Catching eels

A woman recalls her childhood through the eels she feeds at the bottom of her garden

CATCHING EELS

We have eels in the estuary at the bottom of our garden. The family want to smoke them and eat them. I refuse to allow that. No-one is permitted to go near my eels if they harbour plans to harm them.

The eels are my pets.

In the afternoon, when it is low tide, I make my way down to the estuary at the bottom of our manicured garden. In one hand I hold their food in a plastic container �" old cat food and in the other a silver spoon with eel teeth marks in it. As I get nearer to the creek I call them and when I am within sight they are already swimming towards me.

Although eels are nocturnal and would normally be asleep they always come.

One in particular leads the way. Big Fella rears out of the water and tries to climb up over the escarpment from which I feed them. As I hunker down the sun is behind me. It casts me as a squat shadow across the rippling water and bends over the rock in the middle of the pool. Big Fella lives under that rock. I once wondered how he would fit as he grew bigger but then I discovered him excavating under the rock and building his cave. Only invited guests are welcome and they can only enter if they have treats to share.  

On the other side of the creek another eel looks out from under the knotted roots of a mangrove. It confirms who is calling and wriggles through the tangled woody web into the water. He glides toward me, his curving, coiling body creating tiny waves that form a wake behind him.  I hold out the spoon with the raw, aged meat on it. A light breeze catches the rotten smell and tosses it at me. Screwing up my nose, I turn my head away.

Eels glide around rocks and appear from under the mangroves. In their haste to get to me they scramble over each other. Some crossly bite those who get in their way.

Big Fella reaches me first. He skims around the rocky face of the tiny bank, over the sloping ledge and across the mud like a skater. Weighing nearly two kilos and measuring almost five feet metres, he is the biggest of all the eels in this pool. In front of me his huge flat head sways from side to side with his mouth open to reveal lines of white teeth top and bottom. I have trouble imagining that he once arrived at our coastal shores as larvae and then became a tiny glass eel.

Big Fella’s eyes are on the spoon with the meat on it.

In his eagerness Big Fella grips the spoon and tosses his body from side to side, trying to wrench it from me.

We engage in a tug of war.

‘No Big Fella,’ I cry, ‘Just the meat.’

He gives a mighty tug and wrenches the spoon out of my hand, taking it and the meat back into the water. Dismayed, I watch the spoon fall from his mouth and catch the light as it swivels to the bottom of the pool. It becomes obscured by the 15 eels clambering over each other. Big Fella disappears beneath them.

They circle, lifting their heads above the water. They make bubbling and light tapping sounds as they open and shut their jaws. I wonder what I am to do. I need the spoon. Growing impatient they bang their bodies against the tiny ledge from which I feed them.

Big Fella and I have had our tussle and he has won. Back and forth the eels swim, agitating the water and kicking up muddy storms. Elver eels swim beneath them trying to squirm through the massive bodies that are their elders.

I want the spoon back for two reasons; it is a heirloom and the other is I need it to feed the restless eels. But I am too afraid to put my hand into the swirling mass of slippery bodies to retrieve it. They become frenzied, pushing against and nipping each other, making the eels spin with the sharp pain. They spiral and coil revealing their white underbellies.

The peninsula has dried in the sun and I crouch to ponder my dilemma. The eels swirling bodies create rippling waves which the sun glances off and catch my eyes making me wince. Through it all I catch flashes of the silver spoon and regret that I had made a habit of using that particular one to feed the eels with.

Nearby in a still, untroubled pool I catch my reflection, a small woman with greying hair and age wrinkled face. The wind ruffles my hair in much the same way a kind father would his daughter’s. There is a splash. It is Big Fella rearing and smacking the water as if to attract my attention. My reflection wavers then breaks up as others surface, pushing towards me then disappearing under the bodies of others. A cloud of stirred up mud now covers the spoon.

Splashing from further down the creek catches my attention. Late arrivals.

Eels from the harbour, alerted to my presence are making their way towards us. Arrows of water ripple away from them as they skim through the water until they reach a weir at the bottom of an incline leading to our pool. When the tide is low a trickle of water flows down it. All late arrivals have to navigate this if they are to reach me and my other eels.

Their first attempt fails and they slide back into the pool where they circle until ready to have another go. The tide is particularly low today so they have to make a massive effort.

Normally I would call encouragement and on hearing my voice they would work harder to conquer the obstacle. But today I am silent. I do not want them to join the eels at my feet. But they keep circling. Two straighten out. Like missiles they cut through the water then launch themselves up onto the greasy sloping slide, scrambling through the trickling water and disappearing behind a rock at the top. They appear on the other side in the channel leading to the pool where Big Fella and his fellow eels are.

Their energy seems to double as their bodies wiggle along the trench, their mouths twisting from one side to the other in the hope of capturing food that might have escaped the big pool feeding frenzy. But this time there are no titbits to snap up. This appears to puzzle them and they pause at the edge of the pool. Then they plunge in and join the others heads above the water scrambling for food I am not supplying. Their rippling bodies look like a swaying fan.

As I debate what to do Big Fella rears up and reaches toward me. I duck away and he sinks back. But as he goes our eyes meet and I sense he wants me to follow. Shaking, my hand follows his body as it glides down into the water.

The spoon winks at me through a fog of swirling mud. I slide my hand under Big Fella’s body and feel the other eels nudge and press my hand. I bite my lip to control the trembling. None were bleeding so infection from their blood is unlikely but what would happen if their barbed teeth rip through my skin terrifies me.

The head of an eel touches my hand. Involuntarily I jerk and shudder but I keep it next to Big Fella. The other eel slides away and the others part with him as if under instruction from Big Fella. Resting his body over my hand Big Fella guides it toward the spoon.

My fingers close over it and I draw it out of the water. As I exit the eels continue to keep their distance, allowing me safe passage. Once I hold the spoon poised above my container the eels are back, scrambling over each other, heads rearing out of the water, swimming back and forth and clambering up the bank to me.

Behind me there is more splashing and new eels are making their way up the watercourse. I dig my spoon into the meat then lower it to the water’s edge. The eels lift their heads above the spoon’s lip and curl around it to take the meat without touching the spoon. From then on Big Fella and all the other eels eat like this, never touching the spoon.

How can I, when I know these eels so well ever agree to my family catching them, smoking them and eating them?

This is especially so when I know some species are on the endangered list. However, my long fin eels are many and far from joining that list….but their survival is the signal that a stream or river is healthy….like the canary warns the miner of a lack of air.

I believe this so strongly that when I hear neighbouring children splashing about I go down to make sure they are not hurting my eels which, because they are tame, have come to expect every human comes bearing gifts of food. Too often I catch these children hitting at them with sticks and throwing rocks.

I yell at them to ‘be off’ and the children run away. I can appear fierce when I need to.

 

But I was once a child and I was like them.

I loved catching eels in the stream on the farm where I grew up. Everybody did it and we were proud of our skills when it came to outwitting the slippery, slimy eels with the tiny eyes living under the rocks.

The stream that ran through our farm in Hokianga was crystalline, owing its purity to the tree clad mountain behind us. We were in Tutekehua valley and this stream made the flats of our farm lush and green while giving my brother and me hours of fun swimming and playing in it. When we swam, we gave no thought to the eels whose space we shared. Instead we dived off the rocks jutting out from the cliff on one side of the pool, ducking and splashing one another, daring each other to go even higher up the cliff before we dived. We knew no fear. Sometimes we followed the stream as it made its way between fields out to the gathering mangroves and the mudflats that signalled the stream’s confluence with the Hokianga River. When the tide was out we played in the mud, throwing it at each other and sliding into the water left in the channel by the retreating tide.

 

My brother and I had special places we went to catch eels. They were far from our swimming hole in stretches where the water was no more than ankle deep. These places were quiet, with fantails flitting about us and trees flicking their leaves against our faces. The stream caught the sun in its wavelets and captured watercress at its side. Along the banks mānuka trees reached up to the sky and cast undulating shadows on the water.  Our voices lowered to a murmur as we picked our way among the rocks, bare feet hardened to the stones rounded by the water’s constant tumble.

We were intrepid hunters and we were certain we would scare our prey if we spoke too loudly.  

Being the youngest, Andrew carried the bucket into which we would put our catch. As the eldest it was my responsibility to spot the eels and to initiate the hunt. He followed me as we picked our way along the stream, pausing to admire the way the stones shone, red, gold and blue under the water. Under the water they looked like precious jewels and we always picked them up, dreaming of finding gold. But their beauty faded with the touch of the sun’s rays so we tossed them back. They landed with a gentle, ‘plop’. We continued on.

 

On seeing an eel I waved a hand behind me, signalling that Andrew should stop. He stood statue-still on the edge of a pool where an eel curled around rocks dozing in the sun. With a nod from me, Andrew looked through the water to where I pointed. He pressed his lips together, agreeing that we should go after him.  I balanced on my toes, afraid of creating a ripple that would alert the eel to our presence. I plucked a handful of grass from the side of the bank to give my hands traction against the slippery body then crouched down making sure my shadow fell away from the eel. Carefully, I lowered my hands into the water. As I prepared for my attack it seemed the world held its breath.

In a flash I grabbed the eel around the middle and flung it up onto the bank. It wriggled and slid, twisting its body in a desperate bid to get back to the water. But we were always quicker. As we scrambled up the bank we each seized a rock and pounded the eel, first Andrew, then me, then him again, until it lay …still and dead.

Going about our business in a matter of fact way we threw it in the bucket and returned to the creek. As we stealthily walked along I turned rocks with care, making sure that no eel resting under it would be disturbed. Sometimes I surprised a baby eel. I let it go.  It wriggled away through the clear water and disappeared beneath the water cress.

I lifted another rock. The eel lay still. I lowered my hands into the water and just as they were about to close around its body it started and slipped away. Andrew and I stood. We shrugged, resigned to our loss. But we needed more for our lunch. Without our eels we would go hungry.

We walked on. I turned another rock. Nothing. And another….still nothing, then I saw a tail, still against the rippling water. I held my finger to my mouth. Andrew froze. I grabbed some grass then tip toed towards the tail. I shifted the rock just enough to reveal the eel’s body. He didn’t notice. I lowered my grass gloved hands into the water and slipped them around the ‘u’ shape that curled out from the rock. I flung him up. His body, a long curving dark form against the bright sun, soared into the air and landed on the ground. He started his run to the water. We ran up to stop him. Again we smashed our rocks onto its head until it lay, bloodied, dead and covered in grass, dirt and dried twigs. I lifted the lifeless, sticky body up and with it draping over my hand I put it in the bucket.

When we got home we boiled the kettle and poured the hot water over the two still bodies. The shock jolted their nerves and set them writhing. When they were still we scraped off the congealed slime and dirt, gutted then washed them.

We cut our prizes into two inch lengths, rolled them in flour, salt and pepper and cooked them in butter until they were golden and delicious. Our parents were away but we knew they approved of our resourcefulness.

 

But those days are gone. I can’t kill eels anymore.

And children who take pleasure from tormenting them hear my voice whipping at their ears. Just the other day, alerted by children’s laughter and splashing water, I rushed down to the estuary. There were three children with rocks in their hand. One had his up high, ready to throw it.

‘Stop that!’ I screamed.

Big Fella cowered under his rock. A wound on his back bled into the water. If that blood had touched a raw gash in any of those children’s bodies they could have become very ill. Although I knew this and was concerned, I was more troubled by what they had done to my eels who had disappeared leaving Big Fella who, on seeing me, edged out from under his rock.

The young boy, sun highlighting his freckles, dropped his rock. It thudded on the ground. The other two followed.

‘I wasn’t doing anything,’ he told me, head cocked to one side, defensive.

I pulled myself up straight and pointed waggled my finger at them.

‘How would you like it if I threw rocks at you?’

They shrugged and started to leave.

‘Grumpy old witch,’ I heard one of them say.

‘And don’t you come back if you’re going to do that to my eels,’ I snapped.

They grumbled as they slunk away.

They do not see what I see…the beauty of the eels when they glide through the water at feeding time, Big Fella and the others, trusting, eyes on me and the spoon of meat I hold out. New ones, at first nervous and quick to dart away soon relax when they learn I can be trusted. Soon they are scrambling over the others to get the food, like all the rest.  I love watching them grow in the pool in the estuary at the bottom of our garden.

The day is coming when Big Fella will make the journey that all eels make out to sea. Once in the ocean he will fertilise one to three million eggs then die. Or perhaps my Big Fella is a Big Fellaess in which case she’ll go to sea when she is over 20 years old and produce her eggs. Whichever, I’ll miss Big Fella at the bottom of the garden but I will continue to nurture those he leaves behind because I love my eels and they are my pets.

Author's Note

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