Vignette 8

Flying False Teeth

 

It was a beautiful morning. Rita, Stu and I were on our daily walk. The conversation ebbed and flowed according to the severity of the hill’s incline. Eventually the subject of teeth arose and we wound in and around this topic, moving from Dentist appointments, to searching for lost retainers in movie theaters, to false teeth.  We forgot to look around while we were walking; as we simply got caught up in our inane conversation; but the views along the way were simply one of a kind.  We trudged slowly up, up, up, until we made our way along the spine shaped ridgeline with views of the Hauraki Gulf in all directions. 

 

After exhausting Dentist stories the topic switched to fishing. Stu told Rita and I about a time he was out fishing with his brother. They were in separate boats off the Coast of Kawau Island, which is a short hop north of Auckland. Some incident prompted the fisheries warden to be on the scene. All three boats were bobbing up and down in a precarious triangle and during the discussion with the fisheries officer, Stu’s brother became agitated and animated, expressively using  his arms to punctuate his point, when all of sudden his brother’s false teeth went sailing out in a slow cresting arc before dropping with a dramatic plunk into the deep blue.  Stu ended the story by saying that his brother was as mad as a meat cleaver. I don’t know which I loved most, the image of sailing false teeth or Stu’s concise summation at the end of the story.

 

Later that morning, I went along with Stu to collect the two long lines that he had set at daybreak. He mentioned how great it was that he could be catching fish at the same time that he was walking the ridge.  I enjoy fishing with Stu.  There is a lot to be learned from watching him in action. Getting a chance to observe Stu fish is like watching a choreographed routine. It is a methodical and perfectly executed dance. There is a purpose for every last thing on Stu’s boat.  A little short piece of line that I almost threw away was called upon to tie the canopy back when the boat was anchored. Everything has its place and you better not move a bucket from here to there, lest you upset the balance onboard his boat “Stewed Again.”

 

A funny shaped stick that looks to be 80 years old is a valuable tool for releasing a swallowed hook from a snapper. Stu calls this a “gob stick.”  A bleach bottle can be a buoy or a hand fishing line. His favorite Janola bleach bottle is used as a hand fishing line and nicknamed, “The Terminator” because it wastes no time catching the largest fish.   We zoomed across the channel in search of the long line that had been set before the walk. The water was smooth and the tide going out.  I knew from experience to sit still and await instructions.  My important task today was to grab the buoys (1 bleach bottle and 1 transmission fluid bottle) as they drifted by the boat.  I felt nervous that I might screw up, but things went well and I hooked them easily and passed them back to Stu who unhooked them and then turned to ask me to find the plastic bag that had been on the floor by my feet.  I grabbed the empty bag so quickly I reminded myself of playing the role of a nurse assisting a temperamental surgeon.  I toyed briefly with saying, “scalpel” in an authoritarian sounding voice as I handed him the bag, but today I wasn’t in the mood for the “yank look,” that Stu would undoubtedly give me.

 

Then the long line dance began.  Stu cranked in the line, unclipped the first trace, handed it to me and I fastened the hook end into the back of the wooden long line box that neatly houses the fifty separate traces that are baited and snapped onto the long line. I settled each hook over the wooden edge and then carefully slipped the clear fishing line through small cuts of rubber to hold the trace in place.  What a nifty setup!  Stu would describe it is, “sweet as!”  Along the way Stu came upon a kink in one of the retrieved trace lines.  He whipped it behind his bum and began heating it up by pulling it back and forth across the material in his shorts.  He says that when it starts to burn he knows the line has been un-kinked.

 

While pulling in the long line Stu says things like, “I think I feel something.” “It might be big.”  I get as excited as a little kid, waiting to see what he will pull up from out of the depths.  On this day a few good snapper were snagged to take home for tea. Thankfully, no stingray had wandered through the gauntlet of baited hooks.  Stingrays make a mess of the long line, jumbling up the whole kit and caboodle.  Releasing them is very tricky.

 

Stu effectively deals with all fishing concerns in a matter of fact manner.  Even the pain in the ass mutton birds that harass fisherman as they cast out their bait are dealt to with the aid of a sling shot and a supply of perfectly shaped beach pebbles. It is not uncommon to hook one of these birds and have to reel them in and perform hook removal surgery, or unwind the strangling line from around wings and feet. There is never dull moment fishing with Stu.  

 

Murphy is also a great fisherman.  He catches fish closer to home and without the aid of the long line.  Murphy loves nothing better than to show off a big catch, and never fails to call out loudly to Stu as he walks through his yard on his way back to his home.  After showing off a bit he crosses through our yard and calls out to me with an offer of fish for dinner. Murphy has been very generous with his fish, many of which have graced our table over the past seven years. There is absolutely nothing like the taste of a snapper that has gone from hook to table in less than two hours. Orapiu is a paradise for an aquatic version of hunting and gathering.  Sometimes when I come home from a long day in Auckland City, feeling tired at the prospect of having to come up with something for dinner, I am pleased to find that Stu has delivered a plate full of scallops to my fridge.  This is one of the many things about living at the bottom end that can incurably spoil a person.

 

Lately my life has been full to the brim with fishing and painting.  This year I have developed a body of work entitled, Fish, Eat, Sleep.  So much of what I paint comes from my own backyard, and living smack dab in the midst of a cluster of islands it is not surprising to find that fish feature in my art. Every year I choose something in my environment that interests me to learn more about. This year I have immersed myself in learning how to be a competent and knowledgeable fisherwoman.  I can tie a mean clinch knot and already buy into superstition regarding the best time to go out and which bait to use. I watch the Saturday afternoon fishing shows and was so engrossed with the program last week that I almost jumped up to look for the net to help the guy who had just hooked up a giant kingi on his line.  Yes, I have been bitten badly by the fishing bug and fortunately Scott likes it too.  For the moment fishing does “blow my hair back” as Jae says, but birds are still consistently in my thoughts, so I am happy to report that my fishing fetish extends to learning about the adaptations and behaviors of fishing birds like the gannet, fairy terns, oyster catchers and cormorants as well the adventures of this wannabe fisherwoman.  Wonder if Mr. Cormorant ever came upon Stu’s brother’s choppers when he was chasing his dinner?

 

Stu never ceases to amaze me with his homemade inventions to further the fishing cause.  On the fishing shows the guys always throw out berley to attract fish.  I think we call this chumming in California.  A berley bomb is a compact frozen log of fish oil and sprats that fit into a container with holes to let the bits float out as they thaw.  A decent current carries your berley message to fish far and near.  Stu has set up a miniature sink and garbage disposal at the base of his backyard steps.  He hooked into his power grid and now has a berley making machine.  He places the sprats that he catches in a net off Orapiu Bay down into the garbage disposal and catches them in a bucket after they have been chewed up.  He told me yesterday that he is still experimenting with freezing the berley into the proper shape bombs.  He uses net bags from bulk onions in the grocery store to hold the berley after it is frozen.   

Stu and Rita went fishing a few days ago and brought home a good catch. 

“Kelley, are you up there?” Stu yelled.

“Hey Stu, how did it go?” I asked.

“Sweet as…do you want any frames?” Stu queried.

“You bet I do,” I said.

“With heads or without?” Stu wanted to know.

“With heads please,” I replied.

Stu has taught me how to make fish stock from boiling the heads and frames of the snapper he catches.  I walked over with my big cooking pot and he places four fish frames inside.  I follow his recipe because he is the master; a chopped onion, salt and pepper.  No more, no less. There is an amazing amount of fish meat that comes off the frames, and after cooking for a half hour, you put the whole conglomeration through a sieve and you have a rich hearty stock that can be frozen and used for soup or Asian noodle recipes, or risotto. Stu are Rita pour themselves a cup for lunch each day and dip a piece of bread into it. 

 

These neighborly interactions I take for granted most of the time, but today as I sit here in my studio sharing this simple tale, I marvel at how rich my life has become.  I have landed in a veritable treasure trove of life lessons. The funny thing is; I have really nothing of interest to give Stu in return; except my friendship. Luckily, friendship seems to be the currency that buys me everything I need from Stu and Rita; they are… sweet as.

 

My recipe for using Stuart’s fish frames.

 

Boil the fish frames and heads along with a chopped onion, some salt and pepper for 40 minutes.

Dump the whole thing into a colander and catch the liquid in a large pot.

Add sliced carrots and bring to a boil for fifteen minutes.

Add thick soba noodles; when tender add chopped bok choy and some soy sauce.

Grate some fresh ginger at the end.

Serve in large bowls with chop sticks and a large deep spoon.