by Mandy Herrick, Resource and Content Developer, Te Papa
Despite its many dangers, fishing off rocks has been a stubborn national past-time, as evidenced by photos in our collections that go back decades. The silhouette of a lone-fisher at land’s end is synonymous to me with a New Zealand summer.
Perhaps driven by some ancestral pull, they face the sea with little more than a rod, a bucket of bait, and an empty stomach at first light — a study of patience and humility. The appearance of these fishers is a critical seasonal marker for me, setting a slower contemplative pace.
As well as being a humble activity, it is wonderfully public act – a spectacle for everyone to witness. There are the hopeful incantations, the perilously bent rod, the nasty snags, the dodgy footing and the mesmeric sway as fish after fish is lured in. As a distant beach-goer, you get the broad strokes of their story – it’s like a comic version of the fishing news to which you can add your own storyline and dialogue.
On enquiry, they’re often more than willing to give you a run-down of the fish that have teased, escaped, bolted or surrendered to them. Though the ones perched on the craggiest of rocks, I leave alone as I suspect they’re there for the silence as much as the fish. And while I don’t want to romanticise those who fall prey to rogue waves, this summer breed of fishers captures something of our national character – someone satisfied with a small catch, a state-of-the-ocean report, and some hard-won quiet time.
