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15-05-2003, 09:28 AM
Little bit of crim history ;)
One Half Water, One Half Fish
John Cameron (1864)
The Brisbane river, some twenty-five years ago, at times, and on a moonlight night appeared to change from all water to one half water, one half fish. The noise made is really startling, and the writer has seen more than one robust individual jump back from the edge of a boat landing, as if shot; the cause of his fright being a huge jew-fish leaping up close to, and falling on the water in a way to create a noise, something like a big boat being dropped from a height of ten or twelve feet, on to the surface. The river literally appeared alive with marine monsters, whose anger vented itself in lashing the waters with unabating fury all through the night.
On one of these nights the old fisherman who resides at South Brisbane, had a singular experience. He had been working hard all night with his scoop along the shores of the river for prawns, but he could not get a prawn worth catching. All the time he had been working, the lashing, splashing, tussling, struggling and thumping had been going on among the jew-fish, in the middle, and above and below him in the river, but in a particular spot, not far from where he was making a 'last try' he noticed that the splashing was done in a circle, which covered a large space in the river; the circle or ring being clearly defined by a huge jew-fish, constantly leaping up, while others, in turn, lashed the water with their tails. His curiosity was aroused, and he pulled his punt to the spot. As he approached the edge of the circle, there was a terrible leaping and struggling, as the compact mass of fish opened out and he found himself within the ring. It soon explained why he had caught no prawns, for here they were 'rounded up' in a solid mass, a foot deep, entangled with each other, and incapable of individual movement, being something like a great body of debris brought down with a flood. The dispersal of their fish enemies, and the attempt of the fisherman to scoop some of them into his punt, soon infused life into the strata of prawns; what with jumping, wrenching, and other efforts, they disentangled themselves and disappeared like magic...
There is, perhaps, no more interesting sight to an European than to see the natives engaged in fishing. Those natives inhabiting the sea-coast country before the white man 'put in an appearance,' did not fish as their successors do, with modern hook and line, they used the spear and the towrow, &c., and it is questionable whether they did not succeed in making good hauls in their rude way, when the fish were undisturbed by the net, and plentiful, as they do now with the more approved and elaborate tackle and sophisticated fish to deal with. It is something altogether wonderful the way in which the aborigines seem to understand the movements of fish. An European would look upon the waters of the bay, or ocean, and see nothing but a wide expanse of water; an aborigine looks, and he sees shoals of fish, how, why, or wherefore, you cannot tell, but there it is. He is never mistaken. It is no fancy. To him the surface of the bay or ocean is like a page of a book to an educated man. He reads as he runs; each wavelet forming a character in his alphabet. Should a shoal of mullet come into the bay, and, without jumping up, he looks and he knows they are there, and can form a rough idea of the numbers of the shoal, in the same way that Napoleon Bonaparte could estimate the numbers of a marching army.
After a 'fresh' the 'towrows' come into general requisition, more especially among the coastal tribes of the aborigines; and in some of the rivers and creeks they make quite large hauls. It is really an interesting sight to make them strip off and quietly stalk in to the water, nets in hand, and held clear from the body on either side, and, looking for all the world like 'black ghosts,' moving without apparent volition or disturbance of a muscle...
To be successful in towrow fishing, the water has to be 'thick' with discolouration. The fisherman stands perfectly still with his face to the point the waters flow from, and the towrows (a hand net with a hoop at the top) extended in either hand to right or left of his body, so held as to catch any fish that may be swept by the tide or flood, along to part of the steam occupied by the fisherman. If a fish is caught in one of the towrows he is taken out, bitten on the back of the head by the fisherman, and then thrown on to the bank, or put into a dillybag, hung across the shoulder. The dexterity exhibited in this species of fishing is wonderful, they catch hundreds of fish in this way.
The most marvelous instance, however, that the writer has ever heard of, in connection with the power exercised by the aborigines over fish, is in the case of the stinging-ray. The power seems to be possessed by the old men, principally. The operator will stand upon the bank of a creek, river, or the shores of the bay, where the stinging-rays 'lookout,' and he shouts in a peculiar way, but at the top of his voice, when you will see every ray within hearing of the sound, dart up and make a sign of his presence. It matters not if a ray is below the mud hiding, up he jumps at the call. You will see hundreds jump together.
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Anyone else wishing for a time machine??
Cheers,
R
One Half Water, One Half Fish
John Cameron (1864)
The Brisbane river, some twenty-five years ago, at times, and on a moonlight night appeared to change from all water to one half water, one half fish. The noise made is really startling, and the writer has seen more than one robust individual jump back from the edge of a boat landing, as if shot; the cause of his fright being a huge jew-fish leaping up close to, and falling on the water in a way to create a noise, something like a big boat being dropped from a height of ten or twelve feet, on to the surface. The river literally appeared alive with marine monsters, whose anger vented itself in lashing the waters with unabating fury all through the night.
On one of these nights the old fisherman who resides at South Brisbane, had a singular experience. He had been working hard all night with his scoop along the shores of the river for prawns, but he could not get a prawn worth catching. All the time he had been working, the lashing, splashing, tussling, struggling and thumping had been going on among the jew-fish, in the middle, and above and below him in the river, but in a particular spot, not far from where he was making a 'last try' he noticed that the splashing was done in a circle, which covered a large space in the river; the circle or ring being clearly defined by a huge jew-fish, constantly leaping up, while others, in turn, lashed the water with their tails. His curiosity was aroused, and he pulled his punt to the spot. As he approached the edge of the circle, there was a terrible leaping and struggling, as the compact mass of fish opened out and he found himself within the ring. It soon explained why he had caught no prawns, for here they were 'rounded up' in a solid mass, a foot deep, entangled with each other, and incapable of individual movement, being something like a great body of debris brought down with a flood. The dispersal of their fish enemies, and the attempt of the fisherman to scoop some of them into his punt, soon infused life into the strata of prawns; what with jumping, wrenching, and other efforts, they disentangled themselves and disappeared like magic...
There is, perhaps, no more interesting sight to an European than to see the natives engaged in fishing. Those natives inhabiting the sea-coast country before the white man 'put in an appearance,' did not fish as their successors do, with modern hook and line, they used the spear and the towrow, &c., and it is questionable whether they did not succeed in making good hauls in their rude way, when the fish were undisturbed by the net, and plentiful, as they do now with the more approved and elaborate tackle and sophisticated fish to deal with. It is something altogether wonderful the way in which the aborigines seem to understand the movements of fish. An European would look upon the waters of the bay, or ocean, and see nothing but a wide expanse of water; an aborigine looks, and he sees shoals of fish, how, why, or wherefore, you cannot tell, but there it is. He is never mistaken. It is no fancy. To him the surface of the bay or ocean is like a page of a book to an educated man. He reads as he runs; each wavelet forming a character in his alphabet. Should a shoal of mullet come into the bay, and, without jumping up, he looks and he knows they are there, and can form a rough idea of the numbers of the shoal, in the same way that Napoleon Bonaparte could estimate the numbers of a marching army.
After a 'fresh' the 'towrows' come into general requisition, more especially among the coastal tribes of the aborigines; and in some of the rivers and creeks they make quite large hauls. It is really an interesting sight to make them strip off and quietly stalk in to the water, nets in hand, and held clear from the body on either side, and, looking for all the world like 'black ghosts,' moving without apparent volition or disturbance of a muscle...
To be successful in towrow fishing, the water has to be 'thick' with discolouration. The fisherman stands perfectly still with his face to the point the waters flow from, and the towrows (a hand net with a hoop at the top) extended in either hand to right or left of his body, so held as to catch any fish that may be swept by the tide or flood, along to part of the steam occupied by the fisherman. If a fish is caught in one of the towrows he is taken out, bitten on the back of the head by the fisherman, and then thrown on to the bank, or put into a dillybag, hung across the shoulder. The dexterity exhibited in this species of fishing is wonderful, they catch hundreds of fish in this way.
The most marvelous instance, however, that the writer has ever heard of, in connection with the power exercised by the aborigines over fish, is in the case of the stinging-ray. The power seems to be possessed by the old men, principally. The operator will stand upon the bank of a creek, river, or the shores of the bay, where the stinging-rays 'lookout,' and he shouts in a peculiar way, but at the top of his voice, when you will see every ray within hearing of the sound, dart up and make a sign of his presence. It matters not if a ray is below the mud hiding, up he jumps at the call. You will see hundreds jump together.
----------------
Anyone else wishing for a time machine??
Cheers,
R