Childhood memories of fishing with my father

Until we went away on holidays. Most years we would make the pilgrimage to the coast. Forster, South West Rocks, Surfers Paradise were popular spots. Our parents would throw my sister and I in the car, jammed on the back seat alongside an extra suitcase that wouldn't fit in the boot. Sticky vinyl seats, no air conditioning, chain-smoking parents, country music on the radio, an empty ice-cream bucket that served as a vomit bowl for when we got car sick (and we always did, my sister held the record for the earliest puke, we weren't even out of the town limits). It was heaven.

Dad would spend some hours before we left making sure his fishing gear was in order. Untangling lines, removing rust from hooks, making sure the reels ran smoothly. His tackle box contained all sorts of sinkers and floaters. He'd pack two or three rods, including a big beach rod that was my favourite for it indicated that we'd soon be at the end of the world where the sea met the sand.

Once we were settled, the rods would be placed up against a wall near the door for easy access and his fishing expedition would begin. He'd always start by going off to find a bloke who knew a bloke who might have some inside knowledge of the area. My father was renowned for talking to strangers and before too long he'd have the information he needed. Yeh, mate, you need to find Tony, who sells bait out of an esky in his shed behind the servo. Or there's this spot by the river, second turn-off after the pub, but don't tell anyone.

He'd disappear most mornings to go fishing. Back in time for breakfast. We were always glad when he came back. My father could not swim and we worried intensely about his safety when he went fishing, especially when he decided he needed to be standing on some rocky headland as the waves crashed around him. Many a morning he would come back with cuts and grazes and wet clothes, regaling us with tales about how he stood firm in the face of a rogue wave. He was bloody lucky, really.

My time with him came of an afternoon, perhaps after dinner as the long summer evenings stretched out. We'd take that big beach rod, my sister and I in our swimmers, my mother, if she was with us - I think she liked her quiet time back at the hotel - with a fold-up chair and a magazine. He'd have us twisting in the sand looking for pipis (I still do that now occasionally, and always think of him), it was also so exciting to find the big ones, whose meaty insides would quickly retract when you pulled them out of the sand. Dad would wade out into the waves, throw the rod into a pool just outside the break. For a man who spent little time at the ocean, he always knew where a school of fish might be hanging out. And we'd scream in delight when he pulled the first fat whiting or bream out of the sea.

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Sometimes he let me hold that rod. It felt huge in my small hands but he'd talk to me about how to sense the smallest of changes, a twitch on the line that might signify a nibble, the swing of the bait in the current. It was a game, but one which required patience and a bit of luck. We'd chat about things as we stood side by side on the sand. He'd light a smoke and reluctantly swap places when I asked him to move down wind. We'd chat about the Dragons' chances for the next season or whether Ian Botham was a better player than Viv Richards.

He never had a son. I'm sure he would have liked one. He taught my sister and I how to fish, how to box (proud I was a southpaw), how to bowl spin and throw a cut-out pass. I miss him every day.

I don't know what dad would make of Josh Niland. Bit posh for him, I would think. Lisa Rockman's profile talks of Niland's desire to get more people to eat fish, to think about sustainability, using the whole fish. I've been buying more whole fish, fan-girling for Niland alongside Rockman.

Back in those halcyon days we'd cook our fish pretty simply. On the barbecue, in a pan, with chips and salad. Fish eye chips? Not likely.

But there was something there, even in my dad's simple way, about fishing to feed his family. An act of love. Hook, line and sinker.