The Saga of Botany Bay
Back in 1945 to be out fishing in a rowboat on Botany Bay was for us kids the greatest thrill and excitement of our lives. There was Dad sitting in the middle of the boat, arms straining at the oars, Mum with the two youngest girls huddled together at the back, leaving myself and my next Sister Glo with all the room at the front of the boat. Before leaving home Dad would prepare our hand lines, each with just the right hook and sinker needed to land just the biggest fish in the Bay. In those days Botany Bay was full of fish. On this particular day in question we had chosen our spot, let down the two anchors, one off each end of the boat and had tossed in our lines. Our bait was usually green prawns or for the not so feint hearted, live wriggly worms. As there were six of us Dad always tried to organise three fishing from each side of the boat. This worked well until one of us got a bite. Amid shouts of excitement, tendency by the little ones to stand up in the boat, madly pulling in their lines with moans and cries of disappointment if no fish appeared, Dad was then faced with untangling everyone's line for the next ten minutes. One thing I remember so clearly with great love in my heart, is my Father’s patience. For this happened continuously. My poor Mother was always crying out in frantic alarm to the young ones not to stand up in the boat or fall overboard. And when one of us actually did catch a fish, the pride and joy was kept in a bucket of sea water, to be brought out, held aloft at regular intervals and duly admired. Of course we all insisted that the largest of the catch was the one we had caught. On this occasion we had been fishing for about an hour, when the youngest sister, who was only five at the time, pointed her finger towards the back of the boat and just stared without making a sound.
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