When the little fish are running

Press, 1 September 1982, Page 21

When the little fish are running

On the opening day of the whitebait season. CONSTANCE GRAY shares her experience of fishing for the elusive little delicacy in a Canterbury river . . .

Big nets, small nets, nets on poles for fishing in the surf, usually wielded by small boys, who dart in and out among the whitebaiters and who catch little but shingle on the tide. Dogs, large and small, fruitlessly chasing seagulls up and down the beach. Then wading in the river and on emerging, shaking themselves vigorously over all in the vicinity and their belongings on the shingle. A fox terrier darts at two spilled whitebait from a net carelessly tipped to a billy — the other three whitebait fall in safely. An expert, this dog. who has been coming to the river with his owner for many years. The muzzle is greying now and he has slowed in his movements since last season but is still very alert. His owner is ageing too and one wonders who will go first. No licence is required for whitebaiting so of all the leisure sports, it must be one of the least expensive. The net is usually home-made, but if bought, is about $2O. The river, being handy to the town on the main road in this area, is quickly reached using little petrol. The over-hopeful bring a large preserving pan which they dip in the river and leave half full of water to allow their catch to swim until strained off. There are several schools of thought about the best way to treat the little fish before they meet their end in batter or butter. An old flour bag, we found, was the best method. The water drained through but the fish did not “dry out" and by the end of the tide run were as fresh as when caught. Plastic bags will not do. as on a hot day the bait “cooks" in them and they taste horrible. Our river is snow fed and the bed is rough and the current swift until it comes to the lagoon. Here the bait that can make their way though the breakers and swim up into calmer water, can hope their children will survive, as they spawn on the river weed and among the shingle. Several times when we have been fishing, men arrive with what are known as “nightgowns” on our side of the island. Used in West Coast tidal rivers and some rivers in Canterbury they are a success, but in the sea at the mouth of the east coast shingle-run waters, they are a disaster. Trailing perhaps five yards of mosquito net, they quickly fill with water in the breakers and become very heavy. Attached to a pole, which usually snaps, they end up filled with stones and are quite unmanageable. They are regarded as a joke, much to the disgust of their owners who have probably spent hours in making them. No, the good old gauze net — set on a frame, with much solder, is the only answer. A strong rope is attached at appropriate points and these nets can be manoeuvred and lifted easily. Some baiters are never

satisfied and move about, up and down the bank throwing in their nets, first here, then there and in the meantime, all good “possies” are taken by those who know what they are up to. They also cross the river frequently trying each bank in turn.

The most unpopular people on our river are the pushers, usually women. They do not come’ until the tide has turned, rushing down the shingle bank and dumping their nets in the river, practically inside yours, which you have carefully set in a gentle ripple. With a charming smile they say. “Hello nice day, doing any good?" “Yes," you growl (and sotto voce) “But I damn well won't from now on.”

Occasionally, this behaviour is too much to take by the hard core and there is a real fishwives’ shouting match. Then the aggressors leave the river, knowing they are trounced, and sneak backon a day when the crowd is smaller. Those who have set their nets upstream, awaiting the time when the high tide sweeps into the lagoon, bringing the shoals of little fish, become bored and wander down the bank chatting to all. It is always a friendly crowd once the pushers have been quelled. One helps another to tip the net and a peep into containers on the way to see the catch of others, helps to either whet, or quell, the anticipation of what the tide will bring further up the river. Some of these “up-river” folk bring their bait casters — nothing to do with whitebait, but short rods equipped with a baitcasting reel and a long length of special line — mostly used with a minnow in the rough rivers, hoping to catch a trout or a wayward salmon. When the kahawai are hanging about the mouths of rivers, probably hoping for a feed of whitebait, they can be teased by dropping a minnow near their noses. They snap at anything which annoys them and fight for a few minutes in the breakers before being dragged ashore.

They are not to everyone's taste but many Maoris love them. They have the secret of preparing and cooking this very oily but magnificent, fish. When smoked, they can be less oily and very good to eat.

Having -finished his morning chores, a local dairy farmer arrives with his net. He is driving his new red tractor, and does not cross the bridge but comes through the lagoon, creating a muddy wave with his machine, infuriating those with set nets, some of which have to be sited once more against the bank, as they have been moved by the disturbed water.

This river rises high in the mountains and is fed by countless small streams on its way to the sea. When the whitebait season opens there is still snow on the tops, and the coldness of the river flowing into the sea

discourages the shoals of whitebait lying beyond the breakers. Sometimes it is a month after the season opens before they come through the river mouth in any quantity to the calm of the lagoon.

It is an incredible effort for these tiny fish to swim against the current of the river, but the spawning urge is strong enough to drive them through the breakers and to swarm along the shingle banks until they reach their goal. So many fall to the greedy beaks of the gulls and the voracious kahawai, so it is the survival of the fittest and the law of the jungle. In the lagoon after dark, the eels account for many. Some believe that a full moon is a sign that there will be a run of whitebait'. The laws forbid fishing before sunrise and after sunset. There are pirates who fish

after dark but there is a stiff penalty for those caught. When the tide is right, just before sunrise, the keen ones are waiting on the bank. Those lovely sunrises at the river are remembered. Out of the sea comes the large golden orb after a wonderful show of colour on the horizon. Green, orange and pink streak the sky and into the reflected colour in the river go the nets. Of all the criticism about time wasting I do agree. But if farm chores can be staggered, a picnic at the river is an experience, even if the catch is only enough for a couple of fritters. White baiters are a cross-section of the community not encountered at any other time or place, and as such, are the salt of the earth. If the weather is cold, as it often is in the early weeks of the season and there is a

good deal of driftwood on the beach, a large fire is lit and those who are not working pole nets can gather round and keep warm. A fire also serves to dry the wet clothes of children 'who fall in the river and to boil the blackened billies. One day when the river was running swift and clear, an elderly woman who had set her net some way upstream, slipped in. She always wore a large-brimmed hat and much to the amusement of the on-lookers, she swam down the centre of the stream in the current with the hat firmly in place and emerged from the water on the shingle bar where the sea and the river meet. As each season comes round, there are new faces on the river and some of the old ones have gone. But they are not forgotten in this community.

Also remembered are the record catches. One day we ended up with a kerosene tin full on two tides. The concen- >■ trated bait forms a gas which gives off a fearsome smell. A catch of this quantity is unusual at a river mouth so far north on the east coast. Tomorrow we may get' half a cup full. The miracle of nature is surely the return to the sea of the tiny bait which hatch from the spawn. Legend has it that, they go far out to sea, some returning in a year when they are not yet mature. These tiny, inch-long bait are sometimes found in a catch. The hundreds and thousands which stay in the sea until they feel the breeding urge are supposed to return to the river in which they are spawned. But one can hardly tag a whitebait, so we shall never know if this be true or false.