A FISHERWOMAN

Timaru Herald, Volume CXLIII, Issue 20639, 30 January 1937, Page 18

A FISHERWOMAN

AN UNUSUAL LIFE On the edge of a little river backwater in New South Wales lives a middle-aged woman who is successfully carrying on an unusual occupation for a woman —that of a fisherwoman,

states a writer in the “Sydney Morning Herald.” Mrs G., as she prefers to be known, is not a “rod” nor a "line” fisher (though one can often see her when the day’s work is over standing on the edge of her boathouse landing, tempting the bream with fresh pawn bait—just for relaxation). Mrs G. is a licensed net fisher. She was seated on an upturned box mending her net when I met her, and asked her to tell me how she had become what she was, and just a little about net fishtag. “There’s really nothing in being a fisherman,” she insisted modestly; “it’s just a lot of hard, tedious work—but I like it.” It was high tide, and the green river water was barely an inch below the floor of the boathouse. “Is the net very heavy?” I asked. She placed her hand ruefully through a hole tom in the net, then smiled. "Sometimes it is rather weighty, but I can handle it pretty well anywhere —it’s just a knack. Much depends on the tide and the beach. "Some hauls—that is what we call each fishing beach —have to be netted at low tide, otherwise there is no beach left to land the fish on. That means the bottom lead-line has to be pulled through the mud; a hard job when one is ankle-deep in it, too.” “And do you always get enough for your needs?” She stopped searching the net for further holes. “I never get enough,” she laughed. “That sounds greedy, I suppose, but it isn’t, really. You see, I usually get sufficient to supply all the customers on my rounds, but all the surplus is welcomed by the shops. They will always take it—though, naturally, having to resell it, they don’t pay as well as I would like. Then there is another side to the question. Sometimes lam out all night, nd then do not get enough to fill a frying pan! Yes, it’s wonderful how patient one gets after a while. . . . There are nights when I work hard, ankle-deep in mud half the time, all for nothing. The compensations are when I fill the boat with fish!” “But your feet—in the mud!” I gasped. Mrs G. stretched her legs before her and showed her bare white feet. “Mud doesn’t harm them,” she assured me, “and, as for rowing—why, it’s just the thing to keep one fit.” She leaned forward and peered out to the end of the landing, where her 16-foot rowboat was moored. “There it is,” she pointed, “and it’s as light as a feather." (If Mrs G. is an example of what mud and rowing will do for the figure, I pass on the hint to those whose weight is a problem.) “Tell me,” I requested, “how do you know whether you will catch prawns or fish?” "I don’t,” she answered brightly, taking up the net again. “Mostly I get fish, with prawns and crabs at the same time. Some beaches are more favourable for prawns than others.” “Aren’t you afraid of crabs?” She laughed, as though the mere suggestion was humorous. “I’m only afraid they might tear a hole in the net!” “Fishing isn’t a bad game,” she went on, “if you take the rough water with the smooth. It has enabled me to be independent. I have regular runs worked up and a large number of customers —and my husband does not have to look for work any more—that means a lot,” she added. I asked her if she intended hauling that night. “Yes,” she replied. “To-morrow is Saturday—the hotelkeeper’s day. I supply him with prawns, which he gives to his customers.”