On Tenterhooks

We were visiting the Northern Territory of Australia and had arranged a day’s fishing on the Mary River. The two men I was with were excited about their chance to catch a barramundi, prized by sport-fishing enthusiasts for their fighting ability. 

None of us were locals; the Mary River had been recommended to us, so while the men were getting their gear loaded into the little aluminium runabout we had hired, I was reading a tourist brochure about the area. 

My heart leapt in fear. Crocodiles send my flight instinct off the dial, and here we were, about to launch a tiny ‘tinnie’ in the river that is reputed to be the most densely populated with estuarine crocodiles in the Southern Hemisphere, if not the world! 

We set off, with my role being to steer the boat. Anxiously, I gripped the tiller and stared ahead, noticing a line of rocks across the river's expanse. They began to move.

“Maybe we should turn around and go back,” I suggested plaintively.

“Nah… keep going… the outboard motor’s noise will put them off.”

Taking a slalom course through the croc-rocks, I was able to breathe more easily when they slipped beneath the surface and swam away. 

By then, the men had their lines out and I relaxed enough to enjoy the riverside birdlife as the boat trolled along. A pair of Brahminy kites were roosting in a pandanus palm; a jabiru strutted along the riverbank; a flock of corellas wheeled overhead, screeching.

Suddenly, Roger’s line went tight and the fight began. The barramundi was strong; it took off and did an occasional acrobatic. After playing it carefully it eventually exhausted itself, and Roger reeled the barra in. Pete assisted with the net. 

When I saw a large croc looking interested, instinctively I twisted the throttle to get away, nearly pitching Pete into the river.

Soon enough we were back on dry land, cleaning the catch ready for what would be a scrumptious dinner.

The men were delighted to have hooked a big one. I’d been on tenterhooks myself for the fishing trip’s duration.