorrow on the docks. But the
docks and the ports are where the changes occur in
history and culture because this is where new ideas
first come ashore. Also new pests, diseases, people and
lot of new ways to make all sorts of trouble.
I clamber down the rocks, bucket in one hand, rod in the
other. The rod dwarfs me but I can carry it. There are
only rock crabs and seagulls to be seen but somewhere
down there are fish as well. The water is inky black.
Out to sea, I see the lights from ships. A cruise liner
comes in slowly, with all its lights on though all its
passengers must be asleep. I turn towards Fremantle - to
the east and I start to see the tellatale light blue
colour creeping up over the rooftops. The dawn won’t be
long but she will take her own sweet time coming. To the
south there is light, light from Fremantle’s Fishing
Boat Harbour with all its boats and yachts tied up along
what is now known as the Long Jetty but looks more like
a seawall or groyne.
I look down at the Indian Ocean in front of me. I am
here, alone with my thoughts looking at water that has
probably swept its way into Colombo’s canals. Maybe -
one can only hope. Balancing on the limestone, I cast my
line out. I am very bad at casting. A few tries and
something does catch my bait - a rock crab.
It grabs the prawn in its claws and refuses to let go,
scuttling sideways over the rocks. I pull my rod up and
alternately reel the line in and spin it out. The bait
doesn’t bother me but I do want my hook, swivel and
attractors back - I can’t afford to cut the line and
lose those. A few jerks and I get the bait back as well.
Blowies
A few more tries and the bait lands in the water. Dawn
has come, I can see where I am aiming. But the blowies
are here. Blowfish are the bane of every Freo fisherman.
They are capable of taking your bait off the hook. I end
up feeding the blowies rather than catching anything but
I persevere. This is practice - I get to practice my
casting.
It’s close to seven and more fishermen have turned up. I
say fishermen because I have yet to notice another woman
here with a rod. There are joggers as well running all
the way to the lighthouse and back. I know where they go
after they jog - they head to DOME and eat huge meals
and drink a lot of coffee because they think they
deserve it. Perhaps they do but it also undoes all the
effects of the exercise.
I haven’t yet caught a fish. I could catch a rock crab
and bring it home. I would put it on the floor and watch
it scuttle. The cat would probably chase it around. I
realise I can’t be bothered with the rock crabs. Other
people around me are catching fish - they are also able
to cast their lines further out. Further out, about ten
metres away from where my line ends up is where the
herring are hanging around this morning.
Female fisherman
It’s now closer to eight. More cars are parked along the
edge, some people just sitting there, some coming to
fish, some possibly coming to hang out at the beach,
this being some of the closest parking. Either that or
they are snorkeling off the edge. Even some tourists
turn up. German tourists. I realise that I am clearly
something of a novelty - the only female fisherman.
Fisherwoman. The only female with a rod.
As I bait the hook, toss the burley, cast, reel and do
all the things one is supposed to do, a small German kid
up on the Mole behind me is getting a running commentary
on what I am doing. I smile to myself and I don’t turn
around.
It is now 8:40. The sun has come out and it is baking
hot. I pull off my loose shirt and pack up. Time to go
home. Along the way the flatmate who has only just woken
up rings me. There is a cup of tea waiting for me at
home despite the distinct lack of fish.
A fellow fisherman tells me to try my luck at catching
gardi off the groyne at South Beach. I plan to call a
bunch of friends and potter down there one afternoon.
They can all sit on the beach and watch
while I try to catch
gardi and practice my casting at the same time. I also
get advice to tie on a burley cage, half filled with
cork and half with burley which might make a difference
no matter how far out I cast.
The cat greets me at the door as I attempt to get my rod
and bucket up the stairs. She is clearly upset that
there is no fish and cares not for the raw prawns. She
is however pacified with a bit of my burley - a jar of
anchovy oil and a handful of plain flour mixed together.
The rod sits behind the door. Despite the lack of
success, I am keen to go again.
This surprises me as it would no doubt surprise a lot of
my friends. I have never been known to get up early
enough in the morning for anything and yet I am happy to
wake up to go fishing - something after which I usually
get a bit of backache.
But with only rock crabs, seagulls and ghosts for
company, I am left alone with my thoughts in a wide open
space. I don’t get enough of that sort of thing or
privacy in my life at the moment. So I treasure it when
I do get it. The best company I have ever kept has been
the company within my own head when I am alone.
So one day there will be herring and whiting and gardi.
And I can cook and feed my friends and feel happy. And
my mother can devise a means of getting me to ship some
of it to her in Sydney.
But for now there is just me and the damn rock crabs.
- Marisa Wikramanayake
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