Carol’s Column

Some fishy tales of feminine prowess

A short and fascinating snippet caught my eyeball a few weeks ago. In her daily column, colleague Olga Horowitz noted that a new book written by two extremely serious fishermen, Professor Peter Behan and Hugh Falkus, states categorically that women are better fisherpeople than men.

This does not surprise me for a moment. You just have to go down to the Zoo Lake on a Saturday morning in the early hours to see the northern suburbs ladies reeling in their catches while their men stand biteless and desolate alongside.

They say it has something to do with the fact that fish are discerning about who catches them.

A few years ago, in true pioneering style, we loaded our ancient vehicle with fishing and camping gear and set off to one of the Great Lakes of Africa — Kariba.

“Don’t bring meat,” said my husband, his dented khaki hat set at a rakish angle on his head. “The boys and I will fish for our supper.”

My three sons in their dented khaki hats grinned.

“You can depend on us, Ma,” said Barry, my oldest unmarried son. His brothers nodded.

We duly pitched our tent among the elephants and crocodiles and set off in a gnarled wooden boat with an asthmatic half horsepower two-stroke motor. Silently we phutted across the lake.

“Sit still, you’re rocking the boat.”

“I’ve got a bite, I’ve got a bite.”

“That’s not a bite, that’s my backside.”

“Breakfast, lunch and dinner are on their way,” said my husband casting. I watched his spoon part company with his rod and fly up, up and away.

My youngest son hooked a hippo and my middle one threw his rod overboard in an over-enthusiastic cast. Things looked promising.

To pass the time, my daughter and I took some handline, rolled salami and pickled cucumber bait and dropped the lines overboard.

Within 15 minutes, we’d caught seven tiger fish while the males cast fruitlessly away.

“These fish are female chauvinists,” muttered my husband between casts. It is not nice to gloat, however, all the fish hooked on that particular trip were caught by the two mammiferous members of the family. Which reiterates what Professor Behan and Mr Falkus said about the superiority of fisherwomen in their book.

Then there’s the well-known story of Maximilian the Marlin. A fierce marlin of awesome size, he roamed the waters of the Indian Ocean avoiding the hundreds of game fishermen who annually took to the waters in an attempt to hook this great fish. Fondly known as Maximilian, or Max for short, he was hooked several times, but, after fights of Hemingway proportions, managed to escape. No man could hold him.

And then Thomas Pembrook-Hargreaves, of the famous Natal Pembrook-Hargreaves family, mounted an expedition to Mozambique with the sole purpose of hunting Max.

They say Thomas spent almost a million rand on his boat and gear, importing the finest deep-sea fishing equipment from Alaska. With five good friends, three of them Springbok deep-sea fishermen, he set off to the island of Bazaruto in the Mozambique channel.

At the last minute, Esmarelda, his newly wed wife, asked if she might come along, just to snatch herself a tan.

Thomas was overjoyed. Marlin hunting during the day and Esmarelda at night. What could be more conducive to a successful fishing trip.

For a week, Thomas fished the seas without success. And then a passing boat mentioned that Max had been seen a few kilometres northwards.

Early next morning, Thomas set off for the exact spot of the sighting. Fishing conditions were superb and at the last minute, Esmarelda asked if she might come along. She was bored sunbathing her navel.

In the way that serious fishermen do, Thomas and his cronies enjoyed several tongue-chilling beers for breakfast while Esmarelda, for fun, sat herself down in the central fishing chair. For fun, she strapped herself tightly in, lifted the rod and cast idly into the depth. Upon which there was a strike and her arms were almost wrenched from their sockets.

The line spun out wildly when suddenly, a huge and wonderful marlin leapt from the sea. There could be no doubt, the dainty Esmarelda had hooked the fearsome Max. For three hours she fought the fish, her body almost breaking from the strain. And then finally, triumphantly, she reeled him in.

Everyone was thrilled. Well almost everyone.

Thomas was nowhere to be found. Had he fallen off? Had he jumped off in despair? Nobody knows and to this day, he’s never been seen again. Meanwhile Esmarelda broke the world marlin record.

As Professor Behan and Mr Falkus say in their erudite tome: you can’t hold a good woman and her fishing rod down.

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