Cohiba Robusto - Bundaberg Ginger Beer
Not a fish to found anywhere on the Island. No one has caught so much as a hint of one. But we persevere. So goes the annual fishing trip to Fraser Island, off Queensland’s central coast – the world’s largest sand island.
Head down to the beach in front of the Lodge, just north of the Waddy Point rocks, on dusk. The southeaster is howling but it is to our backs, which means that the poor sods fishing south of Indian would be copping full brunt.
Cold. Bone-chilling cold. I very rarely wear waders and I am not doing so now. No idea why. Never really took to them. The old man often didn’t either, though perhaps he was seen in them more often in his later years.
The sun is setting behind dunes to my left, as one looks up towards the Cape. The last of the whales have disappeared, or it is simply too dark to see them breaching. The fishermen to my left are burnished gold silhouettes. Stunning stuff. Half a dozen pelicans glide towards the dunes, shrouded in gold. They are as elegant in the air as they are not when on the beach. To my right, a full gob moon is coming up over Waddy. Glorious. It lights the beach up like a slightly surreal movie set. The waves continue to soak me; the fish continue to perform a disappearing act that Lord Lucan would love. I am freezing cold, nipple-south.
A few of the group are with me, but have squibbed and are using waders. One mate is on the tailgate with a Monte 5, the rest with dark beers. One of the team (and fair to mention that a few of these guys got stuck into some Four Pillars Bloody Shiraz Gin earlier – actually, a lot of Bloody Shiraz Gin), we’ll call him Ted as I see no reason to protect the guilty, has got himself truly sopping wet, head to toe, and is bone-chatteringly ice-cold. So he decides it might now be a good time to put on the waders. After he is fully wet. Barn door, horse? Did I mention that ‘Ted’ has been drinking for ten hours. If you have ever seen a chap who has perhaps exceeded his usual limit, trying to put on waders, on the edge of the surf, while three sheets, then you will know the fun we had watching the show. Priceless. Took him a good twenty minutes.
Best show on the beach. Topped the couple sitting in their chairs with their rods in beach-holders, which I think is an abomination worthy of jail time, clearly weighty matters. Suddenly, one of the rods starts dipping and bending in a serious way, rattling about in its holder. I wave at them. They wave back. No, you idiots, I point to the rod. They wave again. The rod is bouncing around like a frog in a sock. I try again. Eventually, they twig and it is all hands. Surely, actually ‘fishing’ is simpler. The bloke manages to catch the fish, but it is just a dart, though a good one, and therefore does not count.
Meanwhile, I am continuing to drown pilchards to no effect. A huge ray glides by at my feet. Half torn between whether I would like to hook it or not. You can catch them by getting a pillie out in front of where it is sliding along the sand and they do provide a solid fight but it means that you will be attached to a small but determined bulldozer for the next hour. And good chunks of that will be when it buries into the sand and you just try and drag it out. And then you have to cut it loose anyway.
That said, love it all. No fish? No worries. Would not be anywhere else.
A few of us persist. Although in this case, ‘persisting’ is a euphemism for sitting on the tailgate and beach chairs, knocking off a few beers and a cigar under a full moon. I suggest we give it one last crack before back for dinner – we have a 2008 Dom, 2011 Dujac Bonnes Mares, 1983 Lafite, 2016 Warres VP (yes, too young but…). And food – the guys really put in an effort so we eat very well. one night always duck night. Started many years ago when we decided to have a duck evening and we got hit by the mother of all thunderstorms. So now it is known as the ‘Duck and Stormy Night’.
Anyway, Steve has a good tailor before I can even swap rigs. Yes, that one lone wolf. You do see it at times. Most roam in schools but every now and then, there’ll be one good fish off on its own.
And that, as they say in the classics, is that. We think one other group got a decent tailor (bluefish, for our American friends), but as far as we could tell, no one else caught a thing all week. Many groups did not get a single bite. And this used to be tailor heaven. Naturally, we were advised that you could just about walk on the fish the previous week. And even a few good jewies.
Yes, we are getting to the cigar.
One from the bunch of 2nds Rob left with me (if I may digress, yet again, there was an unbanded one in the bunch and a more appalling example of dead vegetation mocked up as something worthy could never be imagined. Awful. Bitter, poorly rolled, unbalanced. Needed 20 re-lights, but fortunately, this was not it). A CoRo. I believe it had some years on it but was not ancient.
A little hot to kick off but it did not take long to get into stride (I should stress that this was sampled back at the Lodge, on the deck, and not on the beach). It moved into the lovely honey and roasted nuts pretty quickly and remained so for quite a stretch. Unfortunately, the last 1/3rd was fractionally hot which took the shine off the entire thing. So, some good and some bad. For me, 89. To be honest, I would expect an average CoRo to rate more highly and a good to exceptional one, to rate much more highly than that.
And now for a first – a non-alcoholic match. Paired it with some Bundaberg Ginger Beer. Also some generic fizz (or rather we kept opening fizz and they all got mixed up and things were okay). I am a ginger-holic. Love the stuff. The Bundy Ginger Beer is delicious but it really is a bit too sweet for me. That said, on a warm day with a decent cigar, it was pretty much hard to beat. I felt absolutely no desire to try and find a spirit or other wine to replace it. But I am not certain it would always work. I think circumstances are important here.
As for how the Ginger Beer would work with fish, I have no idea.
KBG
