THE SEA’S HARVEST

Dominion, Volume 28, Issue 108, 31 January 1935, Page 8

THE SEA’S HARVEST

From Stormy Cook Strait

ITALIAN FISHERMEN AT ISLAND BAY

Only one or two small boys are watching the dinghy from the fishing launch pull up by the sea shore rocks at Island Bay. The fishermen come ashore and quickly transfer their catch to cases which the waiting lorry will convey to the local fish marts. From the pink pool in the bottom of the dinghy a few odds and ends are east back into the sea. where they are seized immediately by the waiting gulls screaming and wheeling close above the little group. The dinghy is tijiped up on its side, and washed out with a few pails of sea water, its composite gear of nets, lines and hooks already having been landed. To the accompaniment of brisk Italian orders the cleaning up goes on. The captain loads the wet and heavy net on to the shoulders of one of his gum-booted crew, and it is taken to a sandy patch and unfolded there. It will, soon dry in the sun, and the weed, still green from the ocean floor, will dry to a faded brown. The fishermen’s clay is over, and a meal is waiting for them in one of the little houses along the bay. Later they will sit in the sun, smoking and talking to thdir companions of the catches they have made, until the time comes for them to go back to the sea again. They will arise early in the morning and seek to-morrow’s fish while Wellington is still asleep. It. has been a busy day. This boat has caught a 10-feet long blue shark. Sometimes queer fish are numbered in their catches, an octopus, perhaps, or a skate. But for the most part groper, flounder, or ling form the bulk of the daily harvest. Prices are not too good just now, but these sons of Italy are quite philosophical about it. Unlike Australian fishermen, they admit that there is no potato embargo which will cause a reduction to their contribution to the,fish and chips trade. Dangerous Waters.

Outside the harbour another white launch can be seen slowly chugging back to port against the background of blue sea and white waves, which seem almost as large as the little vessel. Over on (lie hazy horizon the South Island mountains can be dimly seen, one witli a little white patch of snow on it. Nearer at hand the fishing fleet rides peacefully at anchor, some in the lee of the big brown rock which gives the bay its name, some nearer in to the shore and the crowds of bathers on the beach. There are about 30 of these little white launches at Island Bay, most of them belonging to Italians, but others to Scottish fishermen. Then there is a dark green boat, bigger than the launches. It is one of about half a dozen of the larger fishing vessels which have their headquarters here. An old Italian looks unappreciatlvely at the choppy waters of Cook Strait. It is the most dangerous fishing ground in the world, he says, and he has been fishing for 30 years.

“It give me many frights,” he chuckles, out of its reach for the time being. ■ “It turna the whiskers white.” His whiskers are certainly white. They suggest the appearance of years of salt sea spray. It is the winds of the straits that constitute their baffling qualities. The meteorological forecast does not help the fiisliermeu much. They have gone out on many a fine morning and come back in a gale. Sometimes their derelict launch lias been towed back by another vessel. Only a few years ago four men lost their lives in such a storm as this. Only one and a half miles from ’Hie Island Bay haven a launch has spent hours struggling to make its way back to tiie narrow rocky passage leading to safety. Often the fishermen have thought they would never come back. Huge seas have swamped their insignificant little craft and headway against’ the sweeping winds has seemed impossible. A. storm may loom up at any time from any direction; even on a normal day the turbulent appearance of the sea is enough to prevent any landsman from venturing out far upon if. Some of these fishermen have had experience of other parts of New Zealand. They like Napier best, but Cook Strait has no good word from them. The Scottish fishermen say that it is worse than the North Sea. Tiie old fisherman no longer goes out will; the big launch: he is now content with crayfish. He shows the means by which they are caught, strong and neatly made wicker baskets, manufactured by the fishermen themselves. They are heavily weighted at the bottom, and have an aperture at the top through which the bait is inserted, and which.is entered by the crayfishcoloured black at this stage in his life, and shortly to assume the glorious red*which will make him such a prominent feature in the fisli-monger’s window. Talk for Twenty Years. The absence of a wharf, at Island Bay is conspicuous. Some of the fishermen complain of the lack of convenience in getting the fish ashore, transferring the fish from Hie launch to the dinghy and then lauding them. They admit a wharf would be a great improvement, but what can be done about it? There is talk, they say, but there has been talk lor 20 years. Deputations have approached the Marine Department, but it has always been the same. The fishermen have been asked to contribute to the cost of Hie wharf, and their expressive shrugs show that they have not the capital for the large outlay which would be involved. And then some of them are there only for a time, a year, perhaps, for the population seems to ebb and flow. These people are not interested in a wharf, and so there is no wharf there yet. Once, the old man says, fish were unloaded on the wharves at Wellington' Harbour. They have not much to say on the subject of Australian trawlers in New . Zealand waters. They have seen the trawlers, and that is all they seem to care. There are plenty of fish in the sea for all. These fishermen work when they can, for at any time they may be forced by the elements into a period of inactivity. For as long as ten days or more storms sometimes prevent them from going out. They can do nothing, and Wellington just has to go short of fish. But it is an uncertain life, one in which Nature plays far more of a part than it would in most other occupations. And so we find these Italians, as they sit in the sun, calm and philosophical, ready to take their share of whatever may be decreed for them, but beyond that living in :t peaceful little backwater of life, and always with the hope of better prices some day. They did not have to go out at night once, when prices were good. Now they have to do it, and the danger of their occupation is increased. Seine of them think of returning to Italy one day. Prices will be better then.