The ocean off Onslow is shallow and dotted with little island surrounded by coral. This arrangement is not just pleasing to human eyes, fish like to stay there too.

So we'd anchor near a bombie- an isolated coral formation- and dive down to find crayfish. Evolution (or God?) has made them experts at hiding. The water was 29 degrees, but wetsuits are really nice when you have to sneak between sharp bits of coral and stick your head in every hollow. On one bombie I dived alone, and when my eyes adjusted to the dim light I spotted something large moving about. I surfaced and asked if a grey fish with black spots, nearly a metre long would be worth shooting?

-Does it have black gummy lips?

I took a deep breath, had another look and reported that it had no lips to speak of.

-A notched tail, or more rounded?

After another hyperventilation session I ascertained that the tailfin was straight. This went on for a while, and I suggested that it might be better to shoot first, and ask questions later.

...As you may be aware, working above the Tropic of Capricorn attracts hardship payments. We had to make do with a shack on an uninhabited island, only salt water to shower with, a rather boring balmy breeze at night and suffering sunsets and a Milky Way in lieu of a cinema.

My biorythms must have been peaking off-scale that weekend. After the crayfishing we went hunting for Spanish Mackarel-a new way of fishing for me. On industrial-strength fishing line a bait fish (of a size I'd usually be proud to catch) is attached to massive hooks. And this is dragged behind the boat which circles lazily over the ocean. There's some cunning involved in finding the right bit of ocean, as there is in the sort of bait, it's depth and speed, and probably many other things which have escaped me. But essentially, it feels a lot like aimlessly wallowing over the swells. While drinking a beer.

Until a fish strikes! The reel starts to scream, and you have to wrest the rod from its holder, and hook the fish by yanking hard. Then the fighting starts- you want the fish but the feeling isn't mutual. There is a conflict of interests, really. So you pull and groan and heave like you're wrestling a bullworker, and reel in some line when the rod's relaxed. When the fish decides it really wants to go elsewhere, the drag starts howling again and you're back at square one. If all goes according to plan, the fish eventually tires and swims at the surface. A gaff is then driven through its guts and the animal is hauled aboard. This is a good time to wipe the sweat and fish-slime off one's brow and drink a beer.

I caught the first one, perhaps four kilo's worth and was as proud as a peacock of its tail. Then Resa- my charming neighbour, fellow Dutchie & doctor- showed how it's done: that's a big fish in her arms! We lost some off the hooks, Danielle put up the fight of a lifetime but lost all but the head of a very big mackarel to a shark and I later fared slightly better by almost landing a biggie only to see a big grey shape spearing through the water which removed half the fish. There was still a metre or so of it left.

We crossed 30 k's of open water to go to Anchor island. Again uninhabited, with stunning beaches. I had taken a surfboard in case boredom struck, and made some sort of a towing bridle out of driftwoond and anchor rope. A bit later I was scurfing behind the Western Anne , looking at the coral flashing by below my feet.

Back at the shack, more beer was consumed while the crays sizzled on the barbie. Someone spotted a nesting turtle and we all sat down to look at the groaning mother-to-be. Under the stars, in the still-warm sand, the turtle was laboriously shovelling sand with its flippers. A beautiful marine creature, usually very shy, so overwhelmed by instinct that it didn't seem to notice us or the lantern at all. After a while only the back flippers were digging a deeper, smaller hole below its tail. We sat in hushed anticipation of the egg-laying. A magical, mystical moment of unity between sea and land, human and animal. Suddenly- a loud, grinding noise behind us!

Bruce was snoring for Australia.

Oh well...life goes on... we hitched the boat on the trailer and drove the 500 k's back to Carnarvon at a very sedate pace. The most interesting thing was really the thermometer. After several bets, Bruce won the beer by the mercury rising to 45 degrees at Nanutharra. There was a bus of tourists there. I thought of myself as seen in their eyes, in a Holden V-8, hauling a fishing boat, dressed in shorts and Blunstones. An icebox between the front seats, a rifle on the rear. I reckon they couldn't tell me from the true blue Aussie Bloke.

Come to think of it, part of my current 'career path' (for want of a more descriptive term) involves becoming an Aussie. There's the surgical way in which 75% of the brain gets removed, or the medical way in which braincells get culled by alcohol. I've opted for the latter, and will keep you all informed. I'm sorry I had to leave out the juicy bits.

Kees