Air Tickets Cheap - A Stingray Tale

Floated tremulous images before his eyes of what the next high tide may bring, large holes left by monster snapper excavating for succulent molluscs with their bone crushing jaws. Draws like a magnet, dark seaweed smell everywhere, pockmarked with crab holes and their scuttling tenants, littered with stranded puddles of left behind sea, that great area of exposed mud. This little corner of Marlborough is paradise to a small boy, ringed by lush native bush to the waterline. Low tide reveals a great expanse of brownness, but the water being as shallow as it is, the tide range is not huge. The head of Queen Charlotte Sounds are tidal.

He finds it difficult not to break into a trot, with the trembling thrill of anticipation running through him, nevertheless. So he need not hurry, he knows precisely how long the advancing sea will take to creep up over the mud, containing his excitement. Spirits soaring along with the flowing tide he trudges up the dusty strip to collect his fishing gear.

Lines and boxes of lures, reels, with the price today of putting together an effective fishing ensemble of expensive rods, compare this if you will. To make, costing all of five bob(five shillings) in the old currency, the mighty snapper killer, this is it then. Its wicked barbed tip is buried deep in the layered green strands wound on its stick, glittering in the sunlight. Knotted to the end of this nylon is his favourite 'fish killer' hook. A home poured barrel lead weight slid down nestling against the brass swivel linking the line to three feet of heavy gauge nylon. Wound bobbin like onto a handy piece of discarded squared off dowel, gear was pretty low tech back then and consisted of a hundred yards of sturdy green woven twine.

But it always rankled slightly that he never did get an accurate count, his estimate of fifteen hundred was probably fairly close, being about a third of the way. He never got beyond five hundred, with the easily distracted mind of a young boy envisioning monster fish, always reeled them off faster than his brain could keep up and, his steps however. All the way out to the end, many times he had set out along them with the intention of counting each board. The twisted boards stretch into the hazy distance like ever diminishing tramlines, squinting along the jetty. He rattles out the last of the sharp stones from his sandals, tapping his toes on the ancient grey boards. The jetty stalks its way the best part of a hundred yards out over the squelchy mud. His fishing line nestles comfortably in his left hand, stepping back onto the first few grey planks of the long rickety jetty.

Hopefully so it comes to rest near a crab hole that a cruising snapper would want to investigate, and heave it into the water, bait up the snapper killer, he is in good time and will be able to organise his position. Ambling his way to the outermost end of the jetty, he knows this precisely. Is the best time for hooking into a monster snapper, one hour before and one hour after high tide. Scuttle about freely under the silt filled blanket of advancing brine, bolder now, the occupants. Filling the myriad crab homes as it goes, bubbling its way over the mud flats, the inflowing tide foam capped fans out, swirling around the mussel festooned pilings.

Fascinated by the swirling patterns slowly eating their way up the dense carpet of bearded mussels, he stares down into the murky water, toes protruding over the very end. This is how he likes it. It fills him with a great satisfaction for it to be devoid of any other humans - he will share it with a largish black backed seagull eyeing him warily from the outermost bollard, but still, he has known this from the moment he stepped on. Approaching the end he sees he has the whole jetty to himself.

Grey strip of skin wetly dripping on his hook - this morning though is the time for big fish only, sorry, leaving only a sodden, he has retrieved the line to find all the flesh removed, producing only a few nibbles, the skin of a Trevally is so tough that many a time when a cast has been unproductive! Weaving it carefully onto the hook he works the barb until it is just wickedly exposed through the tough skin. Rummaging in his small fishing bag he extracts the specially prepared bait and cuts it into decent sized chunks.

He assumes it is indifferent to his skill, but with no applause forthcoming, he notes the seagull blinking, glancing around! Picks them up and feeds out enough line to allow the sinker to drop to the bottom - not far in these tidal flats, as it hits the surface he puts his foot on the remaining coils. Curling down into the water with a far off plop, lifting the coils off the deck as it goes and travels its parabola, the solid lead weight leaps forward in its path to escape. He releases it on the upward swing at precisely the exact moment, and leaning into it as he steps forward, the combination of length and speed when it is just right transmits its message into his arm via the brain. As it picks up speed he allows more line to slip bit by bit through his fingers until it is whirring around his ears in an ever increasing arc. He begins to twirl it around his head in long slow sweeps, grasping the line two feet up from the weight. Coiled on the dock awaiting its whistling journey out over the water just as far as he can heave it, the green line is ready. He is all set, casting a final professional eye over his handiwork.

So big it is dragging him off the wharf and into the water, and looking down he sees a horrible large bug eyed red cod latched on, there is something pulling on his finger right now! Hoping the bait is still intact, or does he leave it out there? Does he pull in the line to check the bait and possibly miss a fish? A constant war rages within as high tide approaches without a bite. Tingling as they anticipate the first tug, the line rests lightly in his fingers. So water motion has slowed right down, high tide is approaching. His old floppy sun hat shields his eyes so he can spot any movements in or on the water. Rolls down the valley, the far off drone of a NAC DC3 rumbling its thundering way to Wellington somewhere beyond the hills. It makes for very pleasant basking, and with a slight breeze wafting up the Sound, the high overcast this morning breaks the power of the sun. Leaning up against a bollard he settles down to wait in the warm sunshine.

It is a fifteen pound beauty. He pulls out his kauri kerri and gives it a smart blow over its forehead and it lies still. He is able to lean over and quickly gaff the fish and lift it weakly flapping on to the dock, floating on the surface now right by the piles. Rapidly tires and he is able to pull it to the jetty after a few minutes, with the hook embedded in its stomach, a snapper this size is quite strong and pulls very hard at the outset but. As it shakes its bony head against the pull, thud, thud, the snapper doesn't like this and fights back with the familiar steady thud. This he does. All he needs to do at that point is stop the line in his hand and set the hook with a hefty tug. After a few yards the fish will have enough confidence and swallow the bait. Any resistance in this shallow water and he will drop the bait straight away. Testing, and in its cautious way it has picked up the bait in its mouth and is slowly swimming off with it, he knows it is a snapper. The line is slowly sliding through his fingers and gathering pace. Instantly alert and realises he had dozed off in the morning warmth, he starts.

Three snapper that size will feed the whole company! He sees the other two empty hooks which he plans on filling today, admiring his catch shining out of the gloom. Dark shed at the top, he launches another cast in case the partner is snooping around and runs all the way up the jetty to hang his prize in the cool, quickly baiting up again. Fresh fish very quickly becomes stale and smelly fish if left out too long in the sun. Caught on the incoming tide and mostly still alive, it is crammed full of crabs, as he suspects, he examines its stomach contents and yes, immediately gutting the pink and shiny snapper.

Heading toward him and those mussel covered piles, he can feel it tiring now and once again it turns shoreward. This pattern continues for some twenty minutes and with each circle the fish swims he is able to work it a little closer. The fish turns again and starts moving in large circles, pulling in line as fast as he can to keep up. The monster turns and for some reason begins swimming toward the jetty, right at the moment when it is going to be either the fish or him. But he dare not let go as the line will snap when it comes up taut at the end of its knot on the piling, what to do - the stout line is cutting into his hands. Which is threatening to haul him right off the dock, tug has been replaced by a strong steady heaving pull, tug, the familiar tug. For some moments trying to figure out what is on the end, not giving, not gaining, he stands there. He pulls in a short length to gain some slack and there is a huge pull back. The line will snap, knowing that with no give, he leaps on to it. And it is stretched taut to twanging point directly out to sea, but no spare coils on the dock, the end still tied around the pile, then he sees it. Gone, at first glance his fishing line has completely disappeared. Arriving once more at the end he cannot believe what he can't see. Light of foot and whistling to himself, turning away he hurries back along the dock.

How is he going to do this without the fish swimming in under and into the piles and cutting his line on the sharp mussels? He is going to have to walk it all the way up the jetty to the beach, way too large to gaff out onto the dock. The next problem is rapidly growing in his mind, meantime. This is replaced pretty much straight away thinking about the 'mana' he is going to receive from the others when he has landed this monster all by himself. And suddenly is a little scared, he has never seen a fish so big. Which gradually transforms into a gigantic black stingray, emerging slowly from the murk is a huge black waving blanket. He works it ever closer, still not sure what it is. He gets his first glimpse of something black and something massive.

And supposedly they don't feel pain, it's only a fish, never mind. And is almost overcome with sorrow for what he has done, looks at the sleek shape, he steps back, with all its life drained away. He takes his trusty fishing knife and proceeds to stab it many times in the head, not wishing it to have a slow death and having seen the recently released movie 'Psycho'. It is hauled up the wood of the steps, slipped through the rays' gills and with the help of three other burly participants from the gathering crowd, a stout rope is foraged out of the shed. Our young hero is only concerned about securing his trophy, there being no concerns about the preservation of marine stocks in those days. It floats just above the mud by the wooden steps, exhausted now. The shouts and thrashing rise to a crescendo so the poor animal never has a chance, every time it attempts a dart under. They begin thrashing the water between the ray and the pilings, returning with some suitable length manuka sticks. The problem is assessed and they race back to get some large sticks, not quite believing what they see. And they come running, he lets out a strangled cry. Now is the time to invite other humans to be involved. Looking along the dock he spies two people walking down. Help is at hand.

Cameras started to come out and many a shot is taken of our proud young man. Along with any photographs will be proof enough, he removed the barbed sting from its tail which. He stepped up and thanked them both for their vigorous thrashing of the water and the fellow didn't say much after that. So our man was forced to take some action, the taller of the two boys who had helped scare it away from the jetty was quite happy to let them think that he had caught it. What effrontery is this? One or two of the onlookers started to question the ability of this one boy to catch this huge fish by himself, after the initial excitement has died down. The general consensus is that it must weigh something close to five hundred pounds - truly a monster from the sea, but after a few minutes of banter, many estimates of its weight are bandied about.

Tomorrow is another day. Not a bad days fishing, notwithstanding there are still two empty hooks back in the shed, he thinks all in all, drinking in the adulation, strolling back up the metalled road. It probably cruised up here looking for easy pickings, finding it difficult to feed itself in the open ocean. This species of ray lives for thirty odd years and this one must be close. Washing it away and examining the sting he can see that many of the barbs are worn down and he comes to the conclusion that his stingray must be very old. The sting itself is almost twelve inches (29cm) in length and covered with black venom.