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Pomene dreamin’…

Pomene dreamin’…

After having driven from Port Shepstone to Vilancoulos, and then back to Pomene, we were pretty worn out travellers when we made camp somewhere down on the Pomene estuary..
But waking up to that glorious scene – the ocean to the East, and the estuary to the West – in a bright red sunlit morning, made all the creaks and squeaks go away quicker than coffee on a fire can do the job.
The tide was a bit high still, and the waves a bit low, so the four of us undid our tangle of rods and reels, and headed out to the nearest channel within the estuary. Abu – our guide and translator, Supergirl (Sharene Berry), Gareth Powell and me, spread out along the channel and started casting into the clear slow moving blue water. Pure magic.
Once the chatter had settled down, the silence left us completely alone in our new world. But what was that? Some wierd crashing sound every now and then. A very watery sound, a very exciting sound. But we could not figure it out.
So we moved in it’s direction – across the vaste sandbanks and into the offshore breeze, towards the main channel, where it unfolded before us. The sound was that of baitfish being smashed up against the side of the channel and onto the shallow sandbanks where they were being picked off by other members of the gang, all taking turns. KINGFISH!
Sound travels for miles over water and plains, and by the time we got there (going knee deep into some of the quicksand like patches on the sandbank), we were exhausted. But Supergirl, Gareth and I staggered up to the edge and cast…!
Bang, bang, bang…the three of us vas at the same time. Gareth was ultra light so he took off down the sandbank towards the ocean frantically trying to keep pace with his fish. Supergirl took a stand with her stronger outfit and soon subdued and released her first kingfish of the day. She proceeded to catch more, luckily only the smaller ones went for her lure. I, on the other hand, had hooked what felt like a bus when it hammered my little white dropshot. No change in speed or direction – just bang, and vas! I had a brand new Shimano Calcutta and Nexage with 7kg line, so I dug in deep and an epic battle ensued. I tried to keep him inside the estuary but he slowly dragged me down towards Gareth who was still trying to show some muscle with his 4kg bass outfit. Ha ha!
Time dragged on and Gareth and I crossed paths a number of times, passing encouragement and cheer all the while. Supergirl kept catching more smallies, up to about 5kg’s each, and releasing them quick sticks, as she does. Neither Gareth nor myself had seen our fish and we were speculating GT’s when all of a sardine, Gareth’s line popped! Luckily he only had a small dropshot head and plastic with a short leader, so he fish will have survived the forced release just fine. My fish however, started to slow and next thing I was getting him back up into the estuary, where it had just become slack water, he had no more current to use against me. Then I saw him – yellow – but big. He did not like the look of me and tore away again. Supergirl caught and released yet another kingfish to add to her tally for the day.
Abu saw some sense in the situation and ran back to the cooler in the camp, for beer. We were gonna be a while! Gareth was onto another, luckily one he could manage easily enough with his newly tied leader and flourocarbon trace. At one stage, I walked in about a metre deep fighting my fish and was soon surrounded by angry kingfish of all sorts that had chased Gareth’s lure right into the shallows. Many times, there were fish shallower than us – it’s how they hunt, their mates drive the baitfish up the banks where the rest of the gang devours them. Sometimes they even swim on their sides! In inches of water.
A crowd had quickly then gathered on the other side of the channel. They were enjoying the sport as much as we were, shouting encouragement until…my fish finally gave in and came to see who I was. I steered him into the shallows and jumped on the poor guy. He was beat. So was I! Luckily the hook came out easy and I took him into the channel of swift moving water for revival. He was a big, strong fish and the gentle current soothed his gills and with a wave of his tail, was gone free.
When the crowd across the river realised that I had voluntarily let him go, they became mildly annoyed, shaking fists and hurling curses at me, for allowing all that good food to go free…
Africa!

A few great shots by Branko Milonovich, taken at Pomene on a more recent trip…All rights reserved.

There is a new lodge in Pomene – on the north bank…perfectly situated for fishing these crazy waters…click here for more information and photos.

pomene-paradise

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St. Patricks Day in Indonesia

St. Patricks Day in Indonesia

Two Irish. Two Saffer. Two Ozzie. Six kids from the Channel Islands. A few more scragglers. And a girl.
Lucky, the agent.

Indonesia. Hankering to get to Desert Point…winter, 2003.

“$250 Get’s you Desert Point…one week on beeeg boat. All foood. All driiink.”, goes Lucky. “Whoohoo!”, go me and Roosta.

Jam into tiny vans, millions of boards and the crew grows to full strength of 16, by the time we reach the harbour, where a big dhow will take us to our even bigger dhow – an hour away. So much stuff. So much heat. So much noise. Then peace as we set sail on towards our new home. And there it is. Three storeys of colour and grace. Just beautiful. Huge. Wooden. Home…

By now, Bintang’s are out, ice cold. Chickens are roaming the deck unexpectantly. Food cooking. Music playing. Even surf videos on a tv in the huge dorm like cabin. Bunks. Smells. Just amazingly what we expected.

Three engines, Yamaha Enduros. 40hp Each. 80ft Boat. And a skiff, and off we go. Gently humming along to music and waves. Soon enough though, the first of our problems. One engine splutters to a standstill. A third of our power gone. Not enough speed to get to Deserts. Pull over and parallel park at an enchanting island in the middle of the ocean.

One engine loaded onto skiff, the other tied to the back, and off they go. Getting engine repaired. Hours go by. We snorkel. Talk shit. Swim. I swim to the island. There are people. I rent a bike, and discover that the island is loaded with Arak wine. I buy 5 litres altogether and swim back out to the boat, where the Irish and the Ozzies and us annihilate the 5 litres, ok, over another hour.

Skiff returns, the music is blaring. Engines attached back onto big boat. Skipper says he doesn’t want to cross the deep channel this late, we might not make it by dark. We refuse to accept this prognosis and vehemently demand weighing of anchor and immediate departure.
16 Of us win the argument and next thing we are sailing across this hugely deep channel. A sailfish pops up next to us, fin and all. What kind of omen could that be, I wonder. The Irish brothers proclaim that it’s St. Patrick’s Day and we all join in for a Bintang and a dance on the open deck as the sun bids farewell…

It gets dark.

The boat slows to almost nothing as the crew makes out the headland in front of us. Somebody return flashes a torch, we must be there!

All of a sudden. Lightning and thunder comes out of the blackness. And a torrential downpour hits us, whiting us out completely – cannot see a thing. Just spray. 10 Minutes drifting, the sea getting a bit more interested in us by now. The only girl on the trip has proclaimed lesbianism but I don’t believe her and am on the third floor extolling to her the benefits of male anatomy when out of the corner of my eye, I see…a wave. A breaking wave coming up behind us at 45 degrees. It hardly moves the “ship” as it first strikes, but as it moves along the hull, it picks us up completely and propels us forward and sideways – straight down smack bang onto the very reef that is Desert Point. The outriggers are built from huge logs and are about a half metre by a half metre. They just snapped like matches as they impacted – lurching the huge ship around as we bounced ashore.

Chaos. “Save yourselves! Save yourselves!”, is the cry from the stricken crew.

In a moment of clarity, we all don reef shoes. It’s all we can do as wave after wave batters us further an further onto the reef. The tide is coming in. The chickens are going out! The TV topples out of the window, and then a huge pot of chicken curry leaves the kitchen for a swim. Roosta and stay on the boat as the rest of the gang spread out to make a human chain with which to scuttle the ship. Waves keep coming. Roosta and I got into the cabin to get whatever we could, especially looking for pasports to hand up and off to safety. A big wave breaks, we grab the masts and hold tight as possible to no avail – the power of the impact throws us both around like rag dolls. Get most of the stuff out. Now the petrol. About 20 drums on the stinky stuff that we did not want to allow near the pristine reef.

After midnight, we have formed a laager with the fuel, water, supplies, boards all around us. Small fires are going and no-one is really having fun. The locals had come out in their droves and with no regard for personal space, literally sat on our laps as they pored though our belongings with that envious curiosity so prevalent in these lost outer island communities. Roosta stayed awake and on guard as the adrenalin wore off and peeps collapsed all around. I was almost out when something crawled over my face. And again. My neck. my feet. I grabbed one. Crabs! Millions of crabs made sure I never slept much either.

The dawn broke red and more beautiful than ever. We were shipwrecked. For real. No cellphone signal. No nothing.

May aswell go surfing as the last of the swell enticed us into her arms. Desert Point is a perfect wave, it was much smaller by now, but it is a perfect wave, and has been called the most perfect wave in the world, a few times, before.
Whilst we were surfing, the two Ozzie captains and an Irishman had set off for help, and came back at lunch time with a 4wd truck, that could load us all, and take us through Dengue infested forests on a four day journey, to a port, where we would have to pay more dollars, to get all the way back to Bali! We had no choice, and started loading.

All of a sudden, around the headland, came the apparition representing a three masted yacht of absolute beauty. It happened to be the dude who used to captain the boat used in The Crossing, sea testing his own brand new second hand sailing beauty! Seeing our wrecked vessel he sent a skiff ashore to check things out and then offered to rescue us for $5 each!

The skiff spent an hour loading and off loading kit and surfboards, and by the end of it we were sweating buckets and so decided to swim out to the anchored yacht a few hundred meters off shore. And so we swam. And swam. And were soon whisked away into the deep by the infamous Desert Point current carrying billions of tonnes of water and thousands of tiger sharks through one of the deepest gulfs on the globe!

Only a handful of the group that attempted the swim made, I wasn’t one of them – swimming with a hat on…but the skiff rounded us all up and soon we were drinking ice cold bintangs…

…and sailing away from our shipwrecked crew on Desert Point, Lombok Island, Indonesia.

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You never know until you see the colour…by Dave Sproston

You never know until you see the colour…by Dave Sproston

Memoirs: by Dave Sproston

Digital
Dave Sproston with a couple of delicious geelbek caught back in the days when…

 

Way back in 1990, I ran a small charter fishing operation from Shelly Beach, Kwazulu Natal. I skippered my own boat, a 17ft. Ace Craft with twin Yamaha 85’s, but maybe I will cover the specs of this amazing craft later on.Anyway, on this particular day I had two guys who had chartered the boat for the morning, we normally launched at first light and we’re back by lunchtime, and set off for the Protea Banks, a fifteen minute ride, to look for some YFT ( Yellowfin Tuna).

Continue reading You never know until you see the colour…by Dave Sproston

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