NOTE: Last week a local crabber was caught shipping off a tonne of female mudcrabs (Jenny’s or Mary’s is the local term for them) which he claimed were from the NT, where it’s apparently legal to catch sheilia muddies.
The Fisho’s (Govt. Fishing Inspectors) had the crabs DNA’d, and discovered that the ladies were from Gladstone waters, and a hefty fine ($45000) was awarded to the stunned crabber. It’s been the talk of the town ever since that news broke 🙂 Cheers, Gb.
Crabbing is a fairly basic activity. First you either make, or buy, some crab pots, attach a float and length of rope to the top, get your wife to place some rancid meat inside them, then drop them near some mangroves at high tide. The next day you putter back, watch your wife to pull them up, and with a bit of luck you’ll have a feed of crab for tea. If you’re luckier still, you’ll have enough crab meat left over to give to the dear old girl next door, who will insist on returning the favour with a batch of her mouth-watering, home made scones.
So when some clown started taking crabs from our pots we began to get a bit miffed. Especially when the joker made the effort to find our new hiding spots and remove the crabs before placing an empty can of beer into each pot. But they crossed the line the day they actually stole ‘No Worries’ Neville’s crabs; and his pots. I’d never seen Nev so mad. In fact, I’d never seen Nev mad!
Hours later, when he’d finally stopped swearing, we opened a couple of beers and put our minds to work. The next morning through the haze of my hangover, I reviewed our list: Write down the number plates of all the cars at the boat ramp. Put permanent dye into the ropes. Booby trap the pots with rat traps. Form a posse of waterborne vigilantes. Mount a machine gun on the bow of ‘Collapso’, my faithful tinny. Clearly we weren’t just thinking outside the box, we were thinking outside the warehouse that housed the box.
Folks, I am not in favour of the death penalty. As someone who is a tad jaded by my governments’ inability to look after my health, mail, water and electricity needs, I’m hardly about to entrust them with legally killing people. But during that nights’ brainstorming session, I apparently became very vocal about making an exception when it came to crab pot thieves. Obviously at some point after Nev had opened the port bottle.
In the end we decided to go back to setting, sitting and taking our pots home with us each day. All because of some low down, gutter dwelling, selfish swine who can’t keep his hands off other peoples’ property. As a result we’re not catching as many crabs now, and I have to tell you, I’m really starting to miss the old girls’ scones.