Tight lines between an old man and a young boy

The NSW South Coast is one of the world’s great joys.

Its numerous small beaches, where national parks touch the sand and attract kangaroos and birdlife, are often secluded enough to be absent of crowds.

South of Ulladulla, the coast is distant enough to avoid the crush of Sydneysiders. From that fishing and tourist centre, the passing traffic is festooned with cars carrying ACT licence plates.

It is an attraction for people from the towns of southern NSW who make their annual pilgrimage away from the dry heat of Temora, of Cootamundra, of Griffith.

It was here in early December 1986 that my grandfather, Alan Millward, and I spent a summer week that remains as fresh in my mind as a morning ocean swim.

I had just completed my year 10 certificate and it was suggested that I should head down to the family beach house at Burrill Lake with Alan. Thank God I did.

This would be a week for just us to pursue our shared love – beach fishing.

Fishing is more than just dropping a line in the water.

There’s those who head out to sea in boats looking for excitement. There are those who trek along quiet mountain streams or rivers, stalking trout.

And then there’s beach fishing. It’s akin to wandering a desert, searching for an oasis where a school of tailor quenches the thirst.

It is an art. Alan had taught me how to “read” a beach, looking for signs in the colour of the water or the shape of a sandbar where fish may be hiding. He had given strict instruction in tying knots, in using the right bait, in casting the long rods used for beach fishing.

Over that week, it was all put into action.

We settled into a daily routine. We would wake early to head to our planned fishing destination along one of the beautiful beaches around the region. Burrill, Racecourse, Mollymook and Wairo were all on the agenda.

There is nothing quite like being on these beaches. So quiet, you can sense the propellers of large offshore tankers as they make their way up and down the coastline. The clear, cool water that splashes on your legs as you wade into the surf to cast.

Then there’s the excitement as you detect a fish nosing about the bait. Could it be a salmon, a bream, a flathead, a tailor? Each with their distinctive takes.

And, just along the beach, was my grandfather, doing exactly the same thing. Too far apart to speak but sharing the quiet joy of a summer on a beach together.

If the fish weren’t biting, we’d return to the house for breakfast. Then maybe a mid-morning fish from the little boat in one of the surrounding lakes.

After lunch, it was time for an afternoon nap. Roused by the thought of afternoon tea, it was then time for an evening beach fish.

Dinner may be some of our catch, cooked on a piece of iron that was the barbecue, and served on a piece of plain bread with some butter.

So it progressed through that glorious week.

That summer with my grandfather was the last where it was just the two of us.

At the time, the complications from his smoking (and time in Japanese POW camps) were appearing but not yet a hindrance to his fishing plans.

I still fish the same beaches. I ended up with Alan’s collection of beautiful Alvey reels that, with a little love and care, remain in working condition.

Every time I pull one of those reels out for a clean, I’m transported back to that summer with my pa.

Shane Wright is the Herald’s senior economics correspondent.