A whale of a shark

Some years ago after qualifying to train marine and coastal tourist guides, I returned to angling which I had done as a youngster, usually on a ‘catch and release’ basis. I joined the Durban Paddleski Club and for a decade fished from paddle skis off Vetch’s Pier north of the harbour entrance of Durban.

 

 

 

Fishermen on the Durban Paddleski Club beach

 

I owned a ski made by a veteran of the sport, Dennis Glazer. His skis were quite robust and heavy. They were eight feet (about 2.4 metres) in length, and four feet (1.22 metres) in width. A Glazer ski was very stable under conventional use. Unfortunately, the use to which I seemed to subject them was not ‘conventional’.

The sandy beaches opposite our clubhouse near the North Pier of the harbour entrance made launching easier than elsewhere on the coast, and the waves were subdued if a southeaster was running. When the north-easterly blew, however, launching could be difficult because the wave height increased.

As a new member, I gained fame for some of the most spectacular launches and landings seen in those parts. I seemed to have the capacity to rear the front of the boat up vertically, even in the most placid of seas, and occasionally did it with such perfection that the boat would rear heavenwards and capsize backwards to roars of mirth from the shore. My landings were a voyeur’s dream. I could dig the nose in with impunity as I slid the craft down an incoming wave, sending the ski veering to the left or right before tumbling it over in the waves. Members of the club used to line the verandah of the clubhouse in anticipation of a good performance. It gave me deep satisfaction bringing joy to so many people.

For a year or so, I cut my teeth (and hands) on a friend’s ski; and made a significant contribution to the chumming process by vomiting regularly on the short foredeck of his craft. First would be a mild queasiness, then a bout of sweating that foretold something more to come. I would then go on hands and knees to relieve myself of breakfast. No Roman senator of ancient times could do it better. My colleague eventually dispensed with chumming, since I could do the job for him in any mildly restive sea.

One morning my wife Memory and I ventured out in a southwester to test the boat. With a great deal to remember on our maiden voyage, I forgot to put the plug in. We sped out, sinking imperceptibly. The slight ripples that the wind brought steadily turned to waves that began to breaking and foaming on the surface of the sea. Memory was perched on a slippery cushion over the mid-hatch and I sat on the stern.

Soon wet and even more slippery, the cushion began to skid and my wife slid to her left, clean off the boat. As she went, her clutching hands pulled strongly on the hatch cover, almost turning the boat over. Finding us in a state close to capsize, I did a backwards roll over the rear and was soon in the water alongside the boat. Memory grasped her drifting paddle, which I had secured to the boat, and being a good swimmer, had no trouble staying afloat. I did ‘doggy paddle’ at the back. Soon an engine powered ski-boat arrived.

“Having a bit of bother, then?” asked the skipper in a rather condescending tone.

“Not really,” I countered. “It’s our new fishing technique. We usually go a few hundred metres offshore. My wife then goes in to the port side and herds the fish towards me. As they come around the stern I bash them with the paddle.”

“It could take quite a long time before you get anything,” the skipper replied. “Your method hasn’t had much success for a couple of years. We’d better get you both in.”

My wife managed to scramble onto our small craft, and then clambered onto the ski boat. I accepted a tow gladly. My small craft was by now sinking and the prow was high in the air with the stern more or less awash. I was released a hundred metres from shore and my wife landed in the small, calm surf.

I then had to face a daunting paddle, with the breeze now blowing directly offshore into my face. The prow was well up, and the stern was sinking yet further. To say paddling was a laborious affair is to understate the case. It was almost impossible. And, all the time, out of the corner of my eye, I could see the club members literally rolling on the ground in mirth. I swore vengeance.

After an eternity, I made it in a state of exhaustion. After staggering up the beach, I approached the clubhouse. Memory was waiting there in the midst of a kindly and solicitous group of members. Something I can only describe as ribald good humour greeted me.

“Sending your wife in to catch them with her hands? It’s scandalous!” someone exclaimed.

“Have you tried fishing rods and bait?” someone else asked.

“Bet you won’t forget the cork again,” said another.

They were a tough lot. My revenge came a year later.

 On the morning of my triumph, I paddled out early at sunrise with a friend on another paddle ski. We crossed Vetch’s pier, a line of submerged rocks four hundred metres long, and I had paused to prepare a heavy rod for the bottom fishing I wanted to do inside a line of sandstone known as Limestone Reef. This barrier of rock ran parallel with the coast and was perhaps four hundred metres from shore. It had water four metres deep behind it, and was relatively sheltered because the rocks tended to break any surge coming in from the northeast. On the other hand, at certain times and in certain conditions, waves could rise unexpectedly and crash over the reef. Many boats had capsized on the reef. Only a moments neglect or inattention could cause a mishap.

I uncoiled a short length of line, and was ready to bait it when I made out the dark shapes of two huge fins a hundred metres further out in deeper water. I was baffled because the fins were enormous. The one that was furthest from me was perhaps a metre and a half high, and the fin closer to me was about a metre in length. We had no fish matching the size of the fins, and I wondered if a pair of thresher sharks had wandered into our regional waters. That seemed impossible. My curiosity now thoroughly aroused, I decided to investigate. My sensible companion decided to stay floating directly over Vetch’s pier, where he would have a metre of water under his boat, a sufficient obstruction for any large fish.

Manoeuvring my ski, I managed to position myself in the path of the two fish, and in due course, they were swimming directly at my boat. When the first of the fins was still some metres off, I looked down and was amazed to see a giant creature, considerably wider than my 1.22- metre wide ski, passing underneath the paddle ski.

The surface seemed dull blue-green with a scattering of lighter, serried flecks. Simultaneously there was a sharp tug on my left-hand rod and it whipped over, dipping the left gunwale under the water. I nearly capsized. The sharp twang I heard showed that my small 2/0 hook, dangling in the water since I abandoned the baiting activity, had snagged in the creature. The line had parted just below the bait-line swivel, resulting in the loss of about a half-metre of line. With the severing of the cord, my paddle ski righted itself with a surge of water and I regained balance.

The first fin was approaching, sinking in the dark water as it came. Just when a collision seemed imminent, the fin submerged fully and passed under the boat. The second fin approached, still well above the water, but to my relief it also sank. I realised that what had appeared to be two fish was a single giant creature…and then it dawned on me. It was a whale shark, rhincodon typhus. The enormous beast had surged under my paddle ski, catching the small hook as it went, and it’s dorsal and then caudal fin had both sunk beneath the craft. I was grateful that it hadn’t seen fit to thrash or even slightly flex its tail. The turmoil could have capsized and perhaps sunk the boat.

The giant turned as it sensed shallower water, and made a wide arc away from the surf line. It was still well inside the nets, which lie perhaps four hundred metres offshore in ten metres of water. If the giant snagged on them, or became entangled, the ensnaring could cause its death as well as damage to the nets. It would be yet another great creature sacrificed for the sake of individual wealth. The pale light of dawn was by now strengthening and penetrating the surface with a silvery-green glow, and it was possible for spotters on shore to track the animal’s progress.

Uncannily, it avoided the nets for some time, and then I heard the reassuring chug of the Sharks Board craft. By judicious manoeuvring the crew managed to herd the great fish to an opening in the nets and soon it was moving out to sea where it disappeared. Had the nets entangled the beast, it would no doubt have drowned; and another great creature would have died. When I spoke to them later, they estimated the length of the fish at fourteen metres; that is, about forty-six feet. The width, as far as I could reckon it, was a little more than about one and a half metres; that is, about five and a half feet.

After years of catches that were a small as my bait, doing spectacular capsizes and holding the chumming record, there was a certain grim satisfaction in holding the record for the biggest ‘un that got away. Even the full expanse of my arms could not do justice to it.