On the distant south coast of Western Australia, driving off the main road and along 6 or 7 miles of narrow, bitumen road, you arrive at the remote settlement of Peaceful Bay, a seaside haven for holiday makers. Its small, picturesque bay is strewn with a delicious jumble of massive, granite boulders, a treat for lovers of rock scrambling and exploring. Small rocky pools of crystal, clear water tempt swimmers, snorkelers and paddlers of all ages.
Behind the beach and past the tiny general store with its odd selection of wares ranging from frozen bait to fishing paraphernalia and ice-creams, dirt tracks lead off into a maze of small laneways where a profusion of timber shacks and cottages can be found with their neatly organised holiday-home gardens nestled under and around the native peppermint trees.
I stayed there many times in the early 1960s with uncle, aunt and cousin in their 2 bedroom timber cottage that had been rescued from the Shannon River mill town when the mill there closed. The cottage had been transported on the back of a lorry to Peaceful Bay. The old tractor there in the garage was for carrying us across the endless, sandy dunes in the early evening, to favourite fishing spots, where we would cast off the beach into rocky pools, just using hand lines, and seeking out the local delicacies of whiting, skip jack and sea bream, all under the comforting light cast from one or two kerosene lamps.
On one slow adventurous day I ambled idly towards an intriguing small cluster of tin huts perched on top of some sandy dunes right by the sea and only a short distance from the main settlement there at Peaceful Bay. I spent hours that day, curiously and quietly watching a small band of fishermen who lived there, plying their strange trade. It was at Hunts Cannery, in nearby Albany, where they would sell their salty catch.
We humans are so adept at finding unique ways to exploit our circumstances and local environment in order to make a living and this small group of fishermen at this lonely and isolated outpost of western civilization had hit upon a quite original way to go fishing.
When one thinks of professional fishing, images are usually evoked of working boats strewn with nets and ropes and winches and blood-soaked decks, with profusions of fish species all jumbled and huddled together in their ghastly death throws while fishermen slice at their glistening bodies. One doesn’t naturally think of that icon of World War One: the Lee Enfield 303 rifle.
However, that icon had found a strange new home there amongst those white and sandy dunes of Peaceful Bay, where the gulls and swallows plied their busy trades in perfect natural harmony, where occasional fluffy cumulus disturbed the otherwise endlessly blue sky, where the gentle breezes blew away the stifling heat of the day and where children paddled and played in the protected and calm waters of the Bay.
In the hands of those fishermen, human ingenuity had found a new and wondrous use for that fearsome weapon of war. There, at Peaceful Bay, it waged hostilities against huge shoals of hapless ancient salmon that hitherto had never found the need to fear the human predator but were soon to find their way to Hunts Cannery in a first and final lesson.
I watched the marksman who lay back in an old wreck of a car that had been positioned atop a prominent dune, where an expansive view along the wide and white sandy beach was assured. That old car was rusted through and rotten, without glass or seating but did afford some miserable protection from the occasional southerly bluster. With a stubby in one hand and a Lee Enfield draped across a lazy lap, that fisherman of the sand dunes sat and watched through powerful binoculars he held in his other hand and up to his eyes every so often.
Nearby, I saw the marksman’s colleagues, a small group of fishermen sitting around their mean rusting tin shacks, playing cards or resting in the shade. They were bored and a desultory air hung over their camp. Ten metres below them and hauled onto the beach lay their strange looking small boat, resting on its side, waiting.
Suddenly, the afternoon apathy evaporated in a flurry of activity as the marksman sprang to life. From my close vantage point, I wondered initially what was happening. The marksman’s binoculars were now in full employment as he gazed intently along the beach to a far off point, apparently satisfying himself that his quarry was indeed in sight. Lifted from that lazy lap, the Lee Enfield was thrust into service once more. Its long barrel poked out of the empty windscreen whilst a heavy, shiny round was placed into the breach and rammed home. The telescopic sights were then employed and the fisherman took careful aim across that rusty bonnet. What followed was, for a 13 year old observer, a thunderous roar as the deadly round departed the Lee Enfield in search of those unassuming fish.
The rest of the small band of fishermen leapt into action at that awful sound and down onto the beach towards their boat they raced. Another deafening thunder clap from that rifle and in the far off distance I saw the splash. Several more rounds followed each time the shoal appeared to be turning for deeper water, keeping those salmon swimming close to the shore. Thus, the job of herding those fish along close to the beach was easily accomplished; the lazy man’s way of directing the prey towards its demise.
Meanwhile, the little boat roared into life. No propeller was to be found; it used a form of jet propulsion that fired a stream of high powered water out the back from its throaty engine, enabling rapid acceleration to occur.
Those carefree salmon were ill equipped to deal with such an assault on their day and quickly discovered the trap laid for them by that skilful fisherman of the rusty wreck, armed with a stubby and a 303. The jet boat manoeuvred rapidly around and in one deft move, dragged a large net out from the beach lassoed the great shoal and surrounded the lot, providing no escape. And Hunts Cannery down the road allowed that no prisoners would be taken.
The water bubbled and gurgled and splashed as the trapped salmon thrashed around in that netted enclosure.
Meanwhile, the gulls drifted casually overhead and the sun beat down on a beautifully calm sea whilst a gentle breeze played across the water. In the rocky pools of Peaceful Bay a couple of hundred metres away, children splashed and played and on the beach they built sandcastles and ate ice-creams. Sounds of holiday fun drifted past me as I watched in awe as tons of salmon were dragged wriggling and protesting in vain to their deaths on that beach.
Childhood innocence was shattered in the calm of that perfect summer’s afternoon at Peaceful Bay where the city boy unexpectedly learned one of life’s lessons. Troubled and feeling unhappy with the events just witnessed, I turned and walked away, back towards the familiar sounds of people enjoying themselves, leaving behind those dreadful scenes where death had stalked those quiet and beautiful sandy dunes of Peaceful Bay.