From: Lee Andrews

Hi guys here's a fishy story of the glory days of Port Philip Heads when the kings were big and predictable. Although they don't show up like this any more I always remain hopeful I can show my son what my father showed me when I was his age, good memories. Hope you enjoy my story, Lee.

King of The Rip

"LEE, LEE, wake up it's time to go!"

It was early, 2am, I slowly became awake. This was not the first time I had gone on this sort of hunt. I knew the routine but today was different; today I was going to do it. I was ten years old and for five years I had watched. But today was I was going to participate. The mere thought drove my sleepiness away. Of course I knew the day before, there was no body going with my father out to the Rip, only me.

At 8.30pm I had gone to bed, but the excitement was too much and for four hours I had tossed and turned unable to calm my mind. I thought I'd never go to sleep, but at the appointed time I was awoken. I had spent a lot of time looking at the signs. Watching the weather seeing the reports on the television, summer had truly arrived. The season was late. December was wet, cold and windy. Not a good beginning. January was warmer and my hopes had risen. I eagerly awaited the first sign, the North Wind. But a storm had come out of the arctic and caused havoc.

I remember standing at the kitchen window and watching the clouds. They were moving strangely that day. Thunder heads rolling in from the South and dark grey puffs floating down from the North. They met right in my view from the kitchen window and started to circle around each other like dogs sizing each other up before a fight. And fight they did.

The first hurricane in Highton's history and then the rain came! In six hours our backyard turned into a lake. We lived on a 1/4 acre block and it had a 5-degree slant towards the east. Back yards were filled with water and the children had a swimming pool in each yard but all I could think was the Kings wouldn't come. The news report that night was surreal. Caravans on the peninsula were picked up and thrown into the bay. Flooding was wide spread and many lives were lost. The significance of these tragedies did not register in my mind. My only worry was that the Kings wouldn't come.

March was better, already the weather was calm. On March the 1st the North wind began to blow. Hot, sweltering 35 degrees, March 13th 38 degrees hot and balmy. For two weeks the North wind blew and the seas were calm and hot. I knew what this meant. My anticipation grew. Reports started coming in one King here one King there. School no longer held any interest for me. Things were moving without me and I couldn't stand it. Easter break was only a few days away and the time for my first battle drew closer.

My teachers drilled me about not paying attention in class but I didn't care. The North wind blew my cares away along with the bad weather. Thursday, holidays long expected had arrived, Dad said to me, "Wanna to go fishing tomorrow?" What a silly question I thought, "You bet ya" I said in a calm voice trying to hide my excitement. "Try to get an early night" he said, "We'll be up before dawn". As if I didn't know! And so at 8.30pm I went to bed. At 2.30am I was awakened and I was ready. I knew what was instore for me. I had seen the fight before, straining muscles, line cutting into hands and arms, but I was ready. We ate our breakfast, porridge with sweetened condensed milk, but I can't remember tasting any of it.

Not long after getting into the car I began to drift back into dream land, half awake my mind raced at the possibility of what the day might bring. Drifting in this wonderful dream world I was suddenly awaken by the screams of a seagull that had flown in the path of our 1981 Ford Fairlane and got caught in the sun visor. Dad hit the breaks and the bird managed to get free of the car. Dad turned to me and said , "Nature's on the move boy; we might be in for a chance". I didn't need his encouragement, but it was taken none the less, dad knew the patterns of nature along with the best.

Thoughts drifted back as the seagull's cries were lost in the distance, I remember the huge ship and the blast of the horn as it steamed past, I remember dad hauling, I remember the wake waves from the ship hitting our boat as the monstrous fish came aboard and I remember seeing the steering wheel of the 15 foot aluminum we were in, before it hit my face.

The car stopped and I became fully awake, we were at the boat ramp and the memories of my first king fishing trip vanished. Dad's boat, a 26-foot couta boat, was moored at Queenscliff in the harbour. From here it was only 3 kilometres to the fishing grounds and once we left the harbor we started trawling for jet squid (one of the King's favorite meals), the time had reached 4am when dad pulled in the first squid.

The wind was in the east chopping up the surface of the ocean. The tide was starting to flood making conditions perfect for bait gathering. While standing at the stern waiting for a squid to attack my bait jig, for attack is the only way to describe the way these fierce arrow headed shaped creatures feed, I let the atmosphere seep into my senses. I loved this place! The way the predawn wind gusted about your ears, so clean, cold and refreshing. Every now and then the spray from the choppy water hits your face as the boat pushes a slow path south towards Point Nepean. And most of all the slow rise and fall of the huge Easter swell as it sneaks its way through the Rip and swings to the east to run with the tide down over the fishing grounds. This was music to my soul. I loved this place!

All too soon I was torn away from my revere with the violent jerks on my fishing line of a squid vainly trying to escape this strange object that it thought was an easy breakfast. Quickly I pulled it up and into the boat. Although I had had the upper hand in the whole affair, disdainfully the squid decided I needed a good coating of ink and proceeded to do so with vigor. Turning my face away all too late I noticed my father; a big grin broke upon his face. He had heard the squid emptying its ink chamber and turned to see two eyes staring out of a mess of slime and ink. I smiled back even though I saw very little that was humorous.

Over the next half an hour twelve more squid graced our fish bin, this was more than enough to meet our needs so dad gave the call to bring in the squid lines. The predawn light was just starting; colouring the eastern sky with a beautiful deep blue and the easterly wind was subsiding. Within ten minutes the last gusts had stopped and a still silence had descended upon the ocean. You never know what the dawn may bring, the best or worst days of your fishing career. But on mornings like this you really feel a special something in the air, there is no word for the atmosphere you find yourself in, it's almost like the calm before the storm or the feeling a rock must get as it's held in the pouch of a fully loaded sling shot, awaiting to be released, either way it's almost eerie.

Taking time out to assess the morning as the visibility increased I become aware we had not been out there alone. Fourteen other boats were well spread but all heading for the same destination as us. It was like watching snails race to the vegetable patch after a rain. Slowly but surely our destination grew closer and boats started to pull along side one another all steaming in the same direction, the quiet was soon replaced by the clunk and clang of hard working diesels and the raised voices of fishermen yelling over the space of water between them.

"How'd you go?" said a professional fisher to my father, "13" was his reply. There was no need to describe what type of fish as everybody was after the same species, arrow squid. "Yeah I only got two" said the pro. Dad pulled along side and threw him a couple more, we had plenty! Thanks mate he said with a wave and a smile.

The water was now swirling and creating large mushroom like patches as the water hits the bomby reefs on the north side of the Step forcing the water straight up the surface. We were only 300 meters from our destination. We along with 14 other boats were headed for a patch of reef known as the Pinnacles, a huge reef structure like canine teeth rising up from the sea bed three hundred and twenty feet below.

In the early 1950s the army blasted the tops of the Pinnacles because of the danger to shipping, leaving flat tops to the Pinnacles that rested 50ft below the surface, on the north side of the pinnacles was a large deep trench with a near vertical northern wall known as The Step. The Yellow Tailed Kingfish used these structures to lay, in ambush for bait fish and squid that were carried past by the tide.

Time for action, I moved up to the front of the boat and laid my hands on two laundry buckets that contained our weapons for battle. In each bucket there was 15 metres of 300 lb monofilament line. Attached to one end were six 12/0 hooks ganged together, each hook was big enough to lay length ways from palm to finger tip in your hand and six together joined eye to shank could hold a one kilo squid whole. On the other end of the trace was twenty metres of synthetic rope with 70gram lead barrel sinkers crimped around it at spacing of 40 cms. Not the most sporting of fishing gear but the kings were not the most sporting fighters either, they were pure heart and muscle and pound for pound one of the strongest fish, the oceans of the world have to offer. In no time two fresh squid were slowly easing there way back behind the boat and sinkers were taking them down to the strike zone.

The mood was festive at the Pinnacles that morning, men smiling and laughing at each others banter, all hopes were high with the promise of a good catch. The crescent moon was rising in the east with the sun soon to follow the sea gulls were starting to congregate above letting out stern cries almost telling the fish it was time to give up and be eaten. I smiled and wondered if one of them was telling my dad off for driving his car into its flight path. Suddenly a couple of them veered away from the boats spotting a school of garfish breaking the surface in a very nervous manner. Squid! I thought to myself, must be after a feed too. Then the garfish went ballistic, jumping and tail walking like miniature marlin.

My heart nearly stopped as I spotted these dark green torpedoes charging into the melee with a frenzied abandonment I had never witnessed before. Within seconds it was over and a big yellow tail broke the water for the last time and then disappeared into the depths. I stood rooted to the spot, open mouthed, eyes budging wanting to shout with excitement and wonder but unable to even breathe. The adrenalin started to flow and my heart went from not beating at all to nearly jumping out of my chest. As the hairs on my arms and on the back of my neck stood up like I had been electrocuted my knees started to shake and I became nervous. Never had I seen a display of such aggression in the wild. These fish were truly the kings of the sea.

As I watched the seagulls pick up the leftovers I started to calm down a little. A sudden hard thump on my lead line and the second wave of adrenalin surged. With a frenzy of my own I started to wrestle in my line. Only to stop to the sound of my fathers laugh a deep thunderous belly laugh that carried across the Rip to every other boat. I didn't even notice there was no fish on the other end of my line. My dad had seen the Kings too and while I was still looking vainly at the aftermath he had reached over and gave my line a good yank. "Not funny" I said and he laughed even harder.

In an instant his expression changed and his arm began to extend with the sudden weight on his led line. Grabbing his line with both hands he managed to stop it. Turning to me he said "Drop the revs on the motor, I think I've got the reef". I eased back the motor and he began to pull, slowly but surely he began to regain some line. Relaxing a little he gave a couple of sharp pulls to try and free his line and then the reef took off at full speed. Loosing his balance he grabbed the stern cleat to stop the supposed reef from pulling him overboard. His arm began to stretch again and this time it looked painful.

I swung the boat around and headed back to his line. My dad was stubborn and would never let his line go for anything. The line slackened as we drove towards it and he pulled it in as fast as he could. I turned the boat back around into the current. But his line was still slack. Lost it he said as he pulled his line in with relative ease. The leads were hitting the deck and he was reaching for the trace when he realized his last statement was premature.

The line tightened, moved a couple of degrees starboard, paused, then with an incredible sudden acceleration the trace was again making its way down to the depths. Refusing to budge dad held tight as the sinkers were dragged through his grasp, taking hair and skin with them. It's strange to see a man in pain with a huge grin on his face and a look in his eyes of cold, hard, steel. His hand and arms were bloody! He was breathing hard. He was not giving up! Locking his knees against the transom he wrapped the line 3 times around each arm and stood toe to toe.

Paused in a stale mate for what seemed to me hours, but was probably only a few seconds he slowly turned and said "pull your line up boy". Jumping to it I started to retrieve my line and soon had the 10 meters of main line on the deck. I looked at dad as the sinkers started to hit the wooden deck and noticed he wasn't attempting to retrieve his line. "That's enough" he said, I stopped.

We were on the northern end of the pinnacles and right beside the depths of the step. And dad was edging his way over the drop off. He suddenly seemed satisfied with the scenario and began to haul in his lead line. This consisted of wrapping the line around the forearm twice and gripping the line with your hand so the rope lay's across your palm and exits between the thumb and forefinger. Drag in the line and repeat with the other arm. The skull drag! Inch by inch, sinkers slowly hit the deck. "Must be a big one dad!" I said as he strained. "Yep!" He almost spat back with a gasp. He looked at me and said "Jig your line a bit". I did, once, twice then something felt wrong. The line was light.

I jigged it forward and it didn't go back. Slowly the weight returned and I relaxed, but it felt a bit heavy. Dad's last two sinkers hit the deck. His line was angled almost straight down, slicing through the 4 knot current and giving off a small rooster tail. The 15-metre 300lb trace was singing as it was slowly being retrieved. My line wobbled strangely, the tension increased and bang I was on. Double hook up!! I loved this place. Instantly I started to haul. Wrapping my arms in leaded line and letting it fall at my feet. One metre, two metres, three, "Look out Lee".

I turned to see dad leaning over the gunwale grabbing the last foot of trace. He straightened and 50lbs of yellow tailed fury came sailing over the stern. It hit the deck like a bomb. Seeing the size of his king dad put a little extra effort into landing the beast. The fish wasn't lifted aboard. It sailed over the stern gaff less and still fresh. Hitting the timbers the fish began to rampage the deck. Dad over balanced with his landing effort and gave the fish the slack line it needed to almost swim across the boat. The huge yellow tail beat the deck timbers. Thump, thump, whack. The white fish bin containing the squid lines and squid, shot across to my side of the boat like a flash, impacting and erupting fishing gear and black ink. Not again I thought as the black slime, in slow motion, reached its destination, my face.

Grabbing the trace tightly dad slid out the tiller arm and delivered the creature its last rights. The deck was a mess, so was my slimy ink covered head. And the king lay silent green on top, silver underneath with a yellow stripe separating the two and iridescent yellow fins and tail. I then had a thought, there's one on my line. Whether the king and I stopped the fight for the landing of dad's fish or not I don't remember but the fight resumed. Four metres in, five and my fish finally woke up.

Ahhhh, I could almost hear the king screaming from the depths as the big yellow tail punched the water and wrestled the line from my hands. I hadn't the strength to stand toe to toe and steadily had to give line. Dad was rebaiting the hooks, three had to be straightened but in short time bait number two was easing back into the prop wash and sinkers were taking it down. My fish was down deep and finally I was able to stand my ground. I began to skull drag slowly, and then faster, the fight was on. I was elated, excited, determined this fish was mine.

Clunk, clunk the sinkers hit the floor released from wet sore hands. The fish fought back slowing the haul. The trace was in sight and from beneath so was the boat. Not to the king's liking and down he dove. I stood my ground gripping the last two sinkers before the trace. The last one started to slide slowly giving line and closing the gap towards the second. "Need some help?" dad asked. "Nah I can manage" I replied, although not exactly true. My arms ached with lactic acid, my knees shook with adrenaline, and I began to haul. The trace started to grace the timbers. I looked at dad, he was hauling, and he grinned. "Double hook up! I loved this place!" Looking down my trace I saw the bright silver flash followed by yellow as the king fought back, he didn't take line this time, no way. Toe to toe, I was winning, I started to haul.

Clearer and clearer the out line and colors of this beautiful fish became visible rolling on its side trying to get its head down so it can escape to safety. But no I was now in control. A last minute change in tactics and the king broke the surface shaking its head in its last show of defiance before coming along side the boat. I attempted to land the fish my self but I barely lifted the fish out of the water. A large black haired arm reached over mine. The fish suddenly flew aboard as the last one did. Grabbing the tiller I gave a wild swing which missed the fish completely and sent an awful jar up my arm upon hitting the deck. Second swing a bit slower delivered one of the three prayers needed to lay the king to rest. There I stood over my kill excited, thrilled and a little sad. Strange feeling the kill! I don't think I like it. It never bothered me with small fish but this was different somehow.

"Lee, Lee, give me the tiller!" Dad shoved it back in place and righted the boat's course. My 30lb king lay at rest. "Look out!" was the cry and a green and yellow torpedo sailing over the gunwale was the next thing I saw. Thump, thump, whack silence. Number 3, 23 1/2lb lay beside Mr.50 and Mr.30. We both sat and breathed, and looked. There was no noise, it seemed, but slowly I became aware of the diesel engine again and the constant putt, putt, putt. Dad and I looked at each other, expressionless, at first, but a smile spread across his face and then mine, ever growing until we both erupted in gleeful laughter.

"Let's get another one" dad said as he lifted the revs on the engine and headed back to join formation with the other boats. Two fresh squid made their way back to the strike zone; however the atmosphere was different now. There were a lot more birds in the air and a lot less talk between boats. All were tense even the garfish. There were plenty of these and they were tail walking at the drop of a hat. Me, I was tense too but in a different way for I was now a 10ft tall 10 year old, a master of the universe, a hunter. Or so I felt. That feeling I do like.

We slowly made our way back to the Pinnacles, slowly edging sideways while still motoring against the current. Only 100 metres now separated us from the nearest boat. One of the men was hauling his line and I watched intently, waiting to see the fish being landed. Some distance between us a 'couta jumped from the water, soon to be followed by a hoard of garfish. Strange to see as it's usually the other way round, but the answer soon followed as the water erupted in a melee of raging kingfish. "There must be hundreds of them dad" I gasped! He answered with "pull your line up Lee, quick" he emphasized as he punched the throttle.

Almost immediately after he pulled the throttle back and I turned to see what was wrong. Fifty metres to the side and behind us two more patches of thrashing water appeared. Neither of us spoke, we were paused, the calm before the storm. It was inevitable we were going to hook up, but when? We watched, we waited, and it seemed to take forever. The thrashing on the surface subsided then almost as if by cue all the patches of fish disappeared. It was calm again and I sat on the bulwark wondering what went wrong. Dad was still paused, hopeful, he punched the throttle again and as the tide had lessened, we raced ahead of our mark.

My line jerked tight, I pulled back and the fury again erupted. These fish were amazing, 100 metres of rope and 20lb of lead were ripped through the water like it was tied to a submarine, with no regard for things like 3 knots of tide or drag on the line, dad hooked up and started to haul straight away. I stood holding my line which was making its way up the port side of the boat. Double hook up I thought. My line ceased racing against the tide and began in the opposite direction, time to join the battle and I began to haul. Sinkers were once again hitting the deck, dad's fast, mine slow and under the water two kings battled.

I often wonder at how strange this behaviour must look to the other king fish this strange dance one does usually before disappearing. Intriguing, exciting and like a pack of ruffians the kings follow until the weirdo disappears or they realize they're being hunted. But follow they do and the result? Double hook ups.

"Look out Lee!" Grabbing the last foot of trace dad straightened and two hooks came whistling over the stern. A big yellow tail slapped the surface and disappeared back in to the deep. All I heard was a short sharp "Damn". My trace was not far now, and the king, as usual, hit the gas diving straight for the Step and safety. Sinkers pulled through my hands and I was suddenly aware how much they hurt. Adrenaline drives away pain but now they were water logged and my fingers felt afire. And the king, it gave no quarter; I managed to stop his dive and a stand off ensured. Wrapped in lead line my arms were stretched with every beat of that powerful yellow tail, again I started to haul, the line felt heavier now and my arms longer. The trace appeared over the side of the boat. Not far now I thought. A little more and I saw the silver flash, then two, one ahead, one behind.

A small patch of garfish tail walked right next to the boat. They over took us, more afraid of the water than the air. I hauled my line and the garfish, now just in front of the boat, met their fate. I will never forget the sight! Hauling with my right arm, reaching with my left, I peered around my shoulder to see a lonely garfish walking back beside me in the opposite direction. And the big green submarine following, waiting, one tail walk and the garfish hit the water, two tail walks and the garfish hit the water, three tail walks as the garfish past the stern of the boat almost close enough to grab, the green sub struck, engulfing the garfish from behind as he broke the surface then with a lightning fast silver and yellow flash he was gone. Leaving only of shower of water to slowly return to the sea like shrapnel after an explosion.

There was silence again, I couldn't hear the putt, putt, putt, was I still at home dreaming? My hands hurt. My king fought back trying to return with the rest of the hoodlums to the Step, safety! My knees were shaking again, I hauled. The silver was clear and the yellow iridescent as I reached for the last foot of trace. 25lbs of golden glory came sailing over the stern as a half war cry, half high pitched scream escaped my lungs. But sail over the stern it did just like the three kings before it, just like dad.

Three kings now lay silent and one with a slight tremble to its tail. Silently I stood and looked, still with the tiller in my hand. 'Sorry mate' I thought, but never spoke.

"What do ya reckon?" said dad, "Yep!" I replied. He put the tiller arm back into its rightful place, punched the throttle, turned to the north, towards home; it was 8.30am and breakfast awaited. We sat on the bulwark with the tiller between us, smiling, but silent.

We left while the kings were still biting that day, at the heads of Port Phillip Bay, in the Rip. And the kings of the Rip waited for the next battle, tomorrow when the hunter and his son returned, but that's another story.

THE END