If Hemingway were titling this story, he would call it the Careless Man and the Sea.
It is the tale of my biggest catch, 82kg of cursing stupidity.
The setting is the warm, benign waters of Rangaunu Bay off the Karikari peninsula in the Far North.
The sea is so plentiful here that if offers up scallops in the shallows after a blow and the snapper fight for the baits, that is provided you can get past the huge schools of voracious kahawai and the occasional kingfish.
We set off in late afternoon as the hammer blow of the summer sun eased to catch the evening bite.
It was near the end of two weeks of bliss - sensational snapper fishing, the thrill of landing one of the bronze whalers that lurk in the nearby harbour shallows, diving among schools of huge, curious kingfish in sparkling blue water and leisurely long evenings eating fresh fish and doing our bit for the wine glut.
Our fish fever had eased, the itch had been scratched and we were no longer as frantic about catching even more snapper.
This was a good time to encourage our wives to abandon their loungers and come out and share our obsession, to be their deck boys and let them experience the excitement of hooking strong fighting fish on light gear.
It started well enough.
My fishing buddy John Robinson, a silent and efficient killer wearing his customary Munster red rugby jersey, a perverse reminder of the All Blacks' nemesis, was soon leaning over the side pulling aboard his wife Trudy's first fish.
She is most comfortable on a millpond and the elements obliged.
As the afternoon faded towards glorious evening the fishing was hot.
At this rate we would catch our limit and have chilled fish to take on the long, long return to Wellington, 1000km to the south.
The snapper were taking soft baits - lifelike and colourful compound rubber fish with unlikely names like nuclear chickens -- before they could reach the bottom.
We were also straylining, floating a pilchard bait on a double hook in the berley trail off the back of the boat.
The really big snapper are that way for a good reason. They are wily and will hang back, waiting for the moment to strike, while the smaller fish have not yet learned to be as wary.
There is also the real chance of hooking a kingfish, magnificent sleek torpedoes with immense power, like tangling with a freight train.
The rod bucked and bent as a fish duly struck.
It was not a monster but was still lively.
A glistening snapper of about 2kg came aboard and was placed on the horizontal bait board for hook removal.
It gave a desperate flap and fell off the edge, about to extract its revenge.
As I lunged to hold it, the second keeper hook on the rig, a form of insurance that increases catches, drove into my right hand.
It was a clean strike, extremely well hooked with the barb buried deep in the ball of the hand below the thumb.
It takes a moment to register something that should not be.
Bugger.
And that damned fish was still flapping, driving the hook deeper, doing who knows what damage to tendon and muscle, vein and tissue.
What a catch - 82kg of dumb, careless male.
Does catching yourself count when totting up the score and boasting of biggest weights?
The first task was to seize a towel, grab the troublesome snapper whilst avoiding its spikes and cut the line.
Inspection of the already purpling wound showed rapid swelling caused by internal bleeding.
Initial thoughts of pushing the hook on through until its barb emerged and somehow cutting that off were promptly discarded, dictated by equal measures of cowardice and the risk of further damage.
This had to be seen to ashore.
Back we raced to the ramp, easing up in the harbour entrance made choppy by the tide to reduce the boat banging and knocking a by now throbbing hand.
As boats return to the lodge, fellow fishermen and the curious wander down to the water's edge, beers in hand, to inspect the catch and offer observations and advice.
A hook deeply embedded in a hand provides great excitement.
The lodge manager, already well advanced on the refreshment front, thought this great sport.
He loudly and persistently offered to perform the operation, assuring he had done similar last summer.
He disappeared briefly to return with pliers.
Perhaps he had seen the American YouTube video Removing Big Fish Hook from Hand, subtitled: "Out in deep water, Capt Joe performs a little emergency procedure ripping a GIANT fish hook out of some dude's hand. OUCH!!!"
The much viewed video has the victim drinking liberally from a quart bottle of bourbon.
The hook is caught in the back of his hand and after some elaborate knot tying and a gruff "you ready?" is torn out.
The good old boys then holler and high five.
Not only was there no bourbon, even if I could stomach it, we were not stuck on the high seas, my hook was much deeper and could not be dragged backwards without serious tearing of flesh, the would-be surgeon was clearly under the weather and, besides, I was a wuss.
"I think you should go the hospital," my wife Sue sensibly advised.
Serious discomfort had taken hold and the half hour drive to Kaitaia hospital 40km away seemed to take much longer.
Time enough to muse on the Fishing News article that featured a wicked multi-pronged hook embedded in a Kiwi fisherman's heel in the Cook Islands, courtesy of a wildly thrashing mahimahi.
Those fish are known for being demented once aboard and locals use a cunning tie around the tale hooked to the mouth that keeps them quiet.
Their local equivalent to my mind is tope, harmless but powerful sharks common in Cook Strait waters at this time of year that grow to 2 metres and 50kg.
Tope and the smaller rig/dogfish, mainstays of fish'n'chips, are neighbour fish.
I would dress them up as groper, most never knew the difference, to curry favour for blocking drives with my boat and noisily flushing engines.
My theory for controlling their wild thrashing was to cut their tails off and let them bleed their lives away.
My mistake was to do this in the boat, rather than alongside it, and then watch aghast as blood spurted up our legs like a Sam Peckinpah movie and hooks and rods were thrown about.
I suppose it was only a matter of time before I became the victim.
The hospital's A & E department was about to close as we entered and showed off the problem.
The clerk glanced at the hand and passed over the inevitable form.
Hah! How am I supposed to fill it in?
My wife, no stranger to hospitals, does the honours and accompanies me to the treatment room.
The South African-born doctor is matter of fact.
He does a hook removal on average once a week and says the advent of soft baiting where the hook is cast has increased the number presenting with facial wounds as well.
He expertly injects anaesthetic and uses workshop pliers to push the hook through, before snipping the barb off and sliding it free.
A dressing and a prescription for antibiotics in case of infection are supplied and we are released.
The biggest catch is free again.
NZPA
source: newshub archive
